“Do ye think, dearie,” he went on, “that if a man were to—to—na—to be unkind a—a very little to his wife—an’ was sorry an’ his wife—his wife—died, that he’d be—be——?”
“Forgiven?” finished Catherine. “Aye, I’m thinkin’ so. An’, lad dear, do ye think if anythin’ was to happen to ye the night,—aye, this night,—that ye’d take any grudge away with ye against me?”
Vavasour stiffened.
“Happen to me, Catherine?”
Then he collapsed, groaning.
“Oh, dearie, what is it, what is it, what ails ye?” cried Catherine, coming to his side on the sofa.
“Nothin’, nothin’ at all,” he gasped, slanting an eye at the clock. “Ow, the devil, it’s twenty minutes before twelve!”
“Oh, lad, what is it?”
“It’s nothin’, nothin’ at all, it’s—it’s—ow!—it’s just a little pain across me.”