“What is it that you fear? I would give my life for you, if you would only come back to me and let me feel that you believed me to be true.” He shook his head, and began to think—while she still clung to him. He was quite sure that her father and mother had intended to bring a mad doctor down upon him, and he knew that his wife was in her mother’s hands. Should he yield to her now—should he make her any promise—might not the result be that he would be shut up in dark rooms, robbed of his liberty, robbed of what he loved better than his liberty—his power as a man. She would thus get the better of him and take the child, and the world would say that in this contest between him and her he had been the sinning one, and she the one against whom the sin had been done. It was the chief object of his mind, the one thing for which he was eager, that this should never come to pass. Let it once be conceded to him from all sides that he had been right, and then she might do with him almost as she willed. He knew well that he was ill. When he thought of his child, he would tell himself that he was dying. He was at some moments of his miserable existence fearfully anxious to come to terms with his wife, in order that at his death his boy might not be without a protector. Were he to die, then it would be better that his child should be with its mother. In his happy days, immediately after his marriage, he had made a will, in which he had left his entire property to his wife for her life, providing for its subsequent descent to his child—or children. It had never even occurred to his poor shattered brain that it would be well for him to alter his will. Had he really believed that his wife had betrayed him, doubtless he would have done so. He would have hated her, have distrusted her altogether, and have believed her to be an evil thing. He had no such belief. But in his desire to achieve empire, and in the sorrows which had come upon him in his unsuccessful struggle, his mind had wavered so frequently, that his spoken words were no true indicators of his thoughts; and in all his arguments he failed to express either his convictions or his desires. When he would say something stronger than he intended, and it would be put to him by his wife, by her father or mother, or by some friend of hers, whether he did believe that she had been untrue to him, he would recoil from the answer which his heart would dictate, lest he should seem to make an acknowledgment that might weaken the ground upon which he stood. Then he would satisfy his own conscience by assuring himself that he had never accused her of such sin. She was still clinging to him now as his mind was working after this fashion. “Louis,” she said, “let it all be as though there had been nothing.”
“How can that be, my dear?”
“Not to others;—but to us it can be so. There shall be no word spoken of the past.” Again he shook his head. “Will it not be best that there should be no word spoken?”
“ ‘Forgiveness may be spoken with the tongue,’ ” he said, beginning to quote from a poem which had formerly been frequent in his hands.
“Cannot there be real forgiveness between you and me—between husband and wife who, in truth, love each other? Do you think that I would tell you of it again?” He felt that in all that she said there was an assumption that she had been right, and that he had been wrong. She was promising to forgive. She was undertaking to forget. She was willing to take him back to the warmth of her love, and the comfort of her kindness—but was not asking to be taken back. This was what he could not and would not endure. He had determined that if she behaved well to him, he would not be harsh to her, and he was struggling to keep up to his resolve. He would accuse her of nothing—if he could help it. But he could not say a word that would even imply that she need forget—that she should forgive. It was for him to forgive;—and he was willing to do it, if she would accept forgiveness. “I will never speak a word, Louis,” she said, laying her head upon his shoulder.
“Your heart is still hardened,” he replied slowly.
“Hard to you?”
“And your mind is dark. You do not see what you have done. In our religion, Emily, forgiveness is sure, not after penitence, but with repentance.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means this, that though I would welcome you back to my arms with joy, I cannot do so, till you have—confessed your fault.”
“What fault, Louis? If I have made you unhappy, I do, indeed, grieve that it has been so.”
“It is of no use,” said he. “I cannot talk about it. Do you suppose that it does not tear me to the very soul to think of it?”
“What is it that you think, Louis?” As she had been travelling thither, she had determined that she would say anything that he wished her to say—make any admission that might satisfy him. That she could be happy again as other women are happy, she did not expect; but if it could be conceded between them that bygones should be bygones, she might live with him and do her duty, and, at least, have her child with her. Her father had told her that her husband was mad; but she was willing to put up with his madness on such terms as these. What could her husband
