And very much ashamed I had felt to say it: with my hot face and my eyes bent on the carpet.
"Mrs. Chandos is no wife of mine. I never was married yet. Did you go to sleep and dream it?"
Ah, how that poor foolish heart of mine stood still! Was it possible that Mrs. Penn had been mistaken?—that my misery had been without foundation; my supposed offered insults only fancied ones. No condemned criminal, called forth from his cell to hear the reprieve read that will restore to him the life he has forfeited, could experience a more intense revulsion of joy than I did then.
I put my hands up in front of him: it was no moment for affectation or reticence.
"Tell me the truth," I gasped; "the truth as before heaven? Is, or is not, Mrs. Chandos your wife?"
He bent his head a little forward, speaking clearly and distinctly, with an emphasis on every word.
"Mrs. Chandos is my sister-in-law. She is my brother's wife. It is the truth, in the presence of heaven."
I covered my face with my hands to hide the blinding tears that fell on my cheeks of shame. To have made so dreadful a mistake!—and to have spoken of it!
Mr. Chandos took the hands away, holding them and me before him.
"Having said so much, Anne, you must say more. Has this been the cause of your changed conduct? Whence could the strange notion have arisen?"