The candle still cast a flickering light over table and bed. He
stood with his back to the raging night and stared at the unsteady
flame. It was screened from extinction in the draught by a
standing photograph-frame. The picture this contained was turned
away from him. After a moment it caught his attention. He moved
round the table. Though Death were swooping towards him, swift and
certain, on the wings of the rising current, he was drawn as a
needle to the magnet. Like a dying man, he reached for the last
draught that should slake his thirst and give him peace in dying.
He leaned upon the table, that creaked and shook beneath his
weight. He stretched forth his arms on each side of the candle,
and drew the portrait close to the flame. Sylvia's face laughed at
him through the shifting, uncertain light. She was standing on a
wind-blown open space. Her lips were parted. He thought he heard
her voice, calling him. And the love in her eyes--the love that
shone through the laughter! It held him like a spell--even though
it was not for him.
He gazed earnestly upon this thing that had been another man's
treasure long before he had even seen her, and as he gazed, he
forgot all beside. By that supreme sacrifice of self, he had wiped
out all but his exceeding love for her. The spirit had triumphed
over the flesh.
Pages:
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449