"Nothing," I said. "But, sweet, my wife, what is it?"
For she was deathly pale.
"I must tell you," she said; "I cannot hide anything now from you, because I am yours—body, soul, and spirit."
The phrase was an echo that stung me.
The moonlight shone on her gold hair, her warm, soft, gold hair, and on her pale face.
"Arthur," she said, "you remember my coming to you at Hampstead with that letter?"
"Yes, my sweet, and I remember how you——"
"Arthur!"—she spoke fast and low—"Arthur, that letter was a forgery. She never wrote it. I——"
She stopped, for I had risen and flung her hands from me, and stood looking at her. God help me! I thought it was anger at the lie I felt. I know now it was only wounded vanity that smarted in me. That I should have been tricked, that I should have been deceived, that I should have been led on to make a fool of myself! That I should have married the woman who had befooled me! At that moment she was no longer the wife I adored—she was only a woman who had forged a letter and tricked me into marrying her.
I spoke; I denounced her; I said I would never speak to her again. I felt it was rather creditable in me to be so angry. I said I would have no more to do with a liar and forger.