Lord Hartledon had left the room after his wife. She sent the children
to the nursery; and he found her alone in her chamber sobbing bitterly.
Certainly he was a contradiction. He fondly took her in his arms,
beseeching her to pardon him, if he had unwittingly slighted her, as
Laura implied; and his blue eyes were beaming with affection, his voice
was low with persuasive tenderness.
"There are times," she sobbed, "when I am tempted to wish myself back in
my father's house!"
"I cannot think whence all this discomfort arises!" he weakly exclaimed.
"Of one thing, Anne, rest assured: as soon as Edward changes for the
better or the worse--and one it must inevitably be--that mischief-making
old woman shall quit my house for ever."
"Edward will never change for the better," she said. "For the worse, he
may soon: for the better, never."
"I know: Hillary has told me. Bear with things a little longer, and
believe that I will remedy them the moment remedy is possible. I am your
husband."
Lady Hartledon lifted her eyes to his. "We cannot go on as we are going
on now. Tell me what it is you have to bear. You remind me that you are
my husband; I now remind you that I am your wife: confide in me. I will
be true and loving to you, whatever it may be."
"Not yet; in a little time, perhaps. Bear with me still, my dear wife."
His look was haggard; his voice bore a sound of anguish; he clasped her
hand to pain as he left her.
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