"I shall not live for it, Arthur."
His heart seemed to stand still. The words struck him as being so very real.
"Arthur, I have known it for some time now. You must not grieve for me. I even think that death is rather near."
"What has killed you? I?"
A flush passed over her wan face. Yes, he had killed her. That is, his conduct had done so: the sensitive crimson betrayed it.
"The probability is that I should not in any case have lived long," she said, aloud. "I believe they feared something of the sort for me years ago. Arthur, don't! Don't weep; I cannot bear it."
Sir William Adair had just told him how his father had wept in his misery. And before Arthur could well collect himself, Sir William entered.
"You see," he whispered aside to Arthur, "why it may not be. There will be no marriage for her in this life. I am not surprised. I seem to have always expected it: my wife, her mother, died of decline."
Arthur Bohun quitted the house, overwhelmed with shame and sorrow. What regret is there like unto that for past mistaken conduct which can never be remedied in this world?