“No, darling; you and I will never have any disguises for the future. The poor unhappy woman you saw at Borton Hall was my only sister.”
“Your sister? Oh, Lawrence! can you ever forgive me?” she exclaimed penitently.
“I think I can, if I try very hard,” he answered, with a smile. “And I must own that appearances were sadly against me. But it is a very painful story, Gwen. Poor Mary was married at eighteen to a man she loved with all her heart; and though she began to change from that very day, she was so loyal I never once suspected her secret. But two years after her marriage her mind gave way altogether, and then, for the first time, I discovered that her brutal husband had subjected her to every kind of ill-usage and degradation. She was even scarred by his blows, poor soul! and such a wreck! My very blood runs cold when I think of it. I placed her with a doctor, who was very skilful in the treatment of mental disorders; and, after awhile, she seemed to mend a little, although she had extraordinary and painful delusions, and was so restless that it was impossible to lose sight of her for a moment. In one of these fits she actually came to Borton on foot, and must have wandered about the house, since you saw her.”
“She came into the room where I was, and asked me if I had seen her husband.”
“Exactly. That was one of the most distressing phases of her malady, to my mind: that she was always wanting her husband, and seemed to think me so cruel in keeping her away from him. Her mind was so completely gone that she had no recollection of his ill-usage; and, although this was well for some reasons, it made a good many difficulties. But she could never have actually mentioned me by name when she spoke of her husband?”
“I am afraid I jumped to conclusions a little,” replied Lady Gwendolyn contritely. “Now I know the truth, I see I might have put a different construction on her words.”
Then she told him about her journey to Borton, and how she had received there what she believed to be a full confirmation of her fears. Sir Lawrence was glad she had not condemned him without what seemed to her good proof, although he could hardly understand where a delicate young creature like Lady Gwendolyn had found the courage for such a task.
“And so ill as you were, too, at the time,” he said tenderly.
“Yes; but the hope of seeing or hearing something that would exonerate you made me valiant, Lawrence. I determined to make ‘assurance doubly sure’ before I left you for good, because—because I did want to stay with you so badly.”
“Then why didn’t you?” he asked, just to try her. “Even I should not have known that you were compromising with your conscience in so doing, if you had burned the paper you had picked up, and said nothing about it.”