And above the sheeted primroses in the Stillington woods the birds’ calls and rondels rang out in intemperate gladness. That was outside; within, a white woman lay on a bed—a white woman lately escaped from the surgeon’s knife, escaped with life from the surgeon’s hands.
Camilla, in the late months of growing suffering, had made every disposition for death; had “set her house” in order—not that it ever needed that—and had turned her stern face with silent valour towards the unpierceable darkness of the grave. And Death would have none of her! Not only had the operation she had undergone been performed successfully, in a different sense from poor Felicity’s, but it had revealed the comparatively harmless character of the malady that had rendered it necessary. Camilla was to live, and not die.
By the bedside a man knelt, holding her wan hands. She was whispering to him.
“Can you forgive me?”
“Forgive you? For what?”
“For not having died! Not—having—set you—free.”
He bowed his head on her hands; and she felt his tears upon them. Then he lifted his face.
“Forgive you! Forgive the one person in the world who loves me for having the charity not to leave me!”
Though Mrs. Tancred’s convalescence was a rapid one, she was not for some days allowed to see her correspondence, nor read any of the numerous letters of sympathy and congratulation addressed to her husband. Amongst the first put into her hands by the latter was one which ran as follows. It was dated on the eve of the operation.
“212, Green Street,
“London, W.