“Weep not, dearest,” he at length said;—“weep not, I implore you!”
“I weep, because I feel that I am so completely unworthy of your present kindness,” responded the Marchioness, withdrawing her hands from her face, and bending her tearful eyes with an expression of such mournfulness and such profound penitence upon her husband, that had he the power to raise himself in the bed, he would have snatched her to his bosom.
“It is now my turn to implore you not to dwell longer upon the past,” he said, taking one of her hands and conveying it to his lips. “We have promised mutual forgiveness. You have pardoned me for forcing you into a marriage which caused all your unhappiness: and I have pardoned you for your connexion with Sir Gilbert Heathcote since the period of our separation. This is the understanding between us, Sophia—and now we are friends again. But tell me, my dear wife—tell me how long I have been stretched on this bed, and how you came thus to be here to minister unto me?”
“Four days have elapsed since you—since—” began the Marchioness, hesitating how to allude to the dreadful attempt at suicide which her husband had committed.
“Oh! name not the horrible deed!” he groaned forth, writhing in anguish.
“But it is not known—save to three or four persons,” hastily observed his wife, well aware that this assurance would prove consolatory.
“Heaven be thanked!” murmured the old nobleman, clasping his hands fervently. “And now tell me, my dear Sophia, how you came to learn the shocking intelligence?”
“If you will compose yourself as much as you can, and speak but little, I will explain every thing to you,” she answered, assuming, with captivating tenderness of tone and manner, the position of wife and nurse.
“One word first!” exclaimed the Marquis. “Agnes—”
“Is here—beneath your roof,” was the reply.