He made no reply.
“Pardon my inquiry, but do you still keep to your plan of leaving next week for Dorsetshire?”
“If you are willing.”
“I willing?” And she thought how, two hours before, she had rejoiced in the prospect of seeing her husband's ancestral home—her father-in-law—her new sisters. Her heart failed her—the poor girlish heart that as yet knew not either the world or itself. She burst into tears.
Instantly Mr. Harper caught her in his arms.
“Oh, Agatha, forgive me!—Have patience with me, and we may still be happy; at least, you may. Only trust your husband, and love him a little—a very little—as much as you can.”
“How can I trust you, whom I do not thoroughly understand? how can I—love”—
Her hesitation—her pride warring with the expression of that feeling which her very anger taught her was there—seemed to pierce her husband to the soul.
“I see,” he said, mournfully. “We are both punished, Agatha; I for the selfishness of my love towards you, and you—Alas! how can I make you happier, poor child?” Her tears fell still, but less with anger than emotion. “I know now, we ought never to have been married. Yet, since we are married”—
“Ay, since we are married, let us try to be good to one another, and bear with one another. I will!”