“I wish I knew who struck you,” said Perdita, with a frown in her eyes.
“Nobody shall ever know that: I’ve made up my mind!” said Tom gravely.
“Do you know, Tom?”
“Yes, I do know. I wanted to tell you that much, though I’ll tell nothing more. And it’s just as well I’m going, for I couldn’t stand keeping such a secret long. Don’t try to guess it, Perdita, please. Whoever he is, he’s got worse than hanging already. Let’s talk about other things. I found him—your father—and gave him the letter. He never read it; the night was like pitch. But we spoke about you. We’ve all of us made a mistake about him; he was true grit, I can tell you. Oh, here’s a letter for you, that came out of his pocket! I’m glad of it, for it was an excuse for sending for you.”
Perdita received the packet in her hand, but scarcely glanced at it. She leaned over the helpless figure of the last of the Bendibows, and stroked the hair on his forehead with a touch as light and soothing as the waft of a breeze. “My dear, dear Tom,” she said, “I wish I could have made you happy. I am not happy myself.”
“You do make me happy: and if ... I say, Perdita....”
“What, dear?”
“Do you remember when I left you yesterday I couldn’t kiss your hand, because I felt ... I’d better not. But now, you know....”
“You shall kiss my lips, dear, if you care to,” said Perdita, bending her lovely face near him.
“Oh.... But not yet, Perdita; not quite yet. Because I should like that to be the last thing ... the very last of all, you know. You go on and read your letter, and let me hold your hand; and when I’m ready I’ll press it, so: and then ... will you?”