"Something must have happened…. She wouldn't have gone away like that—without telling anybody, even her mother…."
"She would," said Hilda. "She—she was hurt. She couldn't bear to stay. She didn't tell me that, but I know…. And it's your fault for—for being blind."
"I don't understand."
"She loved you," said Hilda, simply. "No…. She told me. She never—loved—me. It was him. She married me to—"
"I know what she married you for. I know all about it…. And she thought she loved him. She found out she didn't. But I knew it for a long time," Hilda said, womanlike, unable to resist the temptation to boast of her intuition. "It all came to her that day—and she was going to tell you…. She was going to do that—going to go to you and tell you and ask you to take her back…. She said she'd make you believe her…."
"No," said Bonbright, "you're—mistaken, Hilda. She was my wife…. I know how she felt. She couldn't bear to have me pass close to her. …"
"It IS true," Hilda said. "She was going to you…. And then I came and told her your father was dead…. That made it all impossible, don't you see?… Because you knew why she had married you, and you would believe she came back to you because—you owned the mills and employed all those men…. That's what you WOULD have believed, too. …"
"Yes," said Bonbright.
"And then—it was more than she could bear. To know she loved you and had loved you a long time—and that you loved her. You do, don't you?"
"I can't—help it."