He beckoned him back into the room he was
leaving, and the two stepped inside.
"Dell, my good fellow, I want your help. I have just met my wife
here--Lady Kitty. You understand. Neither of us, of course,
had any idea. Lady Kitty is very ill. We wish to have a
conversation--uninterrupted. I trust you to keep guard."
The young man, son of one of the Haggart gardeners, started and flushed,
then gave his master a look of sympathy.
"I'll do my best, sir."
Ashe nodded and went back to the next room. He closed the door behind
him. Kitty, who was sitting by the fire, half rose. Their eyes met. Then
with a stifled cry he flung himself down, kneeling beside her, and she
sank into his arms. His tears fell on her face, anguish and pity
overwhelmed him.
"You may!" she said, brokenly, putting up her hand to his cheek, and
kissing him--"you may! I'm not mad or wicked now--and I'm dying!"
Agonized murmurs of love, pardon, self-abasement passed between them. It
was as though a great stream bore them on its breast; an awful and
majestic power enwrapped them, and made each word, each kiss, wonderful,
sacramental. He drew himself away at last, holding her hair back from
her brow and temples, studying her features, his own face convulsed.
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