I did my best to console her. I told her that her little child would be better off in heaven than were he master of fifty Crown Ansteys. But I soon found that my words fell on deaf ears; she was unconscious.
"I do not like the look of Mrs. Trevelyan," said the doctor. "I should not be surprised to find that she has caught the fever herself. If so, in her present state of agitation, it will go hard with her."
He was right; before sunset Coralie lay in the fierce clutches of the fever, insensible to everything.
I do not like dwelling on this part of the story; it is so long, long since it all happened, but the memory of it stings like a sharp pain.
Clare came to nurse her, and everything that human science and skill could suggest was done to save her. It was all in vain.
We buried the little child on the Tuesday morning, when the sun was shining and the birds were singing in the trees, and on the Saturday they told us his mother could not live.
It was early on the dawn of the Sunday morning when they sent for me. She was dying, and wished to speak to me.
I went into her room. Clare knelt by her side. She turned her white face to me with a smile.
"Edgar," she said, "I am glad you have come. I want to—to die in your arms. Bend down to me," she whispered. "I want to speak to you. Will you forgive me? I can see now how wrong I was, how wicked to love you so much, and how wicked to tell you so. Will you forgive me, and now that I am dying say one kind word to me, and tell me you can respect me in death?"
I pillowed that dying head on my arm, and told her I should only remember of her what had been kind and good.