She was dying, and wished to speak to me.
I went into her room. Clare knelt by her side. She turned her white face
to me with a smile.
"Edgar," she said, "I am glad you have come. I want to--to die in your
arms. Bend down to me," she whispered. "I want to speak to you. Will you
forgive me? I can see now how wrong I was, how wicked to love you so
much, and how wicked to tell you so. Will you forgive me, and now that I
am dying say one kind word to me, and tell me you can respect me in
death?"
I pillowed that dying head on my arm, and told her I should only
remember of her what had been kind and good.
"You will only remember that I loved you, Edgar, not that I was
unwomanly and wicked?"
"I will forget everything, except that you were my dear cousin and dear
friend."
"You will marry Agatha," she said, faintly, "and bring her home here. I
hope you will be happy; but, oh! Edgar--Edgar--when she is your wife,
and you are so happy together, you will not forget me; you will stroll
out sometimes when the dew is falling to look at my grave and say, 'Poor
Coralie! how well she loved me--so well--so dearly!' You will do that,
Edgar?"
My tears were falling warm and fast on her face.
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