And so, in this unforeseen and unpremeditated manner, told, how or in
whom, herself or Miss Gascoigne, or both together, Christian never
clearly remembered--her one secret, the one error of her sad girlhood,
was communicated to her husband.
He took the revelation calmly enough, as he did everything; Dr. Grey
was not the man for tragic scenes. The utmost he seemed to think of in
this one was calming and soothing his wife as much as possible,
carrying her to the sofa making her lie down, and leaning over her with
a sort of pitying tenderness, of which the only audible expression was,
"Poor child, poor child!"
Christian tried to see his face, but could not. She sought feebly for his
hand--his warm, firm, protecting hand--and let him take hers in it.
Then she knew that she was safe.
No, he never would forsake her, he had loved her--once and for
always--with the love that has strength to hold its own through every
thing and in spite of every thing. Whatever she was, whatever the
world might think her, she was his wife, and he loved her. She crept
into her husband's bosom, knowing that it was her sure refuge, never to
be closed against her until she died.
The next thing she remembered was his speaking to Miss Gascoigne--
not harshly, or as if in great mental suffering, but in his natural voice.
Pages:
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269