He wished he could hearten the poor unnerved soul, somehow.
Gaunt stopped outside, looking at them,—some uncertain thought coming and going in his face.
"I 'll speak it out, whatever you may think. Dode, I've done you a deadly hurt. Don't ask me what it is,—God knows. I'd like, before I go, to show you I love you in a pure, honorable way, you and your husband"——
The words choked in his throat; he stopped abruptly.
"Whatever you do, it will be honorable, David," said Palmer, gently.
"I think—God might take it as expiation,"—holding his hand to his head.
He did not speak again for a little while, then he said,——
"I will never see these old Virginian hills again. I am going West; they will let me nurse in one of the hospitals;—that will be better than this that is on my hand."
Whatever intolerable pain lay in these words, he smothered it down, kept his voice steady.
"Do you understand, Douglas Palmer? I will never see you again. Nor Dode. You love this woman; so did I,—as well as you. Let me make her your wife before I go,—here, under this sky, with God looking down on us. Will you? I shall be happier to know that I have done it."