"Nanette," he said, with utmost gentleness, "do not be distressed. Indeed, there is no reason why our meeting should be painful. It is better that we should have a quiet talk than that we should part again in anger and bitterness."
She caught his hand in both of hers. Still she said nothing. Her large eyes gazed up at him as if she sought to read in his face the thoughts he might not utter, the memories he might not recall. Her lips distended. He saw her mouth twitching at the corners.
"Nanette," he said again, though his voice was not well under control, and something rose in his throat and stifled him. "I appeal to you not to give way to--to emotion. You may--become ill again--and I would never forgive myself."
Still clinging to his hand, she sank on her knees by his side. But there was no wild burst of tears; her sorrow was too deep for such kindly aid.
"Stephen," she whispered faintly, "I cannot ask you to forget, but you have spoken of forgiveness. Can you forgive?"
He bent over her and would have raised her; she clung to him with such energy that he desisted.
"My poor wife!" he murmured, "who am I that I should deny that which I hope to obtain from my Creator."
"But--" she panted, in that unnerving whisper--"I treated you so vilely. I left you to join the man you had fought to save me. I deserted my husband and my child for the sake of the money he bequeathed to me. In the lust of wealth I strove to crush you out of my heart. And now that God has humbled me I must humble myself. Stephen, I am not your wife. I obtained a divorce--"
"Nanette," he cried, "I cannot bear to see you kneeling at my feet. I ask no revelations. I forgive you any wrong you may have done me, fully and freely, as I hope to be forgiven."
She yielded to his pleading and allowed him to raise her. For an instant she was clasped to his breast.
"It would be happiness to die in your arms, Stephen," she said wildly. "I do not deserve it, I know, but Heaven is merciful."
The dreadful idea possessed him that in her weak state this passionate wish might be granted.
"Nanette!" he cried, "you must control yourself. If you will not promise to sit down and talk quietly I will leave you."
"I don't care how much you scold me," she said, "but you must not go away. I meant to see you before I left Penzance. I came here that night. I looked through the window. I saw my daughter and her adopted sister listening to you and weeping because of a mother's shame. Then I must have lost my senses. I ran away. I remember nothing else until I woke up to find Constance caring for me--in your house."