“But do you think it was quite right in him to ask a girl to be his wife when he could not love her at all?”
“No, indeed; I do not. I think he did her a most grievous wrong. I told him so in Washington when he announced his marriage to me. But, then, my dear, he was half mad with rage, jealousy and disappointment. He married her to be revenged upon me—nothing more.”
“It was a pity for the poor, unloved wife!” breathed Lilith.
“Indeed it was—poor child. And no doubt he repents the wrong he did her, now that she has met so cruel a fate—robbed and murdered by tramps, it is supposed, while she was on her way to relieve the wants of a sick and destitute neighbor. Remorse is harder to bear than sorrow, and no doubt it is remorse for the wrongs he had done her, and not sorrow for the loss of the wife whom he never loved, that is breaking down his health. However, he will get over it in time,” said the lady, complacently.
“And—you expect—some day—to bestow on him—your hand in marriage?” slowly questioned Lilith.
“Yes, my dear; I mean to do him that justice—to give him that consolation. We are both so young yet. He is not thirty, I am but a little more than twenty years of age. We have a long life before us, in which I shall do all that in me lies to make him forget his early disappointments and sorrows; to make him as completely blessed and happy as woman can make man,” said the baroness, with more depth of feeling in her thrilling tones than Lilith had ever detected there before.
A dead silence followed these last words. Then at length Lilith spoke in a low, firm, steady voice:
“Madame, you must not dream of your future life in connection with that of Tudor Hereward.”
“What! Why must I not? Whatever do you mean? Why, I ask you?” demanded the surprised baroness.
“Because it would be a great sin.”