When she returned home that day, and said from whose house she had just come, she fancied a shade gathered on her husband’s brow. “Do you not go there rather often, Monica?”
“We were friends as children,” she said. “Am I to give up everything that seems connected with the past—with my home?”
“I lay no embargo upon you, Monica,” he said; “or at least only one: I cannot permit Sir Conrad Fitzgerald to visit my wife, nor enter my house. If his sister is your friend, and you wish to continue the friendship, I say nothing against it. You shall be the judge whether or not you visit at a house your husband cannot enter, and run the risk of meeting a man whose hand he can never touch. You shall do exactly as you wish in the matter. I leave you entire liberty.”
A flush rose slowly in Monica’s face.
“I want to do what is right to every one,” she said. “You put things very hardly, Randolph. You only see one side, and even that you view very harshly. I have heard Conrad’s story; it is very painful and shameful; but he has repented—he has indeed, and done all he could to make amends. I have been taught that repentance makes atonement, even in God’s sight. I cannot sit in judgment then, and condemn him utterly.”
Randolph looked at her keenly.
“Do you know all?”
“Yes,” she answered steadily, “I know all. It is very bad; but he has repented.”
“I have seen no signs of repentance.”