“O doctor! I am dying. I have been dreaming: I thought I heard the voice of one I have deeply injured—nay, I dreamt I saw him; but changed, how changed!—and I—I have been the cause of it.”
Here he was interrupted by the smothered sobs of poor Douglas, or Charles, as I now must call him.
“Who is that? there is somebody else in the room,” said he; and, drawing the curtain aside, he saw his brother. “Then it was no dream! O Charles!” and, turning round, he buried his face in the pillow. Douglas sprang forward, and, throwing himself on the bed, gave way to a violent burst of emotion.
“Henry! dear Henry! look at me—it is your brother, Henry!”
The dying man groaned. “I cannot look you in the face, Charles,” said he, “till you say you have forgiven me.”
“Forgiven you!” replied the other; “bless you! bless you, Henry! if you did but know the load of remorse that the sight of you has relieved me from! Thank heaven I was not your murderer!”
“And can you forget the past, Charles?” said Henry. “Do not my ears deceive me? Do you really forgive me?”
“Freely, fully, from my heart!” was the reply; “the joy of meeting you again, even thus, repays me for all I have suffered.”
“O Charles!” again ejaculated Henry, “you were always generous and forgiving; but this is more than I expected from you.”
I was now going to leave the room; but my patient, noticing my intention, begged me to remain.