Page:Weird Tales Volume 5 Number 2 (1925-02).djvu/157

want that—not revenge, for he loved her. Rather he would have wished her to go out to death easily, with all her white, lusterless beauty untouched, without tears to dim her slanting, violet-pupiled eyes. A deep shudder ran over her. She had killed him, madly, jealously. And yet she had known that the woman with the cornsilk hair and candid smile could not have held him long—it was a fancy. For his love was built upon her as upon a foundation of stone; his soul was anchored to hers as a bright craft is anchored in a troubled water.

When in her anger the poison slipped into the cup so easily, she had not known how horrible it would be. She had not guessed that he would writhe and twist like a hound whose meat has been filled with fine-ground glass, nor that he would whimper, like a child. That was it: the whimpering of the rain at the cornices. It made her cold. It was not right that Fayrian, who was brave and songful, should die like a dog. He would not have been afraid of death, but he had wanted a glorious passing: a battle, a duel for his honor, a plunge from a mountain height. Strange, how men could endure blood and horror and yet cringe at a little pain, like children! He had whimpered. Why had she not thrust the emerald-hilted dagger into his heart? No, she could not have done that—his soft flesh—blood on her fingers—a red stain on his lizard-colored doublet—no! It had not been fair; but he was gentle and had loved her: surely he would not want revenge! And she had loved him—she had killed him for her love.

Song, little rushes of tender words, deep, serious lights sifting into his bright eyes—how empty of these things the house was! And yet there was a kind of breathlessness about the silence—the breathlessness that comes before an expected footfall, a longed-for voice. The stillness listened. The emptiness expected to be filled. Death! Soon, soon, please God, she might wake to feel a slim, strong hand over her shaking one, a voice: "Foolish, foolish. You are dreaming!" She shut her eyes and tried to imagine it; but no, she was not dreaming.

Then all of a sudden the mute expectancy of the somber room seemed filled. A heavy shower of rain crashed down outside: it was like calls, like footfalls, and through it the breeze wandered like a weird song. Scarcely knowing why, she ran to the window and pulled back the purple curtains, to look out. She opened it. A flurry of rain blew in and the drops were like wet fingers touching her face. Then, as suddenly as it had started, the downpour slackened again into a seeping drizzle. Tears falling sadly through the leaves, making them shine in the patch of light the window threw out in the darkness. Little trembling sobs of wind against the stones. He had wanted to die splendidly! Vaguely she had a sense of contact with what was outside. It swept over her all at once like the knowledge of a physical presence. That sadness of the rain was human—human pain. She leaned far through the window so that her hair, face and bosom were wet and cool. Then she heard him whimpering, whimpering.

"Concetta! Concetta?" she called and fell back from the window, in a shudder; and in a moment she was in the arms of the ponderous, wrinkled old woman who served her.

"Lady Ermengarde, dear—there, there!"

She was weeping. The curse of tearless days was lifted in sobs that broke the bitter dam of dry unreality and longing.

"The rain, Concetta! Oh—the rain!"

"There, there! I will shut the rain out. The dampness is spotting the curtains!"

"No, no!"