“Me, fancies?”
“Well, yes—more than you used to have.”
“My dear girl, what will you say next?” he exclaimed, with a hollow attempt at a laugh, which, to say the truth, was a dismal failure, for deep down in the bottom of his heart sat fear—a terrible, nameless, ill-defined fear.
“I cannot quite understand you, Aveline,” he said sadly. “You are so changed, so variable, so unlike your own sweet self. One moment you are here with your arms clasped round my neck; the next, you are cold and reserved, and as haughty as though you were a princess and I your slave. At times you seem to love me; and then, again, you seem to despise me. I cannot make it out. One day I think you are perfectly happy; the next, you are silent and engrossed with melancholy thoughts. Aveline, there must be a cause for all this. You are tired of your husband, and feel it hard to dwell in this humble abode. Tell me if this is not so? I can bear it. Do not hesitate to speak the truth; for it is far better for me to know the worst than be kept in a state of suspense.”
She clasped her arms round his neck and said he was the dearest, best, and truest of husbands.
He sighed deeply as he soothed her. What had come to this lovely young wife of his?
He little dreamed of the terrible struggle in the heart of her whom he had believed at one time to be all his own.
“I am afraid to say what I think,” cried Gatliffe, “and perhaps it had better remain unsaid.”
“I wish you to say what you think. Nothing would please me better,” she answered. “Tell me what it is.”
“Why, that you are more attached to your grandfather than your husband.”