She placed her little daughter on the floor—she flew towards him—"My Edward!—oh my Edward!" she cried—"what is it, love?—something troubles you."
"Curse me, Eleanor!" exclaimed the wretched prodigal, turning his face from her. "I have ruined you I—I have ruined my children!—I am lost for ever!"
"No, my husband!" exclaimed the best of wives; "your Eleanor will not curse you. Tell me the worst, and I will bear it—cheerfully bear it, for my Edward's sake."
"You will not—you cannot," cried he; "I have sinned against you as never man sinned against woman. Oh! if you would spit upon the very ground where I tread, I would feel it as an alleviation of my sufferings; but your sympathy, your affection, makes my very soul destroy itself! Eleanor!—Eleanor-!—if you have mercy, hate me—tell me—show me that you do!"
"O Edward!" said she, imploringly, "was it thus when your Eleanor spurned every offer for your sake, when you pledged to her everlasting love? She has none but you, and can you speak thus? O husband! if you will forsake me, forsake not my poor children—tell me! only tell me the worst—and I will rejoice to endure it with my Edward!"
"Then," cried Fen-wick, "if you will add to my misery by professing to love a wretch like me—know you are a beggar!—and I have made you one! Now, can you share beggary with me?"
She repeated the word "Beggary!"—she clasped her hands together—for a few moments she stood in silent anguish—her bosom heaved—the tears gushed forth—she flung her arms around her husband's neck—"Yes!" she cried, "I can meet even beggary with my Edward!"
"O Heaven!" cried the prodigal, "would that the earth would swallow me! I cannot stand this!"
I will not dwell upon the endeavours of the fond, forgiving wife, to soothe and to comfort her unworthy husband; nor yet will I describe to you the anguish of the prodigal's father and of his mother, when they heard the extent of his folly and of his guilt. Already he had cost the old man much, and, with a heavy and sorrowful heart, he proceeded to his son's house to comfort his daughter-in-law. When he entered, she was endeavouring to cheer her husband with a tune upon the harpsichord—though, Heaven knows, there was no music in her breast, save that of love—enduring love!
"Well, Edward," said the old man, as he took a seat, "what is this that thou hast done now?"