"Cap, I was—a jealous passionate—Demmy, confession isn't in my line. A diabolical villain made me believe that my poor little wife wasn't good!"
"There! I knew you'd lay it on somebody else. Men always do that," said Cap, to herself.
"He was mortally wounded in Mexico. He made a confession and confided it to Herbert, who has just sent me an attested copy. It was Le Noir. My poor wife lived under her girlhood's name of Marah Rocke." Old Hurricane made a gulp, and his voice broke down.
Cap understood all now, as well as if she had known it as long as Old Hurricane had. She comprehended his extreme agitation upon a certain evening, years ago, when Herbert Greyson had mentioned Marah Rocke's name, and his later and more lasting disturbance upon accidentally meeting Marah Rocke at the Orphans' Court.
This revelation filled her with strange and contradictory emotions. She was glad; she was angry with him; she was sorry for him; she was divided between divers impulses to hug and kiss him, to cry over him, and to seize him and give him a good shaking! And between them she did nothing at all.
Old Hurricane was again the first to speak.
"What was that you wished to say to me, Cap, when I ran away from you this morning?"
"Why, uncle, that Herbert wants to follow your example, and—and—and——" Cap blushed and broke down.
"I thought as much. Getting married at his age! A boy of twenty-five!" said the veteran in contempt.
"Taking a wife at your age, uncle, an infant of sixty-six!"