Denis nodded, opening the door and guiding her into the kitchen where the widow, Clancarty’s hostess and nurse, stood before the hearth stirring a stew in a great pot that was suspended on a hook over blazing logs. At the sound of their entrance she turned sharply and stared at Lady Clancarty in grim amazement, not uttering a word. Her stern, sad face and suspicious eye sent the hot blood up under her ladyship’s vizard, but even this, though it embarrassed her, could not hold her back. She stood an instant, though, in the centre of the bare kitchen, in her gay furbelows, holding up her skirts with one hand while the other involuntarily adjusted her mask. Meanwhile, the widow continued to eye her sternly, even while she stirred the broth.
Denis was quick enough to perceive the difficulty.
“’Tis Lady Clancarty,” he said bluntly to the woman, indicating Lady Betty’s lovely figure with a backward sweep of the hand.
Clancarty’s hostess courtesied profoundly, but the fair intruder felt that those stern eyes said plainly, “A likely story, the brazen hussy!”
“I have come to see my husband,” Betty faltered, her voice trembling a little.
“Very well, ma’am,” retorted the widow grimly, and turning her back deliberately, she began to flourish the huge spoon again.
The poor young wife, meanwhile, fled after Denis across the kitchen, her heart beating wildly. He was waiting in the entry and led her down the hall to the opposite side of the house, before he finally halted at a closed door and waited. At a sign from her he let her enter alone. The place was poorly lighted by small windows, and as she entered and heard the door close behind her, her heart stood still. And then—
Poor Betty, her tears blinded her; she forgot the suspicious widow. The room was so poor, so bare, so wretched; the low, dark rafters, the stone floor, the miserable furniture. And stretched on the bed lay her husband, white as death; his head turned so that he could not see her, but she saw him, saw the pallor, the wasted cheek, the helpless figure. She did not move and he had not heard her enter, he seemed to be sleeping. She took off her mask and stood waiting. What would he say? For the first time her courage failed her, her knees trembled under her. Would he hate her, and despise her for coming? She stirred and he heard the rustle and looked up. In a moment it seemed as if the sun had risen and shone full upon his face: it was glorified, but still she did not go nearer to him.
“Ah,” he said, “I see it is but a dream! It has mocked me before. My fever must be upon me again, but, oh, sweet vision, stay with me this time, else I perish here of despair.”
“Can you forgive me?” she sobbed, running to him and falling on her knees beside the bed, “oh, I have suffered too, the wound that hurt you pierced me also to the heart! Forgive me!”