Linley advanced a few steps--and stopped.
His wife, hurrying eagerly to meet him, checked herself. It might have been distrust, or it might have been unreasoning fear--she hesitated on the point of approaching him.
"I have something to say, Catherine, which I'm afraid will distress you."
His voice faltered, his eyes rested on her--then looked away again. He said no more.
He had spoken a few commonplace words--and yet he had said enough. She saw the truth in his eyes, heard the truth in his voice. A fit of trembling seized her. Linley stepped forward, in the fear that she might fall. She instantly controlled herself, and signed to him to keep back. "Don't touch me!" she said. "You come from Miss Westerfield!"
That reproach roused him.
"I own that I come from Miss Westerfield," he answered. "She addresses a request to you through me."
"I refuse to grant it."
"Hear it first."
"No!"
"Hear it--in your own interest. She asks permission to leave the house, never to return again. While she is still innocent--"
His wife eyed him with a look of unutterable contempt. He submitted to it, but not in silence.
"A man doesn't lie, Catherine, who makes such a confession as I am ****** now. Miss Westerfield offers the one atonement in her power, while she is still innocent of having wronged you--except in thought."
"Is that all?" Mrs. Linley asked.
"It rests with you," he replied, "to say if there is any other sacrifice of herself which will be more acceptable to you."
"Let me understand first what the sacrifice means. Does Miss Westerfield make any conditions?"
"She has positively forbidden me to make conditions."
"And goes out into the world, helpless and friendless?"
"Yes ."
Even under the terrible trial that wrung her, the nobility of the woman's nature spoke in her next words.
"Give me time to think of what you have said," she pleaded. "I have led a happy life; I am not used to suffer as I am suffering now."
They were both silent. Kitty's voice was audible on the stairs that led to the picture-gallery, disputing with the maid. Neither her father nor her mother heard her.
"Miss Westerfield is innocent of having wronged me, except in thought," Mrs. Linley resumed. "Do you tell me that on your word of honor?"
"On my word of honor."
So far his wife was satisfied. "My governess," she said, "might have deceived me--she has not deceived me. I owe it to her to remember that. She shall go, but not helpless and not friendless."
Her husband forgot the restraints he had imposed on himself.
"Is there another woman in the world like you!" he exclaimed.
"Many other women," she answered, firmly. "A vulgar termagant, feeling a sense of injury, finds relief in an outburst of jealousy and a furious quarrel. You have always lived among ladies. Surely you ought to know that a wife in my position, who respects herself, restrains herself. I try to remember what I owe to others as well as what they owe to me."
She approached the writing table, and took up a pen.
Feeling his position acutely, Linley refrained from openly admiring her generosity. Until he had deserved to be forgiven, he had forfeited the right to express an opinion on her conduct. She misinterpreted his silence. As she understood it, he appreciated an act of self-sacrifice on Miss Westerfield's side--but he had no word of encouragement for an act of self-sacrifice on his wife's side. She threw down the pen, with the first outbreak of anger that had escaped her yet.
"You have spoken for the governess," she said to him. "I haven't heard yet, sir, what you have to say for yourself. Is it you who tempted her? You know how gratefully she feels toward you--have you perverted her gratitude, and led her blindfold to love?
Cruel, cruel, cruel! Defend yourself if you can."
He made no reply.
"Is it not worth your while to defend yourself?" she burst out, passionately. "Your silence is an insult!"
"My silence is a confession," he answered, sadly. "_She_ may accept your mercy--I may not even hope for it."
Something in the tone of his voice reminded her of past days--the days of perfect love and perfect confidence, when she had been the one woman in the world to him. Dearly treasured remembrances of her married life filled her heart with tenderness, and dimmed with tears the angry light that had risen in her eyes. There was no pride, no anger, in his wife when she spoke to him now.
"Oh, my husband, has she taken your love from me?"
"Judge for yourself, Catherine, if there is no proof of my love for you in what I have resisted--and no remembrance of all that I owe to you in what I have confessed."
She ventured a little nearer to him. "Can I believe you?"
"Put me to the test."
She instantly took him at his word. "When Miss Westerfield has left us, promise not to see her again."
"I promise."
"And not even to write to her."
"I promise."
