. . While I was right before the world,
she was a good wife to me in her way. When I went wrong, she treated me
as if I were dead, and took her old name. But if I could speak to her
quietly once more, perhaps she would listen. It would be no good at all
to write. Perhaps she would never begin the world with me again, but I
should like to hear her say, 'I forgive you. Good-bye.' There would be
some comfort in a kind farewell from her. You can see that, Dr. Marmion?"
He paused, waiting for me to speak. "Yes, I can see that," I said; and
then I added: "Why did you not speak to her before you both came on board
at Colombo?"
"I had no chance. I only saw her in the street, an hour before the ship
sailed. I had scarcely time to take my passage."
Pain here checked his utterance, and when he recovered, he turned again
to me, and continued: "To-morrow night there is to be a fancy-dress ball
on board. I have been thinking. I could go in a good disguise. I could
speak to her, and attract no notice; and if she will not listen to me,
why, then, that ends it. I shall know the worst, and to know the worst is
good.
Pages:
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118