Then she leaves him. He listens to the hurried preparations. A strange, feverish strength seems to have come to him. As he has said, it is the one really unselfish action he has ever performed in his life. For though he has bidden her leave him, he is longing for her presence. He knows his own hours are numbered, despite the hopes held out. He knows that to have her with him during the dreadful ordeal through which he has to pass would be the only comfort that life holds. He shudders as he lies there face to face with death, as the cold waters of the great river seem to flow on—on—up to his very feet; and in that awful passage there will be no voice to whisper comfort, no prayers from that low, sweet woman's voice to tell of peace, of hope, of the gates of mercy standing open yet, even to the greatest of sinners. He shudders, and the cold dews of anguish stand upon his brow. But he is strong still, strong enough to hide the truth from her. She comes to bid him farewell, and he looks long and sorrowfully at the fair, sad face. How changed she is, how changed!
"You will kiss me—just once, bad as I am," he whispers, and with the tears standing thick in her eyes she bends down and for the first time in all their married life kisses him of her own free will.
"God bless you," she murmurs fervently.
"Say you forgive," he entreats, laying his hand on hers.
"I have forgiven—long ago," she answers, and with murmured words of hopefulness and trust, they part; part to meet on this side of the grave never, never more.
CHAPTER XXXVI
Very feebly and faintly the pulse of life is flickering in Keith Athelstone's frame. Very despairingly does Lady Etwynde watch beside him.
It is twelve hours since that last message went. Twelve hours, and in every one of these has that same question been on the dying lips—"Will she come?"
They cannot tell. They can only hope.