“I gave them my husband’s name. I knew he would be glad to come. He lives a hundred miles from here, and it will only take him four hours at the longest. I shall not last that long. If you would tell him”—
“Tell him what?”
“Tell him,” said the woman, slowly, “that I saw; that I am sorry I grieved love and him; that I wish I had been wiser about what life meant; that love is always best.”
“The fact is,” said the man, reluctantly, “I did not mean to stay. I dabbled in medicine a little once, and I know that I can last this way a day or two. But I am in pain now, and it will grow worse. What is the use of staying? They tied an artery for me; it might easily get untied, you know.”
“Aren’t you going to wait until your wife comes?” she asked, wonderingly.
“Better not,” answered the man, briefly. “It would hurt her less this way, and me too. Scenes worry me, and her nerves are delicate.”
“What farces such marriages as yours are!”
“Better a farce than a tragedy. My wife has been happier than your husband. She has been very comfortable, and she will continue to be so, for my estate is reasonably large.”
“Then Arthur will never know that I am sorry, and I want him to. Oh, God! I want him to.”
The man lay, frowning sharply at the ceiling. The ineffectual anguish of her cry had touched him, but his pain was growing worse. At last he spoke.