“They are here,” he said. “Everything is prepared for thee—the means to lead a blameless life henceforth. Summon the woman when I’m gone. I would not have them say I left my wife to starve.”
He put out his arms, passion in his eyes, but withdrew them resolutely.
“Nay,” he said; “in heaven—not yet.”
He fell back a little, and cried out suddenly:
“Your foot, Jane! Poor foot; it bleeds!”
He motioned her to the couch, knelt, lifted the wounded limb, and with his napkin staunched the trickling blood. He held it to his breast, and at last, with a long, yearning sigh, put his lips to it.
“This hath atoned,” he said—“so far I shame myself,” and he rose. “Little sinful wife,” he whispered, “he loved thee once; he loves thee ever; else could he leave thee thus? Now, let me never hear thy name again—for love’s sake do I ask it.”
She had buried her face in the cushions. And there she lay, long after he had gone, weeping out her soul.
THE CHAPLAIN OF THE TOWER
“My son!”