"It would be happiness to die in your arms, Stephen," she said wildly. "I do not deserve it, I know, but Heaven is merciful."
The dreadful idea possessed him that in her weak state this passionate wish might be granted.
"Nanette!" he cried, "you must control yourself. If you will not promise to sit down and talk quietly I will leave you."
She obeyed him instantly.
"I don't care how much you scold me," she said, "but you must not go away. I meant to see you before I left Penzance. I came here that night. I looked through the window. I saw my daughter and her adopted sister listening to you and weeping because of a mother's shame. Then I must have lost my senses. I ran away. I remember nothing else until I woke up to find Constance caring for me—in your house."
He tried to break in upon the trend of her thought. This was by no means the line he had intended to pursue. His hope was to soothe and calm her, to part from her in amity and without giving her cause to deplore a loss of dignity.
"I am only too pleased that when illness overtook you you were committed to my care and to Constance. Poor girl! She thought you were dead."
"Did you tell her that?"
"No, but I allowed it to be assumed, which is the same thing."
"When did she know the truth?"