She could not go on.
“My dear child,” said Sir Geoffrey tenderly, as he drew her half-reluctant hands into his, and stroked her bright hair, “we have all made mistakes in this unhappy business, and that was the first, the greatest of all.”
“It was not your doing, I am sure of that,” said Dorothy quickly. “You would not have thought of doing anything so cruel, of your own accord.”
He frowned. It had already become clear to him that, in yielding so much as he had done to the advice of his mother, he had not only imperilled his own happiness, but had caused his young wife suffering more bitter than he had imagined possible.
“I was wrong too. I should have known; I should have trusted you more,” said he in a remorseful voice. “But you were such a child, you seemed such a feather-headed little thing, I could only believe my mother’s judgment when she gave me advice about you.”
“But you should not have mistrusted me, however much she said. You should have watched me yourself if you thought I wanted watching.”
“I know—I know. I am sorry, child.”
“Then why, when I had done the dreadful thing—” and suddenly the fair head bent down in humility and shame—“why didn’t you see me? Why didn’t you let me see you? And why, oh, why did you let them tell me I had k-killed you? Think of it! Think of it! The horror of that thought is something you can never imagine, never understand.”
“When my mother first told you that,” answered Sir Geoffrey gravely, “she thought it was true. I was very ill, you know, long after they had extracted the bullet. I was too ill to see you, even if she had let me. And when you had been sent away, I suppose my mother meant to punish you by letting you think as she did.”
“Ah, but it was brutal to let me believe it so long!”