“One kind, forgiving word,” she said, faintly. “One? A thousand!” he panted; “my own—my love! Leave me? No, you shall not go! Is my love for you so weak and poor that I should let you go—that I should turn from you in this hour of trial? Helen!” he cried; “I tell you it is not the Helen of the past I love, but you—you, my own! Tell me that you have turned to me—truly turned to me at last, and live to bless me with your love!”
Her lips parted, and she tried to speak, but no words came. Her eyes closed, and as he clasped her more firmly to his breast a faint shuddering sigh seemed to fan his cheek.
“You shall not die,” he whispered, as he raised her thin arm and laid it tenderly round his neck, while his heart throbbed heavily against hers; “I am strong, and my strength shall give you strength, my breath should be yours, Helen, love, were it my last. Take it, darling, and breathe and live, my own—my wife—my all!”
As he whispered frantically these words he seemed endued with the idea that she would draw life from his strong manliness, and breathe it in his breath, as he bent down lower and laid his lips upon hers.
Then the shuddering sigh came again, and feeble as she was before, he felt her relax and sink away; her arm fell from where it rested on his shoulder, and in an agony of dread he stamped upon the floor.
There was a hurried rush of feet, the door was flung open, and the doctor entered the room.
“Quick!” he cried. “Lay her down, man!—That’s well.”
“Is—is she dead?” groaned the Resident; and in an agony of remorse and despair he sank back in the chair by the bedside, as he saw the doctor take one hand in his and lay his other upon his patient’s throat.
“No,” said Dr Bolter, shortly. “Fainting. Go away.”
“But, Bolter—” protested the Resident.