some years ago, to act as my executors.  Their probity and honour are above reproach.—­Now as to this place—­if you should ever wish to part with it, let Faircloth take it over.  I have made arrangements to that effect, about which I will talk with him when he comes.—­Have no fear lest I should say that which might wound him.  I shall be as careful, my dear, of his proper pride as of my own.—­Understand I have no desire to circumscribe either your or his liberty of action unduly.  But this house, all it contains, the garden, the very trees I see from these windows, are so knitted into the fabric of my past life that I shrink—­with a queer sense of homelessness—­from any thought of their passing into the occupation of strangers.—­Childish, pitifully weak-minded no doubt, and therefore the more natural that one should crave a voice, thus in the disposition of what one has learned through long usage so very falsely to call one’s own!”

“We will do exactly what you wish, even to the littlest particular, I promise you—­both for Faircloth and for myself,” Damaris answered, forcing herself to calmness and restraint of tears.

He petted her hands silently until, as the minutes passed, she began once more to grow fearful of that dreadful unknown influence insidiously possessing him and winning him away.  And he may have grown fearful of it too, for he made a sharp movement, raising his shoulders as though striving to throw off some weight, some encumbrance.

“There is an end, then, of business,” he said, “and of such worldly considerations.  I need worry you with them no more.  Only one thing remains, of which, before I speak to others, it is only seemly, my darling, I should speak to you.”

Charles Verity lifted his eyes to hers, and she perceived his spirit as now in nowise remote; but close, evident almost to the point of alarm.  It looked out from the wasted face, at once—­to her seeing—­exquisite and austere, reaching forward, keenly curious of all death should reveal, unmoved, yet instinct with the brilliance, the mirthfulness even, of impending portentous adventure.

“You know, Damaris, how greatly I love and have loved you—­how dear you have been to me, dearer than the satisfaction of my own flesh?”

Speech was beyond her.  She looked back, dazzled and for the moment broken.

“Therefore it goes hard with me to ask anything which might, ever so distantly, cause you offence or distress.  Only time presses.  We are within sight of the end.”

“Ah! no—­no,” she exclaimed, wrenching away her hands and beating them together, passion of affection, of revolt and sorrow no more to be controlled.  “How can I bear it, how can I part with you?  I will not, I will not have you die.—­McCabe isn’t infallible.  We must call in other doctors.  They may be cleverer, may suggest new treatment, new remedies.  They must cure you—­or if they can’t cure, at least keep you alive for me.  I won’t have you die!”