“Oh, God! has the earth opened—has she fallen from Heaven—has—has——”
He looked again and the flutter of her white dress in the sunlight gave to his dazed, enchanted eyes, the figure of a new Madonna, before whom the whole world must kneel and rise up to call her blessed.
She came on, still murmuring to her baby, she came up to the French window, and put out her hand to open it—then the madness fell from Brydon, and the whole truth came with a rush.
He sprang to his feet, cast one perturbed look at Strange, “Kill him or not, I can’t face it,” he muttered, and fled.
When Gwen got into the room, she sank wearily into a chair, and throwing off her hat let the baby butt her at his will.
When the smile for her baby flickered off her face, the final contained anguish of it was awful, but the child gave her little time to nurse grief. Every moment she had either to rock him, croon little songs to him or tickle him, if she were silent or passive for a moment a lusty butt against her breast or a punch from the pink dimpled fist brought her back to his service.
As she sat—sideways to the window—it was impossible for her to see Strange, but there was nothing to hide her from him.
The soft murmur of croons and baby-sounds at last half awoke him, he lay for some moments and let the vague music creep into his semi-consciousness, then he opened his eyes impatiently and closed them again—it was only one more dream, he thought—he was beset with dreams, tortured, shaken by them.
“Oh, God! those drugs,” he muttered.
Again the murmurs broke on his ears, there was a chuckle, a tender protesting voice, and a sharp little squeal. He shivered and peered out towards the sounds, his eyes were dimmed from his great sickness and could only see “men as trees walking.” Gradually he made out the shapes of a woman and a little child.