The Argosy — page 381: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

360 Extracts from the Diary of a Young Lady. I continued perfectly composed; I did not shed a tear; and I went back to him. I think the shock must have stunned my brain. His eyes were open, and he was perfectly conscious. “Dear,” he said, “I feel much better. I can talk to you, but I know it cannot last. JI heard every word he said to you.” His senses must have been preternaturally sharpened, as is some- times the case in illness or after accidents, or he could not have heard. I sat down by him and, taking his hand in mine, kissed him. ‘Marcus, I don’t believe you will die,” I said, and I was sur- prised when I found I had said it. I did not know I was going to utter those words. Had I spoken as one does to soothe the sick ? or did I really not believe it? ‘Ves, Iam. This is the rally he spoke of. My Lucy, I must leave you.” How tenderly he looked at me. ‘My guardian angel, my sweet wife, I must leave you alone.” “T don’t believe you will die,” I repeated, and this time consciously and in full faith. Was it from the sound of the words that I had accepted their meaning? Or how was it that I did not believe it ? ‘‘T have a secret to tell you before I leave you,” he sighed heavily. “JT will not die with a secret between us.” “Oh, my love, I will save you the confession,” I thought. Poor fellow, poor Marcus, I will save you ¢hat.” I stooped over and whispered very low, while shivers ran through me and my heart beat, now fast, now faint : “ T know it.” The colour came into his white face. “Vou know it?” hecried. He half raised himself and then sank back again. ‘‘No, no, you do not—and I must not lose time. My dearest, when did you see me first? You will tell me at Westbeed.” I interrupted him. ‘In the garden at my father’s Rectory,” I whispered, breathless. How he looked at me, and how he continued to look when I added: ‘On the second of June, four years ago.” His gaze turned into one of amazement, almost of joy. ‘You have known it all this time?” he said wonderingly. I thought he hardly realised what it was, or there would not have been that joy in his face; but perhaps he was too weak to do so. ‘Not all the time. Since you left me for Paris. I found my Bible in your drawer. I read what you had written.” I spoke in little sentences; I felt as if I should never breathe freely again. His eyes did not leave my face for a moment; he seemed taking in the meaning of my words more through them than by his ears. ‘Vou have known it all this time,” he cried. ‘I have often longed to tell you, but dared not. My darling, why did not you tell me?” I hardly knew then why I had not told him; my brain was con- fused, but something made me answer: ‘“‘I dared not either.” CONMICOOOKS. (©)