“You shall not be distressed then, my darling; see—I have put them away at once. But you are mistaken, Margery; I am not ill, only a little tired.”
“Tired?” she repeated, putting her hands on his. “Yes, yes, of course! How forgetful I am! I leave you all this tiresome business to do. I am very selfish.”
“You are my dear, sweet Margery!” he said, lightly. “But what has caused you this sudden fear, my darling?”
“You have been looking ill for so long! The squire has just spoken to me, and it has frightened me; and, Nugent, I want to ask you something. Will you promise to do it?”
“What can I refuse you, Margery?”
“Then let us leave here and go back to the manor—the squire is longing to see our dear old home. You will come, dear?”
“Home!” repeated the earl, dreamily, as if the word brought content. Then, with a sudden contraction of his brows, as if from pain, he added, “But it will be lonely for you, my dear one; you will not care for it.”
“I wish it with all my heart,” said Margery, quietly, glad to see that this proposal brought a gleam of pleasure to his eyes.
“Then,” returned her husband, looking with a strange, sad steadfastness into her glorious eyes—“then we will go home, Margery.”