“It is I, myself,” said she, in her low, gentle voice. “Do not be disturbed, Mr. Huyton.”
She saw it all at once; it was the friend of his youth, the very man who had so deeply injured him, that Maurice had been nursing all night.
“Are you come too?” said he, in a broken voice, as he fixed his dark, glowing eyes on her; “are you come to see me die? Angel, whom I have so deeply injured; whose sad path in life I have made still sadder! Are you come to bless or to curse me with your presence? Can you forgive me now?”
“Forgive! ah yes—as I would be forgiven—long, long ago I forgave!”
“What a wretch I have been; yet I thought I loved you! and it was love, earnest, real love, till your rejection turned it into bitterness. Oh, if I had but listened to your pleading; yielded to your mild remonstrances. Maurice, tell her that I have repented.”
“Hilary will believe it, I am sure, Charles,” replied Maurice; “do not exhaust yourself by emotion.”
“Let me talk, my end is near. Listen. I was wild, frantic with grief and remorse; horror-stricken at the wreck I had made of Dora’s happiness, vainly repenting when too late—when—ah Hilary! forgive me—when, as you were once more free, I found myself fettered to her—poor thing! Miserable, I wandered from country to country—till I met with one who taught me better, a true minister of the Gospel, who taught me better, and sent me home to my duty—too long neglected. I intended to do right—I meant to try and remedy,
so far as I could, the miserable past; my first step was to see Maurice, and ask his pardon. I came here, and now I am dying—it is the only thing which can really repair my crimes. To hear him speak forgiveness has been my best comfort. Now let me die!”
Hilary’s tears fell fast over the hand she held in hers.
“Must he die, Maurice?” whispered she.