"I could not have left him but for you," Farquharson said, after a pause. "He's lying there now in my dressing-room, on a little bed of flowers; there were flowers enough in her room and to spare; I took them. Have you ever seen a dead baby, Eve? He's like marble now, the little mouth all set and cold—you would never think it, but he smiled at me only yesterday. He knew me, you know. I know they say it's absurd that a baby of a week old should, but I'm sure he did. He used to clutch my finger—you would never have believed how strong he was!—and snuggle in here in the bend of my arm, where I'm holding you now. I had to be everything to him, you see; his mother had never even had him in the room from the first." He stopped abruptly. "When I went in to tell her he was dead, she said, 'Well, I'm afraid that's the end of your hopes of an heir, Richard. I shall never go through this again, I assure you.'"
"Don't, don't," said Evelyn; "I can't bear it!" She caught him in her arms and held him close, with strength that seemed to have been given her for that one purpose.
But presently she spoke; clearly, concisely.
"You asked me once to go away with you, Richard, and I refused. You had your life before you then, and you could do without me. Now you have nothing. Do you know how I suffer with you in every ache that's tearing your heart-strings at this moment? I had my dream-child too, dear—its loss was bitter enough, but yours was worse. You've got the touch of little, living fingers to remember, the light of dear wee smiles that were your very own from the beginning. If you want me still I'll come to you anywhere, anyhow, so long as I can be with you and comfort you. When you could do without me, religion was strong enough to keep us apart, but now it isn't. Things are too hard for us, and I've given in."
"Eve——!"
He looked at her, stupefied; hardly understanding what she said.
She pulled the blind back.
"See, there is the dawn. Our dawn, Richard. There shall be no grief or repining if you take me, dear. I'll make you as happy as I can, and give you all I have and all I am—your absolute possession, bought by pain."
The light from the east came in upon the man and woman, standing close together, more in the position of two persons who had been one for many years than that of lovers whose lips had met only for the second time. They watched it touch the commonplace houses of the dreary street with its transfiguring light. As Evelyn looked, a sense of peace came over her. After all, it was the conflict which had been so infinitely bitter, the civil war between soul and body, reason and heart.
"You needn't speak," she said; "I know what you've decided. Let me know in a few days when you want me to come, what you want me to do. You'll have to say good-bye to your little son, you see; you'll let me come and say it too, won't you? Good-bye till then."