"Except for you, my arms will feel empty for them till they come—"
"Oh, my wife—my true wife!—now I can tell you all!" he said, and the earnest note was lost in purest joy. He whispered:
"You know, dear, I'm but half a man, and must remain such. I am no citizen, have no citizen's rights, can never vote—have no voice in all that appeals to manhood—my country—"
"I know—I know—" she murmured pityingly.
"And so I used to think there in my cell at night when I kissed the little handkerchief—Please God, if Aileen still loves me when I get out, if she in her loving mercy will forgive to the extent that she will be my wife, then it may be that she will bestow on me the blessing of a child—a boy who will one day stand among men as his father never can again, who will possess the full rights of citizenship; in him I may live again as a man—but only so."
"Please God it may be so."
They walked slowly homewards to The Bow in the clear warm dark of the midsummer-night. They had much to say to each other, and often they lingered on the way. They lingered again when they came to the gate by the paddock in the lane.
Aileen looked towards the house. A light was burning in Mrs. Champney's room.
"I'm afraid Mrs. Champney must be much worse. Tave never would have forgotten me if he hadn't received some telephone message while he was at Father Honoré's. But the nurse said there was nothing I could do when I left with Tave—but oh, I'm so glad he didn't stop! I must go in now, Champney," she said decidedly. But he still held her two hands.