“I went into my mother’s room on my way down to the carriage to come here,” she continued. “Papa came in, bringing your letter. He had not opened it, of course—he only wanted to show me that he had received it, and he said he would destroy it after showing it to me. I looked at it—and oh, the handwriting was so shaky, and there were spots on the envelope—Jack—I didn’t want to read it. That’s the truth. I let him burn it. I turned over the ashes to see that there was nothing left. There—I’ve told you the truth. How could I know—oh, how could I know?”
John glanced at her and then looked down again, not trusting himself to speak yet. The thought that she had not even wished to read that letter, and that she had stood calmly by while her father destroyed it, deliberately turning over the ashes afterwards, was almost too much to be borne with equanimity. Again he remembered what it had cost him to write it, and how he had felt that, having written it, Katharine, at least, would be loyal to him, whatever the world might say. He would have been a little more than human if he could have then and there smiled, held out his hand, and freely forgiven and promised to forget.
And yet she, too, had some justice on her side, though she was ready and willing to forget it all, and to bear far more of blame than she deserved. Russell Vanbrugh had told her that a man might easily be convicted on such evidence. Yet in her heart she knew that her disbelief had waited for no proofs last night, but had established itself supreme as her disappointment at John’s absence from the ball.
“Jack,” she began again, seeing that he did not speak, “say something—say that you’ll try to forgive me. It’s breaking my heart.”
“I’ll try,” answered John, in a voice without meaning.
“Ah—not that way, dear!” answered Katharine, with a breaking sigh. “Be kind—for the sake of all that has been!”
There was a deep and touching quaver in the words. He could say nothing yet.
“Of all that might have been, Jack—it was only yesterday morning that we were married—dear—and now—”
He lifted his face and looked long into her eyes—she saw nothing but regret, coldness, interrogation in his. And still he was silent, and still she pleaded for forgiveness.
“But it can’t be undone, now. It can never be undone—and I’m your wife, though I have distrusted you, and been cruel and heartless and unkind. Don’t you see how it all was, dear? Can’t you be weak for a moment, just to understand me a little bit? Won’t you believe me when I tell you how I hate myself and despise myself and wish that I could—oh, I don’t know!—I wish I could wash it all away, if it were with my heart’s blood! I’d give it, every drop, for you, now—dear one—sweetheart—forgive me! forgive me!”