“What are you talking about? What have you done?”
“Nothing,” said he. “Nothing to harm your peace, my little wife. Believe me, I have committed no greater crime, than”—
“Well!”
“Than having taken Wilson's cottage.”
He tried by smiling to teach her to make light of it—perhaps because it was a thing so light to him. But Agatha was enraged beyond endurance.
“You have absolutely taken it—that mean, wretched hovel that I told you I hated;—taken it secretly, without my knowledge or consent!”
“You mistake there. I told you we were obliged to decide yesterday; you were unwilling to consult with me, and at last—do you remember? you left the decision in my hands. I merely believed your own words, and knowing the necessity of acting upon them, did so. I cannot think I was wrong.”
“Oh, no! Not at all!” cried Agatha, laughing wildly. “It was only like you—under-handed in stealing my few pleasures—very frank and open when you can rule. Never honest or candid with me, except to my punishment. A kind, generous husband, truly!”
These and a torrent more of bitter words she poured out. She never knew till now the passion, the galling sarcasm, there was in her nature. She felt a longing to hate—a wish to wound. Every time she looked at her husband, there seemed a demon rising up within her—that demon which lurks strangely enough in the heart's closest and tenderest depths.
“Cannot you speak!” she cried, going up to him. “Anything is better than that wicked silence. Speak!”