A Second Coming. Marsh Richard

it. He struck more vigorously at the bracken, as if actuated by a desire to relieve his feelings. There was an interval, during which both of them were silent. Then he turned to her with sudden passion.

      'Doris, come with me, at once! now! Give yourself to me, and I'll devote my whole life to you. You've known enough of me through all these things to be sure that you can trust me. Aren't you sure that you can trust me?'

      'Yes, I am sure that I can trust you-in a sense.'

      Something in her face seemed to make an irresistible appeal to him. He took her in his arms, she offering no resistance.

      'In a sense? In what sense? Can't you trust me in every sense?'

      'I can trust you to be true to me; but I am not so sure that I can trust you to let me be true to myself.'

      'What hair-splitting's this? I'll let you be true to your own womanhood; it's you who shirk. You seem to want me to treat you as if you were an automatic figure, not a creature of flesh and blood. I can't do it-you can't trust me to do it; that thing's plain. Come, darling, let's take the future in our own hands, and together wrest happiness from life. You know that at my side you'll be content. See how you're trembling! There's proof of it. I'll swear I'll be content at yours! Come, Doris, come!'

      'Where will you take me?'

      'That's not your affair just now. I'll take you where I will. All you have to do is-come.'

      She drew herself out of his arms, and a little away from him. She put up her hand as if to smooth her hair, he watching her with eager eyes.

      'I'll come.'

      He took her again in his embrace, softly, tenderly, as if she were some fragile, priceless thing. His voice trembled.

      'You darling! When?'

      'Now. Since all's over, and everything's to begin again, the sooner a beginning's made the better.' A sort of rage came into her voice-a note of hysteric pain. 'If you're to take me, take me as I am, in what I stand. I dare say he'll send my clothes on after me-and my jewels, perhaps.'

      It seemed as if her tone troubled him, as if he endeavoured to soothe her.

      'Don't talk like that, Doris. Everything that you want I'll get you- all that your heart can desire.'

      'Except peace of mind!'

      'I trust that I shall be able to get you even that. Only come!'

      'Don't I tell you that I am ready? Why don't you start?'

      He appeared to find her manner disconcerting. He searched her face, as if to discover if she were in earnest, then looked at his watch.

      'If we make haste across the park, we shall be able to catch the express to town.'

      'Then let's make haste and catch it.'

      'Come!'

      They began to walk quickly, side by side. As they passed round the bend they came on the two children sitting, with the Stranger, beside the lake. The children, scrambling to their feet, came running to them.

      'Mamma,' they cried, 'come and see the friend of little children!'

      At sight of them the woman drew back, as if afraid. The man interposed.

      'Don't worry, you youngsters! Your mother's in a hurry-run away! Come, Doris, make haste; we've no time to lose if we wish to catch the train.'

      He put his arm through hers, and made as if to draw her past them. She seemed disposed to linger.

      'Let me-say good-bye to them.'

      He whispered in her ear:

      'There'll only be a scene; don't be foolish, child! There's not a moment to lose!' He turned angrily to the boy and girl. 'Don't you hear, you youngsters! – run away!' As the children moved aside, frightened at his violence, and bewildered by the strangeness of their mother's manner, he gripped the woman's arm more firmly, beginning by sheer force to hurry her off. 'Come, Doris,' he exclaimed, 'don't be an idiot!'

      The Stranger, who had been sitting on the grass, stood up and faced them.

      'Rather be wise. There still is time. What is it you would do?'

      The interruption took the pair completely by surprise. The man stared angrily at the Stranger.

      'Who are you, sir? And what do you mean by interfering in what is no concern of yours?

      'Are you sure that it is no concern of Mine?'

      The man endeavoured to meet the Stranger's eyes, with but scant success. His erect, bold, defiant attitude gave place to one of curious uncertainty.

      'How can it be any concern of yours?'

      'All things are My concern, the things which you do, and the things which you leave undone. Would it were not so, for many and great are the burdens which you lay upon me. You wicked man! Yet more foolish even than wicked! What is this woman to you that you should seek to slay her body and soul? Is she not of those who know not what is the thing they do till it is done? It is well with you if this sin, also, shall not be laid to your charge, – that you are a blind leader of the blind!'

      The Stranger turned to the woman.

      'Your eyes shall be opened. Look upon this man to see him as he is.'

      The woman looked at the man. As she looked, a change came over him. Before her accusatory glance he seemed to dwindle and wax old. He grew ugly, his jaw dropped open, his eyes were full of lust, cruelty was writ upon his countenance. On a sudden he had become a thing of evil. She shrank back with a cry of horror and alarm, while he stood before her cowering like some guilty creature whose shame has been suddenly made plain. And the Stranger said to him:

      'Go! and seek that peace of which you would have robbed her.'

      The man, shambling away round the bend in the path, presently was lost to sight. The Stranger was left alone with the children and the woman. The woman stood before Him trembling, with bowed form and face cast down, and she cried:

      'Who are you, sir?'

      The Stranger replied:

      'Look upon Me: and as you knew the man, so, also, you shall know Me.'

      She looked on Him, and knew Him, and wept.

      'Lord, I know You! Have mercy upon me!'

      He answered:

      'I am the friend of little children, and of the mothers that bare them; for the pains of the women are not little ones; and because they are great, so also shall great mercy be shown unto them. For unto those that suffer most, shall not most be forgiven? for is not suffering akin to repentance?'

      And the woman cried:

      'Lord, I am not worthy Thy forgiveness!'

      And to her He said:

      'Is any worthy? No, not one. Yet many are those to whom forgiveness comes. There are your children, that are an heritage to you of God. Take them, and as you are unto them, so shall God be unto you, and more. Return to your husband; say to him what things have happened unto you, and fear not because of him.'

      And the woman went, holding a child by either hand. And the Stranger stood and watched them as they went. And when they had gone some distance, the woman turned and looked at Him. And He called to her:

      'Be of good courage!'

      And after that she saw Him no more.

      CHAPTER V

      THE OPERATION

      The students crowded the benches. Some wore hats and gloves, and carried sticks or umbrellas; they had the appearance of having just dropped in to enjoy a little passing relaxation. Others, hatless and gloveless, wore instead an air of intense pre-occupation; they had note-books in their hands, and spent the time studying anatomical charts in sombre-covered volumes. Many were smoking pipes for the most part; the air was heavy with tobacco smoke. Nearly everybody talked; there was a continual clatter of voices; men on one side called to men on the other, exchanging jokes and laughter.

      In the well below were the tables