last sacrifice I ask you to make. Soon I wiU be free. Soon aU the world can know that we love each other. Then we shall have a child, a child bom of love, I promise. And we shall live in peace, you and I."
"No," I heard her say suddenly. Through the raging of the storm the high voice held a note of infinite sadness. In my growing confusion I heard the same words she had spoken on that hot summer day in my bungalow, in my arms, naked, drained of passion yet aware of guilt, "We win never be at peace because we do nothing to end this sin. God does not forgive that."
"God! God! Must you always talk about Him?"
"It's easy for you, you don't beUeve in Him."
That was correct. From what I could see it must be pretty awful to beUeve in Him. Poor Shirley. Incensed, I
said, "You said if two people love each other He forgives them everything!" "
"Not if they do not repent. .."
"Shirley!"
"God won't forgive us because He doesn't love us, He can't love us any more . . ."
Now, how about Shirley's God? I heard her voice, "Paddy, I'm going to have a child . . ."
And this child was not permitted to live.
Dimly I heard Shirley say those words I had forbidden her to speak. "It is murder. If I do that I'm a murderess."
A murderess who believed in God and suffered—did she not live in the heart of Christianity? Who could know more about sin? Who could suffer greater pangs of conscience than a murderess who was a pious Christian? Didn't God have to forgive her before all others?
I could not stand to look at Shirley's picture any longer. Turning away I saw Joan's photograph, also on the mantel. Obviously it had been necessary to display a photo of my wife as well. The public relations department sold me to the news media as a happy family man.
Joan hardly showed her forty-seven years. First I loved my mother and then a woman so much older than I. Analysts make much of that.
Joan's figure was still that of a young girl. She had had her face lifted and the skin was smooth and without wrinkles—^but only the skin of her face. The operation had been responsible for that. I always thought of it whenever I touched Shirley's skin.
Joan wears her brown hair close to her head, tips pulled forward over her temples, two soft waves rise from her forehead. One could still see that she had been very beautiful. She was apparently still desirable—^I sometimes noticed at parties how other men looked at her. She smiled at me from the photograph. I stepped to one side. The brown eyes followed me. I had never noticed that be-
fore. I took another step and still my wife's eyes followed, smiling and guileless.
Smiling innocently?
Were these eyes unsuspecting? Was my wife without suspicion? What if she already knew and was just biding her time until she could revenge herself for the hurt I had caused her? Joan's eyes were ... Were they merely laughing or were they mocking me?
"If only she could get along a little better with my husband . .."
"So innocent, so untouched ..."
"God does not love us. How, then, could we be happy?"
My eyes were wandering aimlessly around the room. Shirley's eyes. Joan's eyes. The prints on the walls. Windows. Shirley. Joan. The evil eyes of the dead seagull. Suddenly everything was revolving around me, and then an invisible giant fist seemed to strike the pit of my stomach.
Without warning, from one breath to the next, burning hot and yet icy cold it struck with brutal force. So strong was the impact I folded like a pocketknife and collapsing, fell sideways into a chair standing near the fireplace. Now one overpowering thought was in my mind which made me panic, shook me as I collapsed. I thought, no, I knew: I was dying.
I died of a coronary. Now the end had come.
What I felt was my dying; this thing rising in my body was my death. The terrifying giant fist began to climb higher and higher, closer to the heart.
"Arr . . . Arr.. . ." From far away I could hear myself groan, gasping for air, in vain. I pressed my
"No," I heard her say suddenly. Through the raging of the storm the high voice held a note of infinite sadness. In my growing confusion I heard the same words she had spoken on that hot summer day in my bungalow, in my arms, naked, drained of passion yet aware of guilt, "We win never be at peace because we do nothing to end this sin. God does not forgive that."
"God! God! Must you always talk about Him?"
"It's easy for you, you don't beUeve in Him."
That was correct. From what I could see it must be pretty awful to beUeve in Him. Poor Shirley. Incensed, I
said, "You said if two people love each other He forgives them everything!" "
"Not if they do not repent. .."
"Shirley!"
"God won't forgive us because He doesn't love us, He can't love us any more . . ."
Now, how about Shirley's God? I heard her voice, "Paddy, I'm going to have a child . . ."
And this child was not permitted to live.
Dimly I heard Shirley say those words I had forbidden her to speak. "It is murder. If I do that I'm a murderess."
A murderess who believed in God and suffered—did she not live in the heart of Christianity? Who could know more about sin? Who could suffer greater pangs of conscience than a murderess who was a pious Christian? Didn't God have to forgive her before all others?
I could not stand to look at Shirley's picture any longer. Turning away I saw Joan's photograph, also on the mantel. Obviously it had been necessary to display a photo of my wife as well. The public relations department sold me to the news media as a happy family man.
Joan hardly showed her forty-seven years. First I loved my mother and then a woman so much older than I. Analysts make much of that.
Joan's figure was still that of a young girl. She had had her face lifted and the skin was smooth and without wrinkles—^but only the skin of her face. The operation had been responsible for that. I always thought of it whenever I touched Shirley's skin.
Joan wears her brown hair close to her head, tips pulled forward over her temples, two soft waves rise from her forehead. One could still see that she had been very beautiful. She was apparently still desirable—^I sometimes noticed at parties how other men looked at her. She smiled at me from the photograph. I stepped to one side. The brown eyes followed me. I had never noticed that be-
fore. I took another step and still my wife's eyes followed, smiling and guileless.
Smiling innocently?
Were these eyes unsuspecting? Was my wife without suspicion? What if she already knew and was just biding her time until she could revenge herself for the hurt I had caused her? Joan's eyes were ... Were they merely laughing or were they mocking me?
"If only she could get along a little better with my husband . .."
"So innocent, so untouched ..."
"God does not love us. How, then, could we be happy?"
My eyes were wandering aimlessly around the room. Shirley's eyes. Joan's eyes. The prints on the walls. Windows. Shirley. Joan. The evil eyes of the dead seagull. Suddenly everything was revolving around me, and then an invisible giant fist seemed to strike the pit of my stomach.
Without warning, from one breath to the next, burning hot and yet icy cold it struck with brutal force. So strong was the impact I folded like a pocketknife and collapsing, fell sideways into a chair standing near the fireplace. Now one overpowering thought was in my mind which made me panic, shook me as I collapsed. I thought, no, I knew: I was dying.
I died of a coronary. Now the end had come.
What I felt was my dying; this thing rising in my body was my death. The terrifying giant fist began to climb higher and higher, closer to the heart.
"Arr . . . Arr.. . ." From far away I could hear myself groan, gasping for air, in vain. I pressed my
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