He was on the edge of some violent, some almost hysterical outburst. He thought of Gaspare casting himself down in the boat that morning when he had feared that his padrone was drowned. So he longed to cast himself down and cry. But he had the strength to check his impulse. Only, the checking of it seemed to turn him for a moment into something made not of flesh and blood but of iron. And this thing of iron was voiceless.
She knew that he was feeling intensely and respected his silence. But at last it began almost to frighten her. The boyish look she loved had gone out of his face. A stern man stood beside her, a man she had never seen before.
"Maurice," she said, at length. "What is it? I think you are suffering."
"Yes," he said.
"But—but aren't you glad? Surely you are glad?"
To her the word seemed mean, poverty-stricken. She changed it.
"Surely you are thankful?"
"I don't know," he answered, at last. "I am thinking that I don't know that I am worthy to be a father."
He himself had fixed a limit. Now, God was putting a period to his wild youth. And the heart—was that changed within him?
Too much was happening. The cup was being filled too full. A great longing came to him to get away, far away, and be alone. If it had been any other day he would have gone off into the mountains, by himself, have stayed out till night came, have walked, climbed, till he was exhausted. But to-day he could not do that. And soon Artois would be coming. He felt as if something must snap in brain or heart.