"Forgive me, Ronald—forgive me! You can not refuse in the hour of death."
How the words smote him. They were his own recoiling upon him. How often he had refused his mother's pleading—hardened his own heart, saying to himself and to her that he could not pardon her yet—he would forgive her in the hour of death, when either he or she stood on the threshold of eternity!
Heaven had not willed it so. The pardon he had refused was wrung from him now; and, looking at his child, he felt that she was sacrificed to his blind, willful pride.
"You will forgive me, Ronald," pleaded the gentle voice, "for the love of my dead child? Do not send me from you again. I have been very unhappy all these long years; let me stay with you now. Dear, I was beside myself with jealousy when I acted as I did."
"I forgive you," he said, gently, "can you pardon me as easily, Dora? I have spoiled your life—I have done you cruel wrong; can you forget all, and love me as you did years ago?"
All pride, restraint, and anger were dead. He whispered loving words to his weeping wife, such as she had not heard for years; and he could have fancied, as he did so, that a happy smile lingered on the fair face of the dead.
No, it was but the light of a wax taper flickering over it; the strange, solemn beauty of that serene brow and those quiet lips were unstirred.
Half an hour afterward Lady Helena, trembling from the result of her experiment, entered the room. She saw Ronald's arms clasped round Dora, while they knelt side by side.
"Mother," said Lord Earle, "my wife has pardoned me. She is my own again—my comfort in sorrow."
Lady Earle touched Dora's face with her lips, and told what her errand was. They must leave the room now—the beautiful face of Beatrice Earle was to be hidden forever from the sight of men.