“But what is irremediable can and must be borne. I can bear things better, perhaps, than most people. The other cares may be removed by time and—silence. To that end I have promised Frederick to keep his confidence secret from every one, even from my own wife, for a year to come. A sacrifice harder than you think; but it must be made, and I have made it.”
Agatha turned away, saying bitterly; “Your wife ought to thank you! She was not aware until now how wondrously well you loved your brother.”
There was a heavy silence, and then Mr. Harper said, in a hoarse voice, “Did you ever hear the story of a man who plunged into a river to save the life of an enemy, and when asked why he did it, answered, 'It was because he was an enemy?”
“I do not understand you,” cried Agatha.
“No”—her husband returned, hastily—“better not. A foolish, meaningless story. What were we talking about?”
He—when her heart was bursting with vexation and wounded feeling—he pretended to treat all so lightly that he did not even remember what they were saying! It was more than Agatha could endure.
Had he been irritated like herself—had he shown annoyance, pain—had they even come to a positive quarrel—for love will sometimes quarrel, and take comfort therein—it would have been less trying to a girl of her temperament. But that grave superior calm of unvarying kindness—her poor angry spirit beat against it like waves against a shining rock.
“We were talking of what, had I considered the matter a month ago, I might possibly have saved myself the necessity of discussing or practising—a wife's blind obedience to her husband.”
“Agatha!”
“When I married,” she recklessly pursued, “I did not think what I was doing. It is hard enough blindly to obey even those whom one has known long—trusted long—loved long—but you”—