"Oh, my lady, your better nature will surely regret having said that!"For a moment her eyes rested on Beaucourt, dim with rising tears.
She left the room--and left the house.
There was silence between the husband and wife. Beaucourt was the first to speak again.
"After what you have just heard, do you persist in your jealousy of that lady, and your jealousy of me?" he asked.
"I have behaved cruelly to her and to you. I am ashamed of myself," was all she said in reply. That expression of sorrow, so simple and so true, did not appeal in vain to the gentler side of Beaucourt's nature. He kissed his wife's hand; he tried to console her.
"You may forgive me," she answered. "I cannot forgive myself.
That poor lady's last words have made my heart ache. What I said to her in anger I ought to have said generously. Why should she not wait for you? After your life with me--a life of kindness, a life of self-sacrifice--you deserve your reward. Promise me that you will marry the woman you love--after my death has released you.""You distress me, and needlessly distress me," he said. "What you are thinking of, my dear, can never happen; no, not even if--" He left the rest unsaid.