“Take my forgiveness, John Lister, and with it my prayers shall be joined to yours that yours may be a better and a happier life.”
“And you will grant my prayer, Miriam? You will be my wife?” he whispered, as I sat back there with an intense feeling of misery, almost jealousy, coming over me. I felt a terrible sense of dread, too, for I could not believe in the sincerity of John Lister’s repentance, and in imagination I saw the woman whom I loved and reverenced torn down from the pedestal whereon she stood in my heart, to become ordinary, weak, and poor.
“You ask me to forget the past and to be your wife, John Lister,” she said, and the tones of her sweet low voice thrilled me as she spoke, “I have heard you patiently, and I tell you now that had you been true to me, I would have been your patient, loving, faithful wife unto the end. I would have crushed down the strange yearnings that sought to grow within my heart, for I told myself that you loved me dearly, and that I would love you in return.”
“Yes, yes,” he whispered, cowering lower before her; “you were all that is good and true, and I was base; but, Miriam, I have repented so bitterly of my sin.”
“When I found that you did not love me, John Lister, but that it was only a passing fancy fed by the thought of my wealth—”
“Oh, no, no, no! I was not mercenary,” he cried.
“Is your repentance no more sincere than that?” she said sadly; “I know but too well, John Lister, that you loved my fortune better than you loved me.”
“Oh, Miriam!” he exclaimed appealingly.
“Hear my answer!” she said, speaking as if she had not caught his last words.
“Yes,” he cried, striving to catch her hand, but without success. “It is life or death to me. I cannot live without your love.”