“You cannot undo what has been done, but you can do better in future.”
“The future? Why, there is no future for me but the grave.”
Irene, like every other coward at heart, surrendered only when she saw danger staring her in the face. Had her health been given her she would have spared neither pains nor expense to have revenge on Max, but since disease had chained her down, and there was no escape from the destroyer, she began, like the condemned criminal, to confess her guilt as the only means of obtaining mercy.
Two months later Irene lay dying. She had asked to see her husband, and he had granted the request. 261 She wanted him all alone that she might ask his forgiveness. He visited her for the first time since her return, and she had spoken words in confession that made even the strong heart of Scott almost cease its beating.
“Irene,” Scott said, “is it possible that all you have told me is true? Can it be true?”
“It is, and I am sorry I deceived you,” she said, while the thin white hands reached out toward him. “Oh, Scott, if you will forgive me.”
“Irene, you have wronged me most bitterly, and I forgive you, but remember that man’s forgiveness can avail you nothing in the darkness where you are going. You must look to God. He alone can forgive your sins and lead you through the dark valleys to the light of eternal day.”
“And you will, with your own hands, plant just one flower on my grave in remembrance of her you once called your wife.”
“I will,” said Scott, and then he turned away with a face full of agony.
Three days later the family was summoned to watch Irene pass the gates of death, and then the false heart was stilled forever. They robed her in a costly shroud and placed her in a beautiful casket, and in death as in life she was lovely to look upon, and Scott, with compressed lips and tearless eyes, followed her to the grave as chief mourner.