after he left Westhope? I should have thought he would have been the
last man in the world to overstep the allotted time by so much as an
hour. Yet, nevertheless, he waited two whole days. I don't understand
it."

After an interminable interval Lord Newhaven's luggage returned, the
familiar portmanteau and dressing-bag, and even the novel which he was
reading when he left Westhope, with the mark still in it. All came back.
And a coffin came back, too, and was laid before the little altar in the
disused chapel.

"I will go and pray for him in the chapel as soon as the lid is fastened
down," said Lady Newhaven to Rachel, "but I dare not before. I can't
believe he is really dead. And they say somebody ought to look, just to
verify. I know it is always done. Dear Rachel, would you mind?"

So Rachel, familiar with death, as all are who have known poverty or who
have loved their fellows, went alone into the chapel, and stood a long
time looking down upon the muffled figure, the garment of flesh which
the soul had so deliberately rent and flung aside.

The face was fixed in a grave attention, as of one who sees that which
he awaits. The sarcasm, the weariness, the indifference, the impatient
patience, these were gone, these were indeed dead. The sharp, thin face
knew them no more. It looked intently, unflinchingly through its
half-closed eyes into the beyond which some call death, which some call
life.

"Forgive him," said Rachel, kneeling beside the coffin. "My friend,
forgive him. He has injured you, I know. And your just revenge--for you
thought it just--has failed to reach him. But the time for vengeance has
passed. The time for forgiveness has come. Forgive my poor Hugh, who
will never forgive himself. Do you not see now, you who see so much,
that it was harder for him than for you; that it would have been the
easier part for him if he had been the one to draw death, to have atoned
to you for his sin against you by his death, instead of feeling, as he
always must, that your stroke failed, and that he has taken your life
from you as well as your honor. Forgive him," said Rachel, over and over
again.

But the unheeding face looked earnestly into the future. It had done
with the past.

"Ah!" said Rachel, "if I who love him can forgive him, cannot you, who
only hated him, forgive him, too? For love is greater than hate."

She covered the face and went out.

CHAPTER XXXVII

Le nombre des etres qui veule