"Yes," said Eustace, steadily, going through his self-imposed ordeal with stern determination, although his face was grey with anguish and his heart ached with pain and self-humiliation. "It's a terrible thing to confess to you--to her husband--but true nevertheless. When I first saw her at Como, I worshipped her for that calm, spiritual loveliness which made her so beautiful in my eyes. But I said nothing, and went into exile for her sake, trusting to come back and find her a happy wife and mother. I went away to forget, and I came back to remember. Oh, Guy, if you only knew how I have despised myself for thus thinking about your wife; but believe me, it was not in the sensual fashion of the world that I loved her. I worshipped her as one might worship a star which is higher and purer than he who kneels to its splendour. My love was pure, still I strove to crush it out of my heart, but all in vain. I came back to England and saw her once more, a happy mother indeed, but not a happy wife. It was not your fault, my poor boy, for I know you did your best to win her heart, but her child blinded her better nature, and she could not see that the father yearned for love, and required it as much as the son. Then came the episode of Mrs. Veilsturm, which was one of those cruel decrees of Fate which no man can guard against. It parted you, as I thought, for ever, and you obeyed the instincts of your lower nature, while she remained sternly unforgiving in her purity--a purity which could not understand the temptations of a weaker soul. I tried my best to make her look more kindly on your mistake--as I am a living man, Guy, I did my best to bring you together again, but it was all useless. Then I lost my head, the devil whispered in my ear, and I spoke to her of love, and the result was what you might have expected from your wife. She told me that she loved her child, and would not stoop to dishonour for his sake. But she said more--not in words indeed, but in looks, in manner, in irrepressible tears--that she loved you, Guy, that she was sorry for her cruel justice, that she longed for the father of her child, for the husband of her vows, to clasp her in his arms once more. I was punished for my daring to lift my eyes to her--I saw that I could be nothing to such spotless purity of soul, and I left--I went away into the outer darkness, intending to exile myself for ever from her sight. Then the child died--the child whom she worshipped--the child who was your strongest rival in her affections, and now she sits alone and in solitude--robbed of her nearest and dearest--waiting for the sound of her husband's voice, for the clasp of his arms, for the touch of his lips."
In his fervour, he had slipped from his chair, and was now kneeling beside the bed, holding his cousin's hot hand in his own. The sick man had listened dully to the long speech, but at the end he flung up his disengaged hand with a bitter cry.
"No! no! It is too late, it is too late."
"It is not too late," said Eustace, earnestly. "I have told you the truth. I have humiliated myself in your eyes because I am anxious to repair my fault, to bring you together again. Let me send for your wife, Guy, and believe me, she will come, only too gladly, to your sick bed with words of forgiveness and regret."
But the sick man rolled his head from side to side on the pillow with dreary despair.
"No; no! it cannot be. My wife can never be mine again--Maraquita----"
"Maraquita Veilsturm!" interrupted Eustace, sternly. "Don't mention her name in connection with that of your wife."
"She was kind to me when Alizon was so cruel."
"Kind, yes, for her own ends. Listen to me, Guy. Mrs. Veilsturm has been using you as a means of revenge against your wife."
All the listless despair disappeared from Errington's face, and he wrenched his hand angrily away from Eustace. "What do you mean?"