“I thought you said she was probably a madwoman who had delusions?” observed Lady Gwendolyn, who appeared to have stored up carefully the lightest word her lover had spoken on the subject.
“Did I say that?” he returned, slightly embarrassed. “Well, it may be so; and all the better if it were, as she would not be likely to trouble you again.”
“Will she now, do you suppose?”
“No, my love; I’ll take care about that, when once you are in my charge. Besides, you may be sure that if she is not right in her mind, she has been put under confinement by this time.”
“It is to be hoped so, because—don’t be angry with me, Lawrence—but if she were to claim you after we were married, I should not feel that I ought to stay with you a minute longer.”
“Then the ravings of a maniac would drive you out of your home, even after we had been all in all to each other; and you ought to have learned to trust me.”
“I am afraid it would. To take another woman’s place would be such a terrible wrong. Indeed, I don’t think I ought to marry you at all, only—only I am so wicked, so horrible. I would rather be your wife a little while than never at all. And you swear that you are free?”
“I swear it!” he answered solemnly and firmly.
“Then I won’t trouble about all these horrors any more. After all, any man might be married secretly—who is to know? And you always must trust to his word, mustn’t you? If I had never seen that woman at Borton Hall, it would not have occurred to me to ask the question. I should have made so sure it was all right.”
“And it is all right now, you foolish child. Do I look like a malefactor and a scoundrel?”