“Oh, my love, my love,” he cried. “What am I that you should have given to me that divine gift of your love? What am I that I should have asked you to do this for my sake? Was there ever such love as yours, Beatrice? Was there ever such baseness as mine? Will you forgive me, Beatrice?”
“Only once,” said she, “I felt that—I scarcely know what I felt, dear—I think it was that your hurrying on our marriage showed—was it a want of trust?”
“I was a fool—a fool!” he said bitterly. “The temptation to bind you to me was too great to be resisted. But now—oh, Beatrice, I will give up my life to make you happy!”
CHAPTER XL.—ON SOCIETY AND THE SEAL.
THE next afternoon when Harold called upon Beatrice, he found her with two letters in her hand. The first was a very brief one from her father, letting her know that he would have to remain in Dublin for at least a fortnight longer; the second was from Mrs. Lampson—she had paid Beatrice a ten minutes’ visit the previous day—inviting her to stay for a week at Abbeylands, from the following Tuesday.
“What am I to do in the matter, my husband—you see how quickly I have come to recognize your authority?” she cried, while he glanced at his sister’s invitation.
“My dearest, you had better recognize the duty of a wife in this and other matters, by pleasing yourself,” said he.
“No,” said she. “I will only do what you advise me. That, you should see as a husband—I see it clearly as a wife—will give me a capital chance of throwing the blame on you in case of any disappointment. Oh, yes, you may be certain that if I go anywhere on your recommendation and fail to enjoy myself, all the blame will be laid at your door. That’s the way with wives, is it not?”