“I’m not hopeful to see Dan upalong; for ’twould be awful ’dashus for the like of me wi’ my sporting career, to count on Heaven; but I’ve done what I can to atone. Any way, if I do come up with Daniel Sweetland—whether ’tis the good place or the bad—this I’ll tell him: that his memory be clear an’ that ’tis known to Moreton he was guiltless. ’Twill be a comfort to the man, I should think—wherever he bides.”
A wonderful look rested on the face of Minnie Sweetland. For a moment pure thankfulness filled her soul; then there came gratitude into it. To dwell upon the past was vain; to ask this perishing wretch why he had kept silence when her husband was taken from her; to wring her hands or weep for the woful past—these things at any time were deeds foreign to the woman’s nature. Her mind was practical. It had in it now no room for more than thankfulness and gratitude. She uttered a wordless and silent prayer—a thanksgiving that flashed through her heart in a throb; then she turned to the penitent and took his hand between hers.
“May a merciful Lord be good to you for this,” she said gently. “May you rest easier and die easier for knowing that you’ve righted my innocent husband’s memory and lifted darkness from the heads of his father and his mother. And mine—mine! You told me nought I didn’t know in my heart, for from his own lips ’twas spoken to me that he’d not done it or dreamed of it; but now the world can know. Nought will be hidden any more. All living men, as have ever heard my Daniel’s name, shall hear ’tis an honourable name—a name that I’ll go down to my grave proud of. ’Twill make my life easier to live—easier to bear; ’twill sweeten it till my own short years be run an’ I go back to him for ever.”
Titus Sim listened and said nothing; but he felt the scene sharply. His brows were down-drawn and her words made him suffer.
At last, with an effort, he spoke to Parkinson.
“We must leave you now. Your strength has been taxed enough. This is a good day for all of us—a day to make man trust surer in his God and in the power of right. Say no more of this to any soul, Rix Parkinson. You’ve done your duty, and ’twill weigh for you in Heaven and lift you up at the end.”
“You’ll let me die in peace?” asked the sick man. But he spoke to Minnie: from the first moment of their entry he turned to her, and only her.
“Be sure of that. What avails to trouble your last hours now? Nothing shall be said till you’re asleep.”
“Don’t be gentle to me—ban’t in human nature. I don’t ax that. I don’t ax you to forgive or to forget what an everlasting rascal I’ve been.”
“I do forgive you,” she said.