"Ah, heaven! can not you see that all _I_ have to forgive has been
forgiven long ago? What is to become of me if you die hardened in your
sin? Must I live on, _hoping_ that we are parted forever? If you are
pitiless to your own soul, have mercy, at least, upon me!"
All Royston's former crimes seemed to him venial by comparison, as he
witnessed the misery and abasement of the glorious creature on whom he
had brought such sorrow, if not shame. The remorse that a strong will
and hard heart had stifled so long found voice at last in three muttered
words--"God forgive me!" A very niggardly and inadequate expression of
contrition--was it not?--conceded to a life whose sins outnumbered its
years. Yet the slight thread of hope drawn therefrom has been able since
to hold back Cecil Tresilyan from the abyss of utter desperation. She
forbore to press him farther then, seeing his increasing weakness, and
trusting, perhaps, that a more favorable opportunity would come.
Indeed, there were a thousand things to be said about the past, in which
both had borne a part, and the future, in which only one could share;
but Royston had estimated rightly the extent of his remaining physical
resources; and when he found how each syllable exhausted him, he became
as chary of words as a miser of his gold.
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