“Nothing, at present,” was the ominous answer. “I dread even the necessity of moving him to a bed-room. Certainly he cannot be taken elsewhere. Is he a friend of yours? I understand he does not live here.”
David was saved from the difficulty of answering by a feeble indication of Van Hupfeldt’s wish to speak. The doctor gave him some water, then a little weak brandy and water. Violet again helped David to hold him, and the unfortunate man, seemingly recognizing her, now turned his head toward her.
“Forgive me!” he whispered, with the labored distinctness of one who speaks with the utmost effort. “I have deceived you vilely. I wished to make reparation.”
“I think I know all you wish to tell me,” said Violet, bravely, “and, even so, I am sorry for you.”
“You heard what the doctor said?” he muttered.
“Yes, but you will recover. Don’t try to talk. You must calm yourself. Then the doctor will help.”
“I know more than he knows of my own condition. I am dying. I shall be dead in a few minutes. It is only just. I shall die here, where Gwen died—my Gwen, whom I loved more than my own soul. May God forgive—”
“Oh, don’t!” cried Violet, brokenly; the presence of gray death, that last and greatest adjuster of wrong, obliterated many a bitter vow and stifled the cry for vengeance in her.
“It is just,” he whispered again. “I killed her by that letter. And now she has summoned me to the grave, she who gave her life to shield me. Ah! what a punishment was mine! when I flew here from Paris to tell her that all was well, and arrived only in time to see her die! She died in my arms, just as I am dying in yours, Vi! But she suffered, and I, who deserve all the suffering, am falling away without pain.”
Truly, he seemed to gain strength as he spoke; he still fancied he had seen Gwendoline; the gathering mists clouded his brain to that extent.