And if he had killed her she would have died hoping only that no moan had
escaped her under the blow that ever could accuse him.
These natures, utterly innocent by force of self-accusation and
self-abasement, suffer at once the torment of the victim and the
criminal.
CHAPTER XXVI.
One day in the May weather she sat within doors with a great book upon
her table, but no sight for it in her aching eyes. The starling hopped to
and fro on the sunny floor; the bees boomed in the porch; the tinkle of
sheep's bells came in on the stillness. All was peaceful and happy except
the little weary, breaking, desolate heart that beat in her like a caged
bird's.
"He will come; I am sure he will come," she said to herself; but she was
so tired, and it was so long--oh, dear God!--so very long.
A hand tapped at the lattice. The shrill voice of Reine, the
sabot-maker's wife, broken with anguish, called through the hanging
ivy,--
"Bebee, you are a wicked one, they say, but the only one there is at home
in the village this day. Get you to town for the love of Heaven, and send
Doctor Max hither, for my pet, my flower, my child lies dying, and not a
soul near, and she black as a coal with choking--go, go, go!--and Mary
will forgive you your sins.
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