Chapter 42

you, I will not listen to a word; I will leave at once."

"He will not urge it. He knows how obdurate you are, how fruitless it would be. Ah, Edith! you are a terribly haughty, self-willed girl. He will not detain you a moment--he wishes to make but one parting request."

"I can grant nothing--nothing," Edith said with agitation.

"You will grant this, I think," the other answered sadly. "Come, dear child, let us go down; Lady Helena waits."

They descended to breakfast; Edith ate little. In spite of herself, in spite of her pride and self command, it shook her a little--the thought of speaking to _him_.

But how was she to refuse? She rose at last, very pale, very stern and resolute looking--the sooner it was over and she was gone, the better.

"Now," she said, "if you insist--"

"I do insist," answered Inez steadily. "Come."

She led her to a door down the corridor and rapped. How horribly thick and fast Edith's heart beat; she hated herself for it. The door opened, and the grave, professional face of Mr. Jamison looked out.

"Tell Sir Victor, Lady Catheron is here, and will see him."

The man bowed and departed. Another instant and he was again before them:

"Sir Victor begs my lady to enter at once."

Then Inez Catheron took her in her arms and kissed her. It was her farewell. She pointed forward and hurried away.

Edith went on. A door and curtain separated her from the inner room. She opened one, lifted the other, and husband and wife were face to face.

He lay upon a low sofa--the room was partially darkened, but even in that semi-darkness she could see that he looked quite as ghastly and bloodless this morning as he had last night.

She paused about half way down the room and spoke: "You wished to see me, Sir Victor Catheron?"

Cold and calm the formal words fell.

"Edith!"

His answer was a cry--a cry wrung from a soul full of love and anguish untold. It struck home, even to _her_ heart, steeled against him and all feeling of pity.

"I am sorry to see you so ill. I am glad your accident is no worse." Again she spoke, stiff, formal, commonplace words, that sounded horribly out of place, even to herself.

"Edith," he repeated, and again no words can tell the pathos, the despair of that cry, "forgive me--have pity on me. You hate me, and I deserve your hate, but oh! if you knew, even you would have mercy and relent!"

He touched her in spite of herself. Even a heart of stone might have softened at the sound of that despairing, heart-wrung voice--at sight of that death-like, tortured face. And Edith's, whatever she might say or think, was not a heart of stone.

"I do pity you," she said very gently; "I never thought to--but from my soul I do. But, forgive you! No, Sir Victor Catheron; I am only mortal. I have been wronged and humiliated as no girl was ever wronged and humiliated before. I can't do that."

He covered his face with his hands--she could hear the dry sobbing sound of his wordless misery.

"It would have been better if I had not come here," she said still gently. "You are ill, and this excitement will make you worse. But they insisted upon it--they said you had a request to make. I think you had better not make it--I can grant nothing--nothing."

"You will grant this," he answered, lifting his face and using the words Inez had used; "it is only that when I am dying, and send for you on my death-bed, you will come to me. Before I die I must tell you all--the terrible secret; I dare not tell you in life; and then, oh surely, surely you will pity and forgive! Edith, my love, my darling, leave me this one hope, give me this one promise before you go?"

"I promise to come," was her answer; "I promise to listen--I can promise no more. A week ago I thought I would have died sooner than pledge myself to that much--sooner than look in your face, or speak to you one word. And now, Sir Victor Catheron, farewell."

She turned to go without waiting for his reply. As she opened the door, she heard a wailing cry that struck chill with pity and terror to her inmost heart.

"Oh, my love! my bride! my wife!"--then the door closed behind her--she heard and saw no more.

So they had met and parted, and only death could bring them together again.

She passed out into the sunshine and splendor of the summer morning, dazed and cold, her whole soul full of untold compassion for the man she had left.