wrong, Henry? You were but an orphan child when I first saw you--when _he_
first saw you, who was so good, and noble, and trusting. He would have had
you sent away, but, like a foolish woman, I besought him to let you stay.
And you pretended to love us, and we believed you--and you made our house
wretched, and my husband's heart went from me: and I lost him through
you--I lost him--the husband of my youth, I say. I worshipped him: you know
I worshipped him--and he was changed to me. He was no more my Francis of
old--my dear, dear soldier. He loved me before he saw you; and I loved him;
oh, God is my witness how I loved him! Why did he not send you from among
us? 'Twas only his kindness, that could refuse me nothing then. And, young
as you were--yes, and weak and alone--there was evil, I knew there was evil
in keeping you. I read it in your face and eyes. I saw that they boded
harm to us--and it came, I knew it would. Why did you not die when you had
the small-pox--and I came myself and watched you, and you didn't know me in
your delirium--and you called out for me, though I was there at your side.
All that has happened since, was a just judgement on my wicked heart--my
wicked jealous heart. Oh, I am punished--awfully punished! My husband lies
in his blood--murdered for defending me, my kind, kind, generous lord--and
you were by, and you let him die, Henry!"

These words, uttered in the wildness of her grief, by one who was
ordinarily quiet, and spoke seldom except with a gentle smile and a
soothing tone, rung in Esmond's ear; and 'tis said that he repeated many
of them in the fever into which he now fell from his wound, and perhaps
from the emotion which such passionate, undeserved upbraidings caused him.
It seemed as if his very sacrifices and love for this lady and her family
were to turn to evil and reproach: as if his presence amongst them was
indeed a cause of grief, and the continuance of his life but woe and
bitterness to theirs. As the Lady Castlewood spoke bitterly, rapidly,
without a tear, he never offered a word of appeal or remonstrance; but sat
at the foot of his prison-bed, stricken only with the more pain at
thinking it was that soft and beloved hand which should stab him so
cruelly, and powerless against her fatal sorrow. Her words as she spoke
struck the chords of all his memory, and the whole of his boyhood and
youth passed within him; whilst this lady, so fond and gentle but
yesterday--this good angel