Page:Frank Owen - Woman Without Love (1949 reprint).djvu/59

 Mary was more stirred than she cared to admit. She walked across the room and gazed off over the sweeping sea of wheat. Finally, decisively she turned toward him. At least she was fearless. She did not wish to wear the mantle of false gods.

"That picture is a lie," she said tensely, "just as my whole life has been a lie. I am not even married to Yekial Meigs."

"Would your body be softer or more yielding if you were?" he asked bluntly. "Or your lips more sweet? I care not what your past has been. Even if it were deep scarlet it would matter naught to me. On the contrary it might help give color to your portrait. The woman I have painted exists. The woman you are endeavoring to tell me about is only a dream. Let her depart. Permit the lady of the picture to emerge from her dark retreat."

Abruptly he put his arms about Mary and kissed her. His lips were like ice but she was thrilled. When finally he pushed her gently away, he murmured:

"You are warm with life. I must not do that again. I have an appointment with death. I have no reason to clutch at life. Feel the tips of my fingers, the cold, restless fingers of death."

"Don't talk like that!" she begged. "I cannot bear it."

"We all must bear it," he said. "In time every man gets used to death and the genuine philosopher welcomes it. Nothing but eulogies, no more strife. Plenty of flowers, lies and hypocritical tears."

"But you must live!"

"Why?"

"Oh I don't know; you are so wonderful. A mind like yours should not be destroyed."

"A mind is already destroyed," he said thoughtfully, "when it is educated. A Catholic peasant toiling long hours in the field is far greater than a king because he makes his periodical confessions and is granted absolution. He returns to his tiny hut and sits before his fire, smoking his pipe, with his family grouped about him and a pot of porridge cooking on the hob. He has no cares, no worries, no doubts. He has utter faith in his priest. He sleeps at night in his rustic bed and awakes with the sun, refreshed and ready for his field-toil once more. What greater life could any man live? But the king is constantly