“Mrs. Oakley,” he said at last, “may I ask the meaning of this reception?”
His voice was a little tremulous, but full of self-respect.
“You have come here to insult me, sir!”
“I have come here, lady, to say how truly and how long I have loved you.”
The widow locked her white hands together and held them firmly; resentment was giving her strength.
“Had you never said the same words to Louisa Oakley, my husband’s sister, she need not have died of shame in a charity hospital!” she answered, almost harshly.
De Marke staggered back. The name of his lost wife from those lips, and spoken in bitterness, brought a terrible pang with it. At last he spoke; but it was in a low, broken voice, that went to her heart.
“There was poverty and great suffering in Louisa’s death but no shame, Mrs. Oakley. She was my wife. I was absent, a minor and helpless; but had I known that she was in danger or suffering from any cause, I would have saved her at the risk of my life.”
“Then it was not neglect—it was not from wanton cruelty that you left her?” questioned the widow, drawing gently toward him.
“Sit down with me, lady; it is a sad story. I have been to blame, but not criminal. Will you listen to me?”