“That must depend on God’s will,” said Sir Piers, gravely.
Clarice covered her face with both hands, and the bitter tears trickled fast through her fingers.
“Oh, why is God’s will so hard?” she cried. “Could He not have left us in peace? We had only each other.”
“Hush, sweet heart! It is wrong to say that. And yet it is hardly possible not to think it.”
“It is not possible!” sobbed Clarice. “Does not God know it is not possible?”
“I suppose He must,” said Sir Piers, gloomily.
There was no comfort in the thought to either. There never is any to those who do not know God. And Piers was only feeling after Him, if haply he might find Him, and barely conscious even of that; while Clarice had not reached even that point. To both of them, in this very anguish, Christ was saying, “Come unto Me;” but their own cry of pain hindered them from hearing Him. It was not likely they should hear, just then, when the sunlight of life was being extinguished, and the music was dying to its close. But afterwards, in the silence and the darkness, when the sounds were hushed and the lights were out, and there was nothing that could be done but to endure, then the still, small voice might make itself heard, and the crushed hearts might sob out their answer.
So they parted. “They took but ane kiss, and tare themselves away,” to meet when it was God’s will, and not knowing on which side of the river of death that would be.
Half an hour had passed since Sir Piers’ step had died away on the terrace, and Clarice still sat where he had left her, in crushed and silent stillness. If this night could only be the end of it! If things had not to go on!
“Clarice,” said a pitying voice; and a hand was laid upon her head as if in fatherly blessing.