He was rudely aroused by the sound of voices close at hand. Indeed, the speakers were but a few yards off, on the bank above him.
Now Mr. Fogo was the last man to desire to overhear a conversation. But the first word echoed so aptly his late musings, and struck his memory, too, with so deep a pang, that before he recovered it was too late.
"Geraldine!"
"Oh! why is it?"—(it was a woman's voice that asked the question, though not the voice that Mr. Fogo had half expected to hear, and his very relief brought a shudder with it)—"oh! why is it that a man and a woman cannot talk together except in lies? You ask if I am unhappy. Say what you mean. Do I hate my husband? Well, then—yes!"
"My dear Mrs.—"
"Is that frank enough? Oh! yes, I have lied so consistently throughout my married life that I tell the truth now out of pure weariness. I detest him: sometimes I feel that I must kill either Fred or myself, and end it all."
"Bless my soul!" murmured Mr. Fogo, cowering more closely. "This country teems with extraordinary people!"
He held his breath as the deeper voice answered—
"Had I thought—"
"Stop! I know what you would say, and it is untrue. Be frank as I am. You had half-guessed my secret, and were bound to convince yourself: and why? Shall I tell you, or will you copy my candour and speak for yourself?"