“Never. My father maltreated me, so that I could feel for him nothing but dread and terror.”
“And your husband, child? That man who was my predecessor in the possession of you. Did you not love your husband either?”
“My husband?” asked she abstractedly. “It is true, my father sold me to Lord Neville, and as the priest had joined our hands, men called him my husband. But he very well knew that I did not love him, nor did he require my love. He needed a nurse, not a wife. He had given me his name as a father gives his to a daughter; and I was his daughter, a true, faithful, and obedient daughter, who joyfully fulfilled her duty and tended him till his death.”
“And after his death, child? Years have elapsed since then, Kate. Tell me, and I conjure you, tell me the truth, the simple, plain truth! After the death of your husband, then even, did you never love?”
He gazed with visible anxiety, with breathless expectation, deep into her eyes; but she did not drop them.
“Sire,” said she, with a charming smile, “till a few weeks past, I have often mourned over myself; and it seemed to me that I must, in the desperation of my singular and cold nature, lay open my breast, in order to search there for the heart, which, senseless and cold, had never betrayed its existence by its stronger beating. Oh, sire, I was full of trouble about myself; and in my foolish rashness, I accused Heaven of having robbed me of the noblest feeling and the fairest privilege of any woman—the capacity of loving.”
“Till the past few weeks, did you say, Kate?” asked the king, breathless with emotion.
“Yes, sire, until the day on which you, for the first time, graciously afforded me the happiness of speaking with me.”
The king uttered a low cry, and drew Catharine, with impetuous vehemence, into his arms.
“And since, tell me now, you dear little dove, since then, does your heart throb?”