“Yes, Nannette, she has been my wife—my beloved wife—for many years,” he said with emotion, thinking of the shock her sister’s changed appearance would give to the gentle, loving heart.
“Oh, thank God! thank God! Then she has not perished with want! I have not the darling’s blood on my hands!” cried the Madame, sinking back into her chair and weeping as if in bitterest grief.
“No, Nannette, though she was once very near it,” he said, bending over her and speaking in a very low tone.
“Do not reproach me!” she cried. “I too have suffered! God only knows how much!”
He signed to the wondering Mary to leave the room. His look, his gesture, were imperative, and the girl reluctantly obeyed.
“Poor creature!” he said, turning to the Madame again, “I do not reproach you, nor does she. No, her gentle heart is—has ever been—filled with sisterly affection toward you, and she now waits impatiently to be summoned to your presence.”
“Waits, do you say? Is she here?—my sister—my darling! Where? where? Oh, I beseech you not to keep us another moment apart!”
And she started up, wringing her hands and looking imploringly into his face.
“Calm yourself, Nannette; this agitation will hurt you,” he said in a kindly tone, gently forcing her back into her chair. “Your niece—my Ethel’s dear child—has told us of your invalid state, and I see that this excitement has almost deprived you of the power to breathe.”