"Not,"—I stammer—"not—you did not—-"
"Murder her?" supplies he, with a bitter laugh. "No; though I could have done so with a good will, I refrained from that. When I reached her she was lying shrouded in her coffin."
"When did she die?" I ask; "and how?"
"In Florence, a fortnight ago, of some malignant fever. I have come here with as little delay as possible to tell you of it."
I glance at him curiously. It is not the old Marmaduke who has come back to me. He is travel stained, worn, and thin. His voice has lost its old ring, his eye its brightness. There is something dejected in his very attitude.
Such a meeting, after such a parting! I marvel at it inwardly, though conscious I would not have it otherwise.
Alas! how wrongly things have gone with us during our brief married life, from beginning to end! Is it indeed true that when the mist and the rain arise to blot our hopes, nor time nor vengeance can suffice to make existence quite the same again?
"How can I tell that she is really dead?" say I, moodily: "you deceived me once. Perhaps some day she will come to life again to defy and torture me."
"I do not think you have any right to speak to me in this way," replies he, quietly. "I may have deceived you passively once in my life by forbearing to mention what would do no good in the telling, and might have caused you grief, or at least, unpleasantness. But to you or any other being I have never lied. I saw the woman dead with my own eyes. I attended her funeral. I did not think proofs necessary; but if you require it I can produce a witness."
He pauses calmly for a reply, being utterly passionless in his manner; but I give him none. I am still wondering at the change in him, the change in myself.