There was no reply. Mr. Carlyle took his arm from the mantelpiece, and moved so that he could see her countenance: a wan countenance, telling of pain.
He laid his hand upon her shoulder, and made her look at him. “My dearest, what is this?”
“Oh, Archibald!” she uttered, clasping her hands together, all her pent up feelings bursting forth, and the tears streaming from her eyes, “has this taken your love from me?”
He took both her hands in one of his, he put the other round her waist and held her there, before him, never speaking, only looking gravely into her face. Who could look at its sincere truthfulness, at the sweet expression of his lips, and doubt him? Not Barbara. She allowed the moment’s excitement to act upon her feelings, and carry her away.
“I had thought my wife possessed entire trust in me.”
“Oh, I do, I do; you know I do. Forgive me, Archibald,” she slowly whispered.
“I deemed it better to impart this to you, Barbara. Had there been wrong feeling on my part, I should have left you in ignorance. My darling, I have told you it in love.”
She was leaning on his breast, sobbing gently, her repentant face turned towards him. He held her there in his strong protection, his enduring tenderness.
“My wife! My darling! now and always.”
“It was a foolish feeling to cross my heart, Archibald. It is done with and gone.”