The Major's first care was to turn the key in the lock; his second was to lift up the almost lifeless figure, and place her on a sofa. As he did so, any emotion that his features betrayed was rather of displeasure than astonishment; and in the impatient way he jerked open the window to let the fresh air blow on her, there was far more of anger than surprise.
“So, then, you are the Signora Maria, it would seem,” were the first words she heard as she rallied from her swoon.
“Oh, Miles!” cried she, with an intense agony, “why have you tracked me here? Could you not have let me drag out my few years of life in peace?”
It was difficult to guess how these words affected him, or, rather, in how many different ways; for though at first his eyes flashed angrily, he soon gave a short jeering sort of laugh, and, throwing himself down into a chair, he crossed his arms on his breast and gazed steadily at her.
The look seemed to remind her of bygone suffering, for she turned her head away, and then covered her face with her hands.
“Signora Maria,” said he, slowly,—“unless, indeed, you still desire I should call you Mrs. M'Caskey.”
“No, no,—Maria,” cried she, wildly; “I am but a servant—I toil for my bread; but better that than—” She stopped, and, after an effort to subdue her emotion, burst into tears and sobbed bitterly.
“It matters little to me, madam, what the name. The chain that ties us is just as irrevocable, whatever we choose to call ourselves. As to anything else, I do not suppose you intend to claim me as your husband.”
“No, no, never,” cried she, impetuously.
“Nor am I less generous, madam. None shall ever hear from me that you were my wife. The contract was one that brought little credit to either of us.”