"Aunt," he said, "you have heard of doomed men sentenced to death receiving their reprieve at the last hour? I think I know to-day how those men must feel. My reprieve has come."
"Victor!" It was a gasp. "Dr. Von Werter says you will recover!"
His eyes turned from her to that radiant brightness in the September sky.
"It is aneurism of the heart. Dr. Von Werter says I won't live three weeks."
* * * * *
They were down in Cheshire. They had taken him home while there was yet time, by slow and easy stages. They took him to Catheron Royals—it was his wish, and they lived but to gratify his wishes now.
The grand old house was as it had been left a year ago—fitted up resplendently for a bride—a bride who had never come. There was one particular room to which he desired to be taken, a spacious and sumptuous chamber, all purple and gilding, and there they laid him upon the bed, from which he would never rise.
It was the close of September now, the days golden and mellow, beautiful with the rich beauty of early autumn, before decay has come. He had grown rapidly worse since that memorable interview with the German doctor, and paralysis, that "death in life" was preceding the fatal footsteps of aneurism of the heart. His lower limbs were paralyzed. The end was very near now. On the last day of September Herr Von Werter paid his last visit.
"It's of no use, madame," he said to Lady Helena; "I can do nothing—nothing whatever. He won't last the week out."
The young baronet turned his serene eyes, serene at last with the awful serenity that precedes the end. He had heard the fiat not intended for his ears.