“Why not?”
“Because I have sworn never to say an angry word to her again; and, if I was to go there, I should say a good many angry ones. Oh, when I think that her folly drove me to sea, to do my best for her, and that I was nearer death for that woman than ever man was, and lost my reason for her, and went through toil and privations, hunger, exile, mainly for her, and then to find the banns cried in open church, with that scoundrel!—say no more, uncle. I shall never reproach her, and never forgive her.”
“She was deceived.”
“I don't doubt that; but nobody has a right to be so great a fool as all that.”
“It was not her folly, but her innocence, that was imposed on. You a philosopher, and not know that wisdom itself is sometimes imposed on, and deceived by cunning folly! Have you forgotten your Milton?—
“'At Wisdom's gate, Suspicion sleeps,
And deems no ill where no ill seems.'
“Come, come! are you sure you are not a little to blame? Did you write home the moment you found you were not dead?”
Christopher colored high.
“Evidently not,” said the keen old man. “Ah, my fine fellow! have I found the flaw in your own armor?”
“I did wrong, but it was for her. I sinned for her. I could not bear her to be without money, and I knew the insurance—I sinned for her. She has sinned AGAINST me.”