Madame went on, more as if she were communing with herself. "Nature is very strong, very merciful. I had not forgotten! Never, for one moment! But life covered the memory." She paused a moment, sunk in thought. When she spoke again it was in a gentler voice. "Then Jules came, and offered me his companionship. I gave him all I could, and he was content. Oh! the good, true, generous man!"
Once more Lord Otford winced; but he contrived to say with genuine feeling, "I honour him." After all, Jules was dead.
"And I honour his memory," said Madame, gravely.
Lord Otford spoke very earnestly. "We are quite frank, Lucy: you loved your husband; I loved my wife—"
"And there is no more to be said," concluded Madame, rising, with a little sigh.
"Ah! but there is!" he exclaimed, standing and facing her. "Face your own soul, Lucy, and tell me: did the thought of the old vicarage garden at Otford never haunt you?"
She looked straight into his eyes. "Never with any suggestion of disloyalty to Jules," she said firmly.
"That I am sure of. But it came. I know." He dropped his voice, came closer, and spoke with deep feeling. "Lucy, Lucy, it was always there! It never left you, as it never left me! It was the fragrant refuge, into which we crept in our solitary moments—never with disloyalty on your side or mine—but for consolation, for rest. Is that true?"
"It was merely the echo of an old song—" she murmured, under her breath.
"But how sweet! How tender!"