“Why?”
“The affair concerns others.”
“There are no others whose interest and claims can conflict with those of your husband.”
“I—have a—friend—in deadly peril—I would go to—the assistance of my friend.”
“How confused—nay, great Heaven, how guilty you look! Marguerite, who is that friend? Where is he, or she? What is the nature of the peril? What connection have you with her or him? Why must you go secretly? Answer these questions before asking my consent.”
“Ah, if I dared! if I dared!” she exclaimed, thrown partly off her guard by agitation, and looking, gazing intently in his face; “but no, I cannot—oh! I cannot!—that sarcastic incredulity, that fierce, blazing scorn—I cannot dare it! Guilty? You even now said I looked, Philip! I am not guilty! The Lord knoweth it well—not guilty, but most unfortunate—most wretched! Philip, your unhappy wife is an honorable woman!”
“She thinks it necessary, however, to assure me of that which should be above question. Unhappy? Why are you unhappy? Marguerite, how you torture me.”
“Philip, for the last time I pray you, I beseech you, grant my wish. Do not deny me, Philip; do not! Life, more than life, sanity hangs upon your answer! Philip, will you sanction my going?”
“Most assuredly not, Marguerite.”
“Oh, Heaven! how can you be so inflexible, Philip? I asked for a month—a fortnight might do—Philip; let me go for a fortnight!”