Margery buried her face in her hands. She was silent for a few seconds, and then she looked up.
“I am a wife, Stuart,” she replied, slowly drawing her breath as if in pain; “at the side of a deathbed I took upon me the most solemn and sacred vows. My husband is good; the depths of his nobility and generosity you could never fathom. To speak such words would be dishonorable, would be a sin. I can say no more.”
Stuart’s head fell forward on his breast; the soft, sad tones touched his manliness to the core.
“Forgive me!” he said, huskily. “You are right—we must part; I will leave Court Manor as soon as possible.”
“It will be best.”
The words fell almost coldly from her lips; her eyes were closed in pain, her face was pale and drawn. She paused an instant, then moved slowly from the fire, from the proximity of the man bowed down by his despair. She seemed almost overwhelmed by the magnitude of this new sorrow; but, though she looked so frail and delicate, she possessed unusual courage. Her pride and honor supported her in this worst of all her troubles. The future, with its bitterness, stood before her; she had to face life—
“If that may be called life
From which each charm of life has fled—
Happiness gone with hope and love
In all but breath already dead.”