For the
last time his lips touched hers--cold and insensible to him now.
He laid her on the sofa and went out.
One of the female servants was crossing the hall. The girl
started as she met him, and turned pale at the sight of his face.
He could not speak to her, but he pointed to the study door. He
saw her go into the room, and then left the house.
He never entered it more, and he and his wife never met again.
Later on that last day, a sister of Mr. Carling's--a married
woman living in the town--came to the rectory. She brought an
open note with her, addressed to the unhappy mistress of the
house. It contained these few lines, blotted and stained with
tears:
May God grant us both the time for repentance! If I had loved you
less, I might have trusted myself to see you again. Forgive me,
and pity me, and remember me in your prayers, as I shall forgive,
and pity, and remember you.
He had tried to write more, but the pen had dropped from his
hand. His sister's entreaties had not moved him. After giving her
the note to deliver, he had solemnly charged her to be gentle in
communicating the tidings that she bore, and had departed alone
for London. He heard all remonstrances with patience. He did not
deny that the deception of which his wife had been guilty was the
most pardonable of all concealments of the truth, because it
sprang from her love for him; but he had the same hopeless answer
for every one who tried to plead with him--the verse from the
Gospel of Saint Luke.
Pages:
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406