A look of deep pain, of horror, and of pity, succeeded each other on Alice Heathcote’s face, until the closing sentence, and then she threw herself on her knees by his side and took his hand.
“Oh, James! I am so sorry, I pity you so much, but do not say that. Forgive, as you would be forgiven. It is his one fault. It is a terrible sin, James—a dreadful, dreadful sin; but think what he must have suffered, think what remorse he must have felt. She would say to you, ‘Forgive,’ James. Oh! have mercy upon him, for his poor wife’s sake, for mine!”
“No, Alice, I can only think of Carry, and I will never, never forgive him!”
The cripple spoke in a tone of bitter pleasure which there was no hope of changing; his face looked into the distance with a strange smile of gratified vengeance, and Alice Heathcote, without a word, rose proudly from her knees, and, with a face as pale as his, left the room.
CHAPTER XII
SHAKING OFF THE YOKE.
It was dusk one evening when Frank was plodding his weary way home; as he passed through Landfarn he met the doctor.
“Ah, Maynard, how are you?”
“Well enough, Morgan, but amazingly tired.”
“Come in and have a cup of tea.”