She put the child down again, and turned for a last look at the man whose happiness she had wrecked—in pity to him.
He had never moved. His head was down; his face was hidden. She went back to hi m a few steps.
“The others have gone from me without one kind word. Can you forgive me?”
He held out his hand to her without looking up. Sorely as she had wounded him, his generous nature understood her. True to her from the first, he was true to her still.
“God bless and comfort you,” he said, in broken tones. “The earth holds no nobler woman than you.”
She knelt and kissed the kind hand that pressed hers for the last time. “It doesn’t end with this world,” she whispered: “there is a better world to come!” Then she rose, and went back to the child. Hand in hand the two citizens of the Government of God—outcasts of the government of Man—passed slowly down the length of the room. Then out into the hall. Then out into the night. The heavy clang of the closing door tolled the knell of their departure. They were gone.
But the orderly routine of the house—inexorable as death—pursued its appointed course. As the clock struck the hour the dinner-bell rang. An interval of a minute passed, and marked the limit of delay. The butler appeared at the dining-room door.
“Dinner is served, sir.”
Julian looked up. The empty room met his eyes. Something white lay on the carpet close by him. It was her handkerchief—wet with her tears. He took it up and pressed it to his lips. Was that to be the last of her? Had she left him forever?
The native energy of the man, arming itself with all the might of his love, kindled in him again. No! While life was in him, while time was before him, there was the hope of winning her yet!