“And I shielded thy dear body with mine, John ... because I feared for thee, loved thee, and would ha’ died for thee.... And ’twas because of the last five years, the evil I had spoken of thee, the harms I had wickedly tried to work thee ... this was why I would have died for thee, John, this, but never hysteria.... Aye, I know, indeed, I so named it, but this was only because I could think of naught else to retort upon thee with....”
“Couldst indeed be so cruel?” he questioned more gently, but with his gaze still averted.
“Yet am I kinder than thou,” she answered, “for if thou wilt break my poor heart and ruin my life, I will not suffer thee to break thine own.... So am I here beseeching thee to come back to love and me and the dear Down-country.”
“Nay, this cannot be.”
“Because I do love thee truly, John.”
“This I cannot believe.”
“Why, then, John, I am here to follow thee where thou wilt, to beseech thy forgiveness, to supplicate thee to love me a little ... and because I am thine own, now and always, thou dear, brave, kind, cruel, unbelieving, wise and most foolish John! Wilt not look at me even now? Then needs must I use old Penelope’s charm!”
Speaking thus, she thrust something into his fingers, and he saw this for the miniature of his long-dead father.
“Ah!” he exclaimed. “What o’ this?”
“You must open it, John. Penelope bid me tell you to open the back and read what your father wrote there so many years agone.”