The Son of the Wolf - Jack London (great novels of all time txt) 📗

be like other men; you’ll grow tired, and⁠—and⁠—”

“How can you? I⁠—”

“Promise me.”

“Yes, yes; I do promise.”

“You say it so easily, dear; but how do you know?⁠—or I know? I have so little to give, yet it is so much, and all I have. O, Clyde! promise me you won’t?”

“There, there! You mustn’t begin to doubt already. Till death do us part, you know.”

“Think! I once said that to⁠—to him, and now?”

“And now, little sweetheart, you’re not to bother about such things any more. Of course, I never, never will, and⁠—”

And for the first time, lips trembled against lips. Father Roubeau had been watching the main trail through the window, but could stand the strain no longer. He cleared his throat and turned around.

“Your turn now, Father!” Wharton’s face was flushed with the fire of his first embrace. There was an exultant ring to his voice as he abdicated in the other’s favor. He had no doubt as to the result. Neither had Grace, for a smile played about her mouth as she faced the priest.

“My child,” he began, “my heart bleeds for you. It is a pretty dream, but it cannot be.”

“And why, Father? I have said yes.”

“You knew not what you did. You did not think of the oath you took, before your God, to that man who is your husband. It remains for me to make you realize the sanctity of such a pledge.”

“And if I do realize, and yet refuse?”

“Then God⁠—”

“Which God? My husband has a God which I care not to worship. There must be many such.”

“Child! unsay those words! Ah! you do not mean them. I understand. I, too, have had such moments.” For an instant he was back in his native France, and a wistful, sad-eyed face came as a mist between him and the woman before him.

“Then, Father, has my God forsaken me? I am not wicked above women. My misery with him has been great. Why should it be greater? Why shall I not grasp at happiness? I cannot, will not, go back to him!”

“Rather is your God forsaken. Return. Throw your burden upon Him, and the darkness shall be lifted. O my child⁠—”

“No; it is useless; I have made my bed and so shall I lie. I will go on. And if God punishes me, I shall bear it somehow. You do not understand. You are not a woman.”

“My mother was a woman.”

“But⁠—”

“And Christ was born of a woman.”

She did not answer. A silence fell. Wharton pulled his mustache impatiently and kept an eye on the trail. Grace leaned her elbow on the table, her face set with resolve. The smile had died away. Father Roubeau shifted his ground.

“You have children?”

“At one time I wished⁠—but now⁠—no. And I am thankful.”

“And a mother?”

“Yes.”

“She loves you?”

“Yes.” Her replies were whispers.

“And a brother?⁠—no matter, he is a man. But a sister?”

Her head drooped a quavering “Yes.”

“Younger? Very much?”

“Seven years.”

“And you have thought well about this matter? About them? About your mother? And your sister? She stands on the threshold of her woman’s life, and this wildness of yours may mean much to her. Could you go before her, look upon her fresh young face, hold her hand in yours, or touch your cheek to hers?”

To his words, her brain formed vivid images, till she cried out, “Don’t! don’t!” and shrank away as do the wolf-dogs from the lash.

“But you must face all this; and better it is to do it now.”

In his eyes, which she could not see, there was a great compassion, but his face, tense and quivering, showed no relenting. She raised her head from the table, forced back the tears, struggled for control.

“I shall go away. They will never see me, and come to forget me. I shall be to them as dead. And⁠—and I will go with Clyde⁠—today.” It seemed final. Wharton stepped forward, but the priest waved him back.

“You have wished for children?”

A silent yes.

“And prayed for them?”

“Often.”

“And have you thought, if you should have children?” Father Roubeau’s eyes rested for a moment on the man by the window.

A quick light shot across her face. Then the full import dawned upon her. She raised her hand appealingly, but he went on.

“Can you picture an innocent babe in your arms? A boy? The world is not so hard upon a girl. Why, your very breast would turn to gall! And you could be proud and happy of your boy, as you looked on other children⁠—?”

“Oh, have pity! Hush!”

“A scapegoat⁠—”

“Don’t! don’t! I will go back!” She was at his feet.

“A child to grow up with no thought of evil, and one day the world to fling a tender name in his face. A child to look back and curse you from whose loins he sprang!”

“O my God! my God!”

She groveled on the floor. The priest sighed and raised her to her feet. Wharton pressed forward, but she motioned him away.

“Don’t come near me, Clyde! I am going back!” The tears were coursing pitifully down her face, but she made no effort to wipe them away.

“After all this? You cannot! I will not let you!”

“Don’t touch me!” She shivered and drew back.

“I will! You are mine! Do you hear? You are mine!” Then he whirled upon the priest. “Oh, what a fool I was to ever let you wag your silly tongue! Thank your God you are not a common man, for I’d⁠—But the priestly prerogative must be exercised, eh? Well, you have exercised it. Now get out of my house, or I’ll forget who and what you are!”

Father Roubeau bowed, took her hand, and started for the door. But Wharton cut them off.

“Grace! You said you loved me?”

“I did.”

“And you do now?”

“I do.”

“Say it again.”

“I do love you, Clyde; I do.”

“There, you priest!” he cried. “You have heard it, and with those words on her lips you would send her back to live a lie and a hell with that man?”

But Father Roubeau whisked the woman into the inner room and