"Norman," said a low voice, full of bitterest pain, "I am come to say good-by. I am sorry I have done harm--not good. I am sorry--forgive me, and say good-by."
"It has made our lot a thousand times harder, Madaline," he returned, hoarsely.
"Never mind the hardship; you will soon recover from that," she said. "I am sorry that I have acted against your wishes, and broken the long silence. I will never do it again, Norman."
"Never, unless you are ill and need me," he supplemented. "Then you have promised to send for me."
"I will do so" she said. "You will remember, dear husband, that my last words to you were 'Good-by, and Heaven bless you.'"
The words died away on her lips. He turned aside lest she should see the trembling of his face; he never complained to her. He knew now that she thought him hard, cold, unfeeling, indifferent--that she thought his pride greater than his love; but even that was better than that she should know he suffered more than she did--she must never know that.
When he turned back from the tossing waves and the summer sun she was gone. He looked across the beach--there was no sign of her. She was gone; and he avowed to himself that it would be wonderful if ever in this world he saw her again. She did not remain at Tintagel; to do so would be useless, hopeless. She saw it now. She had hoped against hope: she had said to herself that in a year and a half he would surely have altered his mind--he would have found now how hard it was to live alone, to live without love--he would have found that there was something dearer in the world than family pride--he would have discovered that love outweighed everything else. Then she saw that her anticipations were all wrong--he preferred his dead ancestors to his living wife.
She went back to Winiston House and took up the dreary round of life again. She might have made her lot more endurable and happier, she might have traveled, have sought society and amusement; but she had no heart for any of these things. She had spent the year and a half of her lonely married life in profound study, thinking to herself that if he should claim her he would be pleased to find her yet more accomplished and educated. She was indefatigable, and it was all for him.
Now that she was going back, she was without this mainspring of hope--her old studies and pursuits wearied her. To what end and for what purpose had been all her study, all her hard work? He would never know of her proficiency; and she would not care to study for any other object than to please him.
"What am I to do with my life," she moaned. "Mariana in the moated grange was not more to be pitied than I."