The Sin That Was His

by Frank L. Packard

“I—I thought I heard you call,” she faltered.

All the gladness, all the joy in life, all that the world could hold seemed for an instant his. All else was forgotten—all else but that singing in his heart—all else but that fierce, elemental, triumphant, mighty joy lifting him high to a pinnacle that reared itself supreme, commanding and immortal, far beyond the reach of that sea of torment which had engulfed him. Valérie had heard him call—and she had answered—and she was here. Valérie was here—she had come to him. Valérie had heard him call—and she was here. And then beneath his feet that pinnacle, so supreme, commanding and immortal, seemed to dissolve away, and that sea of torment closed over him again, and all those voices that plagued him, mocking, jeering, screaming, shrieking, were like a horrible requiem ringing in his ears. She had heard him call—and he had made no sound—only his soul had spoken.. And she had answered. And she was here—here now—standing there on the threshold. Why? He dared not answer. It was a blessed thing, a wonderful, glorious thing—-and it was a terrible thing, a thing of misery and despair. What was he doing now—answering that “why”! No, no—it was not true—it could not be true. He had thanked God that it could not be so. It was not that—that was not the reason she had heard him call—that was not the reason she was here. It was not! It was not! It was only those insidious——

He heard himself speaking; he was conscious that his voice by some miracle was low, grave, contained. “No, Mademoiselle Valérie, I did not call.”

The colour was slowly leaving her cheeks, and into her eyes came creeping confusion and dismay.

“It—it is strange,” she said nervously. “I was asleep, and I thought I heard you call for—for help, and I got up and lighted the lamp, and——”

Was that his laugh—quiet, gentle, reassuring? Was he so much in command of himself as that? Was it the gambler, or the priest, or—great God!—the lover now? She was here—she had come to him.

“It was a dream, Mademoiselle Valérie,” he was saying. “A very terrible dream, I am afraid, if I was the subject of it; but, see, it is nothing to cause you distress, and to-morrow you will laugh over it.”

She did not reply at once. She was very pale now; and her lips, though tightly closed, were quivering. Nor did she look at him. Her eyes were on the floor. Her hand mechanically drew and held the dressing-gown closer about her throat.

He had not moved from the side of the desk, nor she from the threshold of the door—and now she looked up suddenly, and held the lamp in her hand a little higher, and her eyes searched his face.

“It must be very late—very, very late,” she said steadily. “And you have not gone to bed. There is something the matter. What is it? Will you tell me?”