In the library, lighted so brightly by the sunlight, yet grave with the hush of that solemn presence, the major looked into the face of the woman for whose coming he had waited so anxiously.
“It’s all—up, Judith,” he said faintly. “I’ve come to the jumping-off place.”
She looked at him whitely. “Monty, Monty!” she cried. “Don’t leave me this way! I always thought—”
He guessed what she would have said. “Heaven knows you’re needed more than me, Judith. After all, I reckon when my time had to come I’d have chosen the quick way.” His voice trailed out and he struggled for breath.
“Jerry’s in the hall, Monty. He asked me to give you his love.”
“Poor old nigger! He—used to tote me on his back when I was a little shaver.” There was a silence. “Don’t kneel, Judith,” he said at length. “You will be so tired.”
She rose obediently and drew up a chair. “Monty,” she faltered tremulously, “shall I say a prayer? I’ve never prayed much—my prayers never seemed to get above the ceiling, somehow. But I’ll—try.”
He smiled wanly. “I wouldn’t want any better than yours, Judith. But seems as if I’d been prayed over enough. I reckon God Almighty’s like anybody else, and doesn’t want to be ding-donged all the time.”
He seemed to have been gathering his resolution, and presently his hand fumbled over his breast. “My wallet; give it to me.” She drew it from the pocket and the uncertain fingers took out a key. “It opens a tin box in my trunk. There’s—a letter in it for you.” He paused a moment, panting: “Judith,” he said, “I’ve got to tell you, but it’s mighty hard. The letter ... it’s one Valiant gave me for you—that morning, after the duel. I—never gave it to you.”