"I am going, Margaret," he whispered, "but let me tell you a story before I go,--a Christmas story, say. It will not touch you,--it is too late to hope for that,--but it is right that you should hear it."
Whatever impulse drove the man to speak words that he knew were useless made him stand back from her, as though she were something he was unfit to touch: the words dragged from him slowly.
"I had a curious dream to-night, Margaret,--a waking dream: only a clear vision of what had been once. Do you remember--the old time?"
What disconnected rambling was this? Yet the girl understood it, looked into the low fire with sad, listening eyes.
"Long ago. That was a free, strong life that opened before us then, little one,--before you and me? Do you remember the Christmas before I went away? I had a strong arm and a hungry brain to go out into the world with, then. Something better, too, I had. A purer self than was born with me came late in life, and nestled in my heart. Margaret, there was no fresh loving thought in my brain for God or man that did not grow from my love of you; there was nothing noble or kindly in my nature that did not flow into that love and deepen there. I was your master, too. I held my own soul by no diviner right than I held your love and owed you mine. I understand it, now, when it is too late."--He wiped the cold drops from his face.--"Now do you know whether it is remorse I feel, when I think how I put this purer self away,--how I went out triumphant in my inhuman, greedy soul,--how I resolved to know, to be, to trample under foot all weak love or homely pleasures? I have been punished. Let those years go. I think, sometimes, I came near to the nature of the damned who dare not love: I would not. It was then I hurt you, Margaret,--to the death: your true life lay in me, as mine in you."
He had gone on drearily, as though holding colloquy with himself, as though great years of meaning surged up and filled the broken words. It may have been thus with the girl, for her face deepened as she listened. For the first time for many long days tears welled up into her eyes, and rolled between her fingers unheeded.
"I came through the streets to-night baffled in life,--a mean man that might have been noble,--all the years wasted that had gone before,--disappointed,--with nothing to hope for but time to work humbly and atone for the wrongs I had done. When I lay yonder, my soul on the coast of eternity, I resolved to atone for every selfish deed. I had no thought of happiness; God knows I had no hope of it. I had wronged you most: I could not die with that wrong unforgiven."