'You must go now, I think; I feel so strangely weary. Say good-bye to me, my kindest, my best friend.'
He bent down over her, and murmuring 'God bless you!' touched her uplifted forehead with his lips; then turned away with a convulsive sob, burying his face in his hands. When he looked round again the nurse was bending over the bed. Presently she turned round, nodded her head slowly, and with her finger pointed upward.
May Forestfield was dead.
[CHAPTER XX.]
COMING UP TO TIME.
Lord Forestfield had gone out, without seeing his wife, immediately after he had despatched the summons which brought Sir Nugent Uffington to her death-bed. He had, however, returned a few minutes before the close of the friend's interview and of May's life; and when Uffington, after a few words exchanged with the nurse, left the room where the woman to whom he had been so true a friend lay dead, happily beyond the need of all human friendship or reach of blame, he encountered her worthless husband in the hall. He had hoped to escape from the house unnoticed; but this hope was vain; and so proved his next idea, that he might hastily pass Forestfield with a word, and get away before he knew what had happened. He had not taken his own quivering lips and agitated look into account in this hope, and it vanished with Lord Forestfield's first glance at him.
'What--what's the matter? What has she said to you?' Lord Forestfield stammered, staring blankly at Uffington.
'She has said good-bye,' Uffington began; and then, touched by a momentary pity for the man who so little deserved it--though of the reaction in his feelings Uffington knew nothing--he took him by the arm, led him into the library, and told him the truth.
'Dead!' was all Lord Forestfield replied. 'Dead--so soon!'
'Ay, dead--and so soon. She had not much strength to spare, and she spent it in--saving your life.'