“There is a chance for you,” she cried. “You can save your father. You could take him away—to Italy, to the south of France. He would recover. You would never have anything to fear from me again. I should be your friend.”
I shook my head.
“It is too late,” I said. “You had your chance. I did what you asked.”
She shrank back as though I had stabbed her.
“It is not too late,” she said, feverishly. “Make it the test of his love. It will not be forever. I am not strong. I may not live more than a year or two. Let me have him—for that time. It is to save your father. Pray to him. He will consent. He does not dislike me. But, mon Dieu! I will not live without him. Oh, if you knew what it was to love.”
I shook my head sorrowfully. Was it unnatural that I should pity her, even though she was my father’s persecutor? Before I could speak to her Bruce was by our side. He had come a few steps to meet us. He held my hands tightly.
“I felt sure that you would be coming by this train,” he said. “I have the tickets.”
“And you?” I asked.
“I am coming with you, of course,” he answered, turning round and walking by my side.
Olive Berdenstein was watching him eagerly. He had not taken the slightest notice of her. A faint flush, which had stolen into her face, faded slowly away. She became deadly white; she moved apart and entered the booking office. As she stood taking her ticket I caught a backward glance from her dark eyes which made me shiver.