“Will you not rejoice that this terrible load is taken from my heart,” said the widow, chilled by the gravity of her companion. “The only trouble with me now is, that I could have doubted him.”
“And is he equally happy?” inquired Catharine, in a low voice. “You are sure that he, too, is happy?”
“I wish you could have seen him. It would be impossible to think otherwise. You know there was some doubt at first that his wife was dead; but it’s all cleared up now. His mother, with her dying breath, set it all right.”
“And the knowledge that his wife was dead made him happy, you say?”
“Perfectly happy. Remember, it was a long time ago, and he—but poor, poor girl, if he did not love her, he would always have been affectionate and kind.”
“Did De Marke tell you that he did not love the girl whom he married and left? It was an unfeeling confession,” said Catharine, in a trembling voice.
“It was necessary in order to explain everything. He gave me his whole heart. This is what makes me so happy—nothing is kept back. Remember, I was engaged to Mr. Oakley when he first saw me.”
“And he married this other person, without love, merely from compassion, you say!”
“I do not know; it seems hard to speak of the dead in a way that would wound them, if living; but I am quite sure that De Marke has loved me from the first. He says so, and I believe him, in spite of this rash marriage.”
“I think so too!” answered Catharine, in a grave, cold voice. “Still he might remember how that poor, lone girl worshipped him.”