Up-stairs in her room, Lady Mildred was sobbing piteously. Since the days of her childhood tears had been an unknown luxury, but now she was stirred to the very depths.
“I hate him,” she sobbed forth passionately.
It was late in the morning when she went down-stairs and proceeded at once to the library. John Gaunt rose when she entered, and uttered a cry of amazement, for her face was very white and dark shadows encircled her eyes.
“What is the matter, dear? Are you ill?” he asked anxiously.
“No—only sick in mind,” she answered wearily. “Have patience with me, John, for I have a great deal to say to you, and you may not understand me, for I do not think that I understand myself.”
“Sit down,” he said quietly, and wheeled an armchair nearer to the fire. “What has happened?” he asked anxiously.
“I will try to explain. I seem to have awakened from a dream and my whole outlook on life has changed,” she said, as though she was addressing herself.
“Since when?” he asked hoarsely.
“Since last night. As I look at the past I can see nothing but abject selfishness. As a girl my one thought was of my own comfort. I always loved the good things of this life—I suppose I had a conscience somewhere, but it never troubled me. When you appeared, I was utterly sick of poverty, and I was glad that you seemed to care for me. Almost from the first I made up my mind to be your wife. I didn’t care for you very much, but still I disliked you rather less than most of the fools who surrounded me. When you asked me to marry you my eyes were just a little bit opened, but still I could not see clearly. We were good friends always, and when the baby came—then—I think it must have been the dream that made me see that I was beginning to care for you. And I was very glad.”
Gaunt’s breath came quickly, and his hand stretched out towards her, but she shook her head when she saw the mad longing in his eyes.