"We have been to many places," she reminded him, "and we have got tired of them together."
"Is that my fault?"
"I didn't say it was."
He got up and approached the bell. "I think the journey has a little over-tired you," he resumed. "Would you like to go to your room?"
"I will go to my room, if you wish it."
He waited a little, and answered her as quietly as ever. "What I really wish," he said, "is that we had consulted a doctor while we were in London. You seem to be very easily irritated of late.
I observe a change in you, which I willingly attribute to the state of your health--"
She interrupted him. "What change do you mean?"
"It's quite possible I may be mistaken, Sydney. But I have more than once, as I think, seen something in your manner which suggests that you distrust me."
"I distrust the evil life we are leading," she burst out, "and I see the end of it coming. Oh, I don't blame you! You are kind and considerate, you do your best to hide it; but you have lived long enough with me to regret the woman whom you have lost. You begin to feel the sacrifice you have made--and no wonder. Say the word, Herbert, and I release you."
"I will never say the word!"
She hesitated--first inclined, then afraid, to believe him. "I have grace enough left in me," she went on, "to feel the bitterest repentance for the wrong that I have done to Mrs.
Linley. When it ends, as it must end, in our parting, will you ask your wife--?"
Even his patience began to fail him; he refused--firmly, not angrily--to hear more. "She is no longer my wife," he said.
Sydney's bitterness and Sydney's penitence were mingled, as opposite emotions only _can_ be mingled in a woman's breast.
"Will you ask your wife to forgive you?" she persisted.
"After we have been divorced at her petition?" He pointed to the window as he said it. "Look at the sea. If I was drowning out yonder, I might as well ask the sea to forgive me."
He produced no effect on her. She ignored the Divorce; her passionate remorse asserted itself as obstinately as ever. "Mrs.
Linley is a good woman," she insisted; "Mrs. Linley is a Christian woman."
"I have lost all claim on her--even the claim to remember her virtues," he answered, sternly. "No more of it, Sydney! I am sorry I have disappointed you; I am sorry if you are weary of me."
At those last words her manner changed. "Wound me as cruelly as you please," she said, humbly. "I will try to bear it."
"I wouldn't wound you for the world! Why do you persist in distressing me? Why do you feel suspicion of me which I have not deserved?" He stopped, and held out his hand. "Don't let us quarrel, Sydney. Which will you do? Keep your bad opinion of me, or give me a fair trial?"
She loved him dearly; she was so young--and the young are so ready to hope! Still, she struggled against herself. "Herbert! is it your pity for me that is speaking now?"
He left her in despair. "It's useless!" he said, sadly. "Nothing will conquer your inveterate distrust."
She followed him. With a faint cry of entreaty she made him turn to her, and held him in a trembling embrace, and rested her head on his bosom. "Forgive me--be patient with me--love me." That was all she could say.
He attempted to calm her agitation by speaking lightly. "At last, Sydney, we are friends again!" he said.
Friends? All the woman in her recoiled from that insufficient word. "Are we Lovers?" she whispered.
"Yes!"
