A Changed Heart: A Novel

by May Agnes Fleming

"Have I?" Mr. Wyndham said, with a sad, incredulous smile. "What is it you want her to do, Miss Henderson?"

"I want you to make her stay here. I want you to persuade her to let everything go on as before. I mean," the governess said, coloring slightly, "as regards myself and her, of course."

Mr. Wyndham took her hand and looked down at her, with that grave, sad smile still on his face.

"My dear Miss Henderson," he said, "—for by that name I must call you—you are the best and noblest woman in the world, and I shall venerate all womankind henceforth for your sake. But we would be as selfish as you are noble did we accept the sacrifice you are so willing to make. I have come to offer the only atonement it is in my power to make for the wrong I have done her. On the result depends what her future life shall be."

The governess understood him, and the color deepened on her face.

"She is in the library," she said, withdrawing her hand and moving away. "You have my best wishes."

Paul Wyndham tapped at the library-door, and the familiar voice of the woman he sought called "Come in!" She was lying on a lounge, drawn up before a glowing coal-fire, listlessly lying there, its ruddy glow falling on her face, and showing how wan and worn it was. At sight of him, that pale face turned even paler, and she rose up and looked at him, as some poor criminal under trial for her life might look at her judge.

"Have I frightened you?" he said, noticing that startled glance. "Pray resume your seat. You hardly look well enough to stand up."

She sank back on the lounge, holding one hand over her throbbing heart. Paul Wyndham stood leaning against the marble mantel, looking down at the fire, and thinking of that other interview he had held with this woman, when he had to tell her she must be his wife. How few months had intervened since then, but what a lifetime of trouble, and secrecy, and suspicion, and guilt it seemed; and how she must hate and despise him! She had told him so once. How useless, then, it seemed, for him to approach her again! But, whether refused or not, that way duty lay; and he had deserved the humiliation. She sat before him, but not looking at him. He could not see her face, for she held up a dainty little toy of a hand-screen between it and the firelight; but he could see that the hand which held it shook, and that the lace on her breast fluttered, as if with the beating of the heart beneath. And seeing it, he took courage.

"I scarcely know," he began, "how I can say to you what I have come here to-night to say. I scarcely know how I dare speak to you at all. Believe me, no man could be more penitent for the wrong I have done you than I am. If my life could atone for it, I would give it, and think the atonement cheaply purchased. But my death cannot repair the sin of the past. I have wronged you—deeply, cruelly wronged you—and I have only your woman's pity and clemency to look to now. I can scarcely hope any feeling can remain for me in your heart but one of abhorrence, and that abhorrence I have deserved; but I owe it to you to say what I have come here to utter. You know all the story of the past. You heard it from the lips that are cold in death now, and those dying lips encouraged me to make this poor reparation. Harriet, my poor, wronged girl, if you will take her place, if you will be to me what the world here has for so many months thought you—what she really was—if you will be my wife, my dear and cherished wife, I will try what a lifetime of devotion will do to atone for the sorrowful past. Perhaps, my poor dear, you will be able to care for me enough in time to forgive me—almost to love me—and Heaven knows I will do my best to be all to you a husband should be to a beloved wife!"