They had a tremendous argument about books. Louis flatly refused to take
any. Marcella refused to go without some. Finally she packed the New
Testament, "Parsifal" and the cookery book inside her swag. Later,
opening all her books to write her name in them before leaving them on
the shelf downstairs for the use of Mrs. King's "boys," she noticed the
gipsy woman's prophecy in the title page of "Questing Cells" and took
that along too.
For the last time, they slept on the roof; as soon as Louis was asleep
and Marcella lying quiet beside him, she had a visitation of her dreams
about drunkards' children. Creeping from under the blankets silently,
she walked right along the roof in the moonlight to have the matter out
with herself once and for all. She did not want to take bad dreams away
to a new life with her.
"I won't believe it. What's more, I _don't_ believe it," she said
decidedly. "Louis may be a drunkard. Father was. So were all the
Lashcairns for ages. But I'm not. And my child is not going to be. After
all--_is_ he our child--? I mean--Jesus was not Joseph's child--only--"
She stopped, waiting. This was an immense, breathtaking thought.
"Just his body is made by Louis and me--and all the rest of him
comes--new--quite new. The spirit--the quickening spirit--"
She felt, once more, as if her feet were taking wings with the
hopefulness of this thought.
Pages:
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404