He fancied, he
felt--not heard--the voice of this frustrate God calling to him: "Do what
I could not do. Strive to help My impotence. A little--a little--and even
yet hell would stand empty, the vacant courts of heaven be filled.
Act--act--act."
"Doctor, why are you trembling? Why are you trembling?"
It was the voice of Valentine that spoke. The doctor, by an effort so
painful that the memory of it remained with him to the end of his life,
recalled his mind from its journey.
"Trembling!" he said. "What do you mean? I am all right. I am quietly in
my place. How long have we been sitting?"
"An immense time I fancy. It seems fruitless, Julian!"
"Yes."
Julian's voice sounded heavy and weary.
"Don't you think we had better stop?"
"If you like."
Valentine got up and turned on the light.
Then they saw that the lady of the feathers, leaning back in her chair,
was fallen asleep, no doubt from sheer weariness. Her face was very
white, and in sleep its expression had become ethereal and purified. Her
thin hands still rested nervelessly upon the table. She seemed like a
little child that had known sorrow early, and sought gently to lose the
sense of it in rest.
"Cuckoo," Julian said, leaning over her, "Cuckoo!"
She stirred and woke.
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