“Oh, yes,” she sneered. “Let him die! It is cold in Patagonia for a gently nurtured person like Mr. French. Simeon is poor in friends—he only had one besides his wife, and that one is a fair-weather friend. But I’ll go—I am not afraid of privation. I’ll entreat the Argentine Government for help—I’ll make friends with the Indians—I’ll——”
“Hush,” he said, “you have said enough—I will go.”
Having gained her point, she burst into tears.
“I am cruel,” she said, “selfishly cruel to you, who have been so good to me—but whom can I turn to except to you? How can we abandon Simeon without raising a finger to save him? Say you forgive me.”
He held out his hand in mute acquiescence. Her sneers had stung him to the quick, but her appeal to his manhood for help in her distress moved him deeply.
“Perhaps,” she went on, half to herself, “perhaps if I had been a better wife—if I had loved him more, I could bear it better—but it is so pitiful. He has always been alone in life, and now he is dying alone.”
Stephen, who was pacing the floor, tried not to listen. He knew she was not thinking of him when she was confessing her shortcomings to her own conscience, but the admission that she felt herself lacking in love to Simeon filled him with a deep joy. He did not dare to linger.
“I am going,” he said, gently. “Good-by, Deena. Will you pray God to send you back the man who loves you?”
She stood staring at him dumb with misery, but as the door shut between them a cry of anguish burst from her very soul.
“Come back!” she cried. “Oh, Stephen, come back! I can’t bear it! I can’t let you go! Don’t you know I love you?—and I have sent you off to die!”