Francis was seated on the sofa which I remembered so well, her head cast down, paler than on the preceding day; but charmingly beautiful in her mourning-dress. She rose hastily, and advanced to greet me.
“Thank you, Leopold, for coming so soon. I knew you would come; I had confidence in your generosity.”
“And—am I then no longer contemptible in your eyes, Francis? You have received my packet, and read Aunt Sophia’s letter?”
“I have received all the documents, read all—more than was necessary to convince me I had done you an injustice, and ought to apologize to you. Now I am ready to confess it before all the world that I did you wrong; will you pardon me without reserve?”
“Need you ask me that, Francis? But you must never doubt me more, never more, Francis.”
After a moment’s silence she answered in a low voice—“Never more, Leopold!”
So saying, she pressed my hand with ardour, as a sign of reconciliation. Still, there was a constraint about her manner which prevented my pressing her to my heart as I desired to do.
“Sit down, Leopold,” she said; “now we are reconciled I have to ask your advice as my nearest relation and my most trusted friend.”
At the same time she unfolded the packet which she had received from England.
“Lord William is dead,” she went on; “will you read this letter addressed to me, together with a copy of his will?”