Poisoned, abject, he whined for her in the empty room.
—She was sleeping now, in the quiet house by the sea. The horn of a motor-car tooted in St. James' Street below—She was sleeping now in her quiet chamber. Tired lids covered the frank, blue eyes, the thick masses of yellow hair were straying over the linen pillow. She was dreaming of him as the night wind moaned about the house.
He threw himself upon his knees by the bedside, in dreadful drunken surrender and appeal.
—"Father help me! Jesus help me!—forgive me!"—he dare not invoke the Holy Ghost. He shrank from that. The Father had made everything and had made him. He was a beneficent, all-pervading Force—He would understand. The Lord Jesus was a familiar Figure. He was human; Man as well as God. One could visualise Him. He had cared for harlots and drunkards! . . .
Far down in his sub-conscious brain Lothian was aware of what he was doing. He was whining not to be hurt. His prayers were no more than superstitious garrulity and fear. Something—a small despairing part of himself, had climbed upon the roof of the dishonoured Temple and was stretching trembling hands out into the overwhelming darkness of the Night.
"Father, help me! Help me now. Let me go to bed without phantoms and torturing ghosts round me! Do not look into the Temple to-night. I will cleanse it to-morrow. I swear it! Father! Help me!"
He began to gabble the Lord's Prayer—that would adjust things in a sort of way—wouldn't it? There was a promise—yes—one said it, and it charmed away disaster.
Half-way through the prayer he stopped. The words would not come to him. He had forgotten.
But that no longer distressed him. The black curtain of stupor was descending once more.
"'Thy will be done'—what did come after? Well! never mind!" God was good. He'd understand. After all, intention was everything!