The Hermit of Far End | Page 5

she interrupted him remorselessly. "See, come to the window. Now look at me--and then don't talk any more twaddle about care and good nursing!"
She had drawn him towards the window, till they were standing together in the full blaze of the setting sun. Then she turned and faced him--a gaunt wreck of splendid womanhood, her fingers working nervously, whilst her too brilliant eyes, burning in their grey, sunken, sockets, searched his face curiously.
"You've worn better than I have," she observed at last, breaking the silence with a short laugh. "you must be--let me see--fifty. While I'm barely thirty-one--and I look forty--and the rest."
Suddenly he reached out and gathered her thin, restless hands into his, holding them in a kind, firm clasp.
"Oh, my dear!" he said sadly. "Is there nothing I can do?"
"Yes," she answered steadily. "There is. And it's to ask you if you will do it that I sent for you. Do you suppose"--she swallowed, battling with the tremor in her voice--"that I /wanted/ you to see me --as I am now? It was months--months before I could bring myself to send you the little pearl ring."
He stooped and kissed one of the hands he held.
"Dear, foolish woman! You would always be--just Pauline--to me."
Her eyes softened suddenly.
"So you never married, after all?"
He straightened his shoulders, meeting her glance squarely--almost sternly.
"Did you imagine that I should?" he asked quietly.
"No, no, I suppose not." She looked away. "What a mess I made of things, didn't I? However, it's all past now; the game's nearly over, thank Heaven! Life, since that day"--the eyes of the man and woman met again in swift understanding--"has been one long hell."
"He--the man you married--"
"Made that hell. I left him after six years of it, taking the child with me."
"The child?" A curious expression came into his eyes, resentful, yet tinged at the same time with an oddly tender interest. "Was there a child?"
"Yes--I have a little daughter."
"And did your husband never trace you?" he asked, after a pause.
"He never tried to"--grimly. "Afterwards--well, it was downhill all the way. I didn't know how to work, and by that time I had learned my health was going. Since then, I've lived on the proceeds of the pawnshop--I had my jewels, you know--and on the odd bits of money I could scrape together by taking in sewing."
A groan burst from the man's dry lips.
"Oh, my God!" he cried. "Pauline, Pauline, it was cruel of you to keep me in ignorance! I could at least have helped."
She shook her head.
"I couldn't take--/your/ money," she said quietly. "I was too proud for that. But, dear friend"--as she saw him wince--"I'm not proud any longer. I think Death very soon shows us how little--pride--matters; it falls into its right perspective when one is nearing the end of things. I'm so little proud now that I've sent for you to ask your help."
"Anything--anything!" he said eagerly.
"It's rather a big thing that I'm going to ask, I'm afraid. I want you," she spoke slowly, as though to focus his attention, "to take care of my child--when I am gone."
He stared at her doubtfully.
"But her father? Will he consent?" he asked.
"He is dead. I received the news of his death six months ago. There is no one--no one who has any claim upon her. And no one upon whom she has any claim, poor little atom!"--smiling rather bitterly. "Ah! Don't deny me!"--her thin, eager hands clung to his--"don't deny me--say that you'll take her!"
"Deny you? But, of course I shan't deny you. I'm only thankful that you have turned to me at last--that you have not quite forgotten!"
"Forgotten?" Her voice vibrated. "Believe me or not, as you will, there has never been a day for nine long years when I have not remembered--never a night when I have not prayed God to bless you----" She broke off, her mouth working uncontrollably.
Very quietly, very tenderly, he drew her into his arms. There was no passion in the caress--for was it not eventide, and the lengthening shadows of night already fallen across her path?--but there was infinite love, and forgiveness, and understanding. . . .
"And now, may I see her--the little daughter?"
The twilight had gathered about them during that quiet hour of reunion, wherein old hurts had been healed, old sins forgiven, and now at last they had come back together out of the past to the recognition of all that yet remained to do.
There came a sound of running footsteps on the stairs outside--light, eager steps, buoyant with youth, that evidently found no hardship in the long ascent from the street level.
"Hark!" The woman paused, her head a little turned to listen. "Here she comes. No one else on this floor"--with a whimsical smile--"could take the last flight of those awful stairs at a run."
The door