“What must I do to atone?” groaned Ray. “Shall I go to him, confess my crime, and offer him my service through life, to make up for his loss?”
“My poor fellow, I do not think you can make it up to him. It is too great, and he will not need you. He is so rich he will not lack loving service. No, your part is to bear your cross in patience and to lead such a life hereafter that the blackness of past sins shall be blotted out in refulgent light.”
“I swear I will—God helping me! And you believe in me?”
“Yes, and will try to help you to lead a new life. I am going to cross the sea next week. Will you come with me as my guest? I did not tell you I was English-born before—did I—though I have spent much time in America, for my mother is a native of this land. Well, come with me, and we will seek new scenes a while, to dull the pain in both our hearts. You will? That’s a good fellow! Your hand on it, Ray; we are true friends till death!”
CHAPTER XXVI.
EXPIATION.
The scene shifts from the quiet country under the low-hung October skies to New York, in the following March, when the crisp snow covered the ground, sparkling like jewels under the pallid electric lights.
“Wanted—A refined, educated, companionable gentleman as a companion for an invalid. Liberal salary to a suitable person. Apply at No. — Fifth Avenue.”
A gentleman who read that want in an evening paper became so excited over it that he canceled an engagement for the opera to present himself that same evening at the Fifth Avenue mansion of the invalid.
The sleek servant who opened the door to him looked supercilious when he heard his errand.
“Really, you should ’ave waited till the mornin’,” he said, trying to hide an Irish brogue under an English accent. “Mrs. Sherwood is going hout to the opera, and me master does not see strangers.”