The squire went away, feeling now more than ever that he was indeed a weak old man. The doctor was alone and bending over the patient when Margery came back, carrying all that he had asked for. She stood as silent as a statue while he slowly poured a few drops of brandy between the closed lips; then, as a sign of life came once more into the deathlike face, she gave a sob of thankfulness and sunk upon her knees by the couch.
The earl’s eyelids were raised with difficulty, and his dark eyes wandered around slowly till they rested on his wife’s face; then the faintest of smiles broke over his countenance, dying away the next instant in a contraction of pain.
“Nugent, Nugent—oh, speak to me!” whispered Margery, wildly, putting her trembling lips to his passive hand, all the goodness, the generosity, the tenderness that this man had lavished upon her coming back to her memory and maddening her.
Dr. Godfrey moistened the earl’s lips again; the breath came from the injured chest in short, broken respirations; and then, as dew to a parched flower, as golden light in direst darkness, fell the whisper of her hubsand’s voice on Margery’s ears. He looked at the doctor, then said, with difficulty:
“Leave us—alone.”
Dr. Godfrey rose and turned to Margery.
“Do not agitate him,” he said, gently. “He has something to tell you, I see. Moisten his lips with brandy if he grows faint. I will go out on the terrace; I shall be close at hand if you want me.”
The earl’s eyes followed him; then they came back to Margery. He tried to raise his hand to her head, but the effort was too much; it fell, nerveless, to his side.
“My darling—my wife! You are sorry, then?” he gasped.
“Sorry?” whispered Margery, her voice thick with agony. “Oh, that I could give my life for yours, Nugent! That I could spare you all!” She could say no more.