The short railway ride between London and Darentdale was through a pretty well-wooded country. It had never appeared so beautiful as now to the eyes that would soon be closed to it all. The man had loved Nature in all her moods, and she seemed to put on her most beautiful garments in which to receive the farewells of her friend. His eyes swam with tears several times as they looked out at the cool woodland ways, the green meadows, and the bright blue skies. When the train stopped at one of the village stations a lark was pouring down a shower of song upon them. Harris was glad it was so happy, but the whispering leaves seemed to have more sympathy with him. It was as if they knew that his life was as transient as theirs, and they were sorry for him as for themselves. “We shall probably pass away together,” said his thought. “They will fall to the ground, and so shall I. But I am no leaf, to perish when my body withers. There is a future for me. Where? I shall soon know. I am not afraid, for God is love.”
“I suppose you would rather not talk,” said Dr. Stapleton.
“Thank you. I have much to think of. I must put my house in order, you know, since I shall surely die,” he answered.
And then he thought of Margaret. He must make her future more sure. He must indeed tell her everything now, and he would see Dallington first of all. They must be married at once; there was really no reason why they should not be; and if they were, and they both knew all, he would have no misgivings in regard to his dear child to make his death the harder. “Presently,” he reminded himself, “it will be too late to do; I shall only be able to bear.”
Margaret’s heart sank with dismay when she saw him. He looked like a man who, though habitually calm, had been forced into a conflict so bitter that it had taken his very life from him. She threw her arms around him, and drew him to a chair, and put his head upon her breast, and kissed him with the fervour and tenderness of a daughter. He had not told her that he was ill; but she had feared, and now she knew.
“Dear, darling, how tired you are!” she said. “I shall fetch a sponge and bathe your face, and you must have some tea at once. Rest a little first.”
He did not speak, but lifted his hand caressingly to her face, and felt that, but for distressing her, he must have sobbed.
After partaking of some refreshment, however, he revived, and they both tried to be cheerful.
“How have you got on without me to-day?” he asked. “Has there been a crowd of customers? Have you sold any more of the poets?”
“At one time the shop was very full,” she answered. “There were three people in it together, and all talking at once.”