Hetzel waited, expecting Ruth to speak. But she did not speak for a long while. She sat rigid in her corner, with pale face and downcast eyes. At last, however, her lips opened. In a whisper, “Will—will he ever forgive me?” she asked.
“Forgive you?” repeated Hetzel. “He doesn’t feel that he has any thing to forgive you for. On the other hand, he hopes for your forgiveness—hopes you will forgive him for having refused to let you speak. It was a coincidence and a mistake. He loves you. When that is said, every thing is said.”
For another long while Ruth kept silence. As the carriage turned into Fiftieth Street, she straightened up, and drew a deep, tremulous breath. After a brief moment of hesitation, she said, “I—I suppose he is waiting for us—yes?”
“Well,” Hetzel answered, “that reminds me. You—you see, the fact is—”
And thereupon the poor fellow had to break the news of Arthur’s illness to her, as best he could. Beginning with that hour, the trained nurse had an indefatigable companion in her vigils.
One morning Ruth said to Hetzel, “To-day is the day fixed for the probate of Bernard Peixada’s will. Do you think it is necessary that I should go to the court?”
“I don’t know,” replied Hetzel, “and I don’t care. You sha’n’. do so. I’ll be your proxy.”