In silence she suffered me to leave her for the breakfast-table.
She looked, it is true--but what had I to do with looks, however
earnest and devoted? I went from her slowly. When on the stairs,
fancying I had heard her voice, I returned, but she had not called
me. She was still silent. Full of sadness I left her, counting
slowly and sadly every step which I took from her presence.
Edgerton was already at table. He looked very wretched I observed
him closely. His eye shrunk from the encounter of mine. His looks
answered sufficiently for his guilt. I said to him:-"I have to ride out a little ways in the country this morning, and
count upon your company. I trust you feel well enough to go with
me? Indeed, it will do you good."
Of course, my language and manner were stripped of everything that
might alarm his fears. He hesitated, but complied. The carriage
was at the door before we had finished breakfast; and with no
other object than simply to afford her another opportunity for the
desired revelation, I once more went up to my wife's chamber. Here
I lingered fully ten minutes, affecting to search for a paper in
trunks where I knew it could not be found. While thus engaged I
spoke to her frequently and fondly. She did not need the impulse
to make her revelation, except in her own heart. The occasion was
unemployed. She suffered me once more to depart in silence; and
this time I felt as if the word of utter and inevitable wo had been
spoken. The hour had gone by for ever. I could no longer resist
the conviction of her shameless guilt. All her sighs and tears,
professions of love and devotion, the fond tenacity of her embrace,
the deep-seated earnestness and significance in her looks--all went
for nothing in her failure to utter the one only, and all-important
communication.
Let no woman, on any pretext, however specious, deceive herself
with the fatal error, that she can safely harbor, unspoken to her
husband, the secret of any insult, or base approach, of another to
herself!