The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 17, No. 101, March, 1866, page 229 by Various Authors
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"And what use is your quarrelling with the woman?" suggested the practical priest.
"None whatever," said George, sullenly. After a moment's silence he rang the bell feverishly. "Order my horse round directly," said he. Then he sat down, and buried his face in his hands, and did not, and could not, listen to the voice of consolation.
Now the house was full of spies in petticoats, amateur spies, that ran and told the mistress everything of their own accord, to curry favor.
And this no doubt was the cause that, just as the groom walked the piebald out of the stable towards the hall door, a maid came to Father Francis with a little note: he opened it, and found these words written faintly, in a fine Italian hand:--
"I scarce knew my own heart till I saw him wounded and poor, and myself rich at his expense. Entreat Mr. Neville to forgive me."
He handed the note to Neville without a word.
Neville read it, and his lip trembled; but he said nothing, and presently went out into the hall, and put on his hat, for he saw his nag at the door.
Father Francis followed him, and said, sorrowfully, "What, not one word in reply to so humble a request?"
"Well, here's my reply," said George, grinding his teeth. "She knows French, though she pretends not.
'Le bruit est pour le fat, la plainte est pour le sot, L'honnête homme trompé s'eloigne et ne dit mot.'"
And with this he galloped furiously away.
He buried himself at Neville's Cross for several days, and would neither see nor speak to a soul. His heart was sick, his pride lacerated. He even shed some scalding tears in secret; though, to look at him, that seemed impossible.
* * * * *
So passed a bitter week: and in the course of it he bethought him of the tears he had made a true Italian lady shed, and never pitied her a grain till now.
He was going abroad: on his desk lay a little crumpled paper. It was Kate's entreaty for forgiveness. He had ground it in