"I hear ye, Rachel—both of ye; why don't ye come in here?"
Slowly her frozen look gave place to one of tense questioning. "He shall lack for nothing? you promise it?"
Simon Hart bowed his head: "I promise."
"Very well, then;" and all the life and youth dropped from her voice.
"Shall I go in to him?" he asked, stunned by his victory.
She nodded.
He moved to the door. Then retracing his steps, he passed his arms about her and pressed her to him. "You shall never regret this, Rachel. Oh, how I love you!" he muttered, with his lips on her head.
Pushing the hair back from her temples as if its weight annoyed her, in the silent room she paced restlessly. Presently she paused and looked her problem in the face. She was alone, powerless, penniless. But for herself she was not afraid!—and she folded her arms on her breast,—but for him who was dying?
Her arms fell.
The doctor had said that he might linger months, even years. And oh the relief, the unspeakable happiness, of being able to give him every luxury! She smiled; then sickened. The very blood in her veins repudiated the sacrifice. It was long since she had thought of Emil St. Ives as she had been accustomed to think of him during the blissful time at Pemoquod Point. Now the memory of him suddenly beat all over her weakened frame. She belonged to her love as the wood belongs to the flame. Wringing her hands together, she cast herself on the couch. And over and over her in a flood waves of pain, of joy, of despair, of triumph, of agony, of gladness, of self-immolation, of selfishness rolled and rolled.