Then the words that he had spoken only a little while before to Tom Drake came to his mind:
“Forgive, as we are forgiven.”
It was as if Marion’s gentle spirit, hovering over him, had whispered the words in his ear—as if from the realms of peace, where she dwelt, she had brought him an olive branch to bear across the waters to the erring, dying one.
“I will go,” he said, at last, a pitiful expression replacing the stern look, a grave though kindly light beaming from his eyes. “I will go, and God help me to go in the right spirit. Editha, too, desires it,” he repeated, reading from the telegram, “and that of itself should make me willing.”
And yet, much as he longed to see the beloved one once more, he felt as if he could never endure a second parting from her. Then graver thoughts presented themselves.
If Mr. Dalton should die, what would become of Editha?
She had not a friend in the world on whom to depend; would she feel that she could now return with him and share his home?
The matter troubled him deeply, and yet he clearly felt that it would be his duty henceforth to protect and care for her.
He went into the library and consulted the papers.
A steamer would sail the next day from London, and he decided that he would go at once.