All the time he
grew worse steadily. As she sat by his bedside, Herminia began to
realize the utter loneliness of her position. That Alan might die
was the one element in the situation she had never even dreamt of.
No wife could love her husband with more perfect devotion than
Herminia loved Alan. She hung upon every breath with unspeakable
suspense and unutterable affection. But the Italian doctor held
out little hope of a rally. Herminia sat there, fixed to the spot,
a white marble statue.
Late next evening Dr. Merrick reached Perugia. He drove straight
from the station to the dingy flat in the morose palazzo. At the
door of his son's room, Herminia met him, clad from head to foot in
white, as she had sat by the bedside. Tears blinded her eyes; her
face was wan; her mien terribly haggard.
"And my son?" the Doctor asked, with a hushed breath of terror.
"He died half an hour ago," Herminia gasped out with an effort.
"But he married you before he died?" the father cried, in a tone of
profound emotion. "He did justice to his child?--he repaired his
evil?"
"He did not," Herminia answered, in a scarcely audible voice.
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