“Tell me, Maude, who was the husband of your childhood?”
From the pale, quivering lip, in a dying whisper, dropped the words: “Reginald Germaine, the gipsy!”
There was a moment’s death-like silence. The handsome face of Lord Ernest Villiers seemed turned to marble, and still motionless as if expiring, she lay in the arms that clasped her still in a close embrace. At last:
“Heaven be merciful to the dead! Look up, my precious Maude; for nothing on earth shall ever come between us more!”
Calm and clear, on the troubled wave of her tempest-tossed soul, the low words fell; but only her deep, convulsive sobs were his answer.
“Maude!—my own dear Maude!” he cried, at last, alarmed by her passion of grief, “cease this wild weeping. Forget the troubled past, dear love; for there are many happy days in store for us yet.”
But still she wept on—wildly, vehemently, at first—until her strong passion of grief had passed away. He let her sob on in quiet now, with no attempt to check her grief, except by his silent caresses.
She lifted her head and looked up, at last, thanking him by a radiant look, and the soft, thrilling clasp of her white arms.
“I will not ask you to explain now, sweet Maude,” he softly whispered. “Some other time, when you are more composed, you shall tell me all.”
“No—no; better now—far better now; and then, while life lasts, neither you nor I, Ernest, will ever breathe one word of the dark sorrowful story again. Oh, Ernest! can all the fondest love of a lifetime suffice to repay you for the forgiveness you have shown me to-day?”