She buried her face in the pillows of the couch beside which she was kneeling, and lay thus for a long time, shaking with sobs. Into her mind had come a new emotion—a new understanding of her love for her husband. Always before he had failed to master her, to make her feel that in the conjunction of their two lives he was the dominant spirit, willing even to govern her by force, when force seemed necessary to her welfare. What had changed him so? What had caused him to keep her here, at his side, against her will? What, indeed, but his love for her? She knew it was that, knew that, had he been indifferent to her, he would have let her pass from his life without lifting a hand to prevent it. A fierce joy rose within her heart that this man desired her so greatly—that he held her, as the primitive man held his women, by the right of might. She wanted all the luxuries that had come to her—wanted them still, but, compared with the joy of realizing that Donald still loved her, they seemed as nothing.
So he had held her—meant to hold her, against everything in the world—against even herself, and her own folly. She rejoiced in the thought, and her sobbing ceased. After all—he—he and her little boy—were more to her than anything that money could buy. Had Donald temporized with her—allowed her to keep the money that had come to her, she knew in her heart that she would have secretly despised him, that in the end she would have ceased to love him. It seemed good to be home again—good to be alive. She had always wanted someone to rule her—she felt strangely humble, knowing her own weakness. Presently she raised her head, and found him standing beside her. With a swift, eager movement she grasped his hand.
“I’m so—very—very glad!” she sobbed, unable to keep back her tears. “I did not—want—to go. I never—never—want to—go away from you—again.” She looked up, her eyes shining. “Donald—do you—still care for—me—a little?” she asked, in a quavering voice. “Do you?”
Donald’s sudden burst of rage had gone. He stood looking at her with a deep sadness in his eyes. After all, she seemed so much a child. “Do you think I would take the trouble to keep you here, if I did not?” he asked.
She began to sob violently. “Donald—forgive me—forgive me!” she cried. “I shall—never go away from you—and—Bobbie—as—long—as—I live.”
“YOU—YOU WON’T LET ME GO?” SHE FALTERED
He looked down, not understanding this sudden change in her. “I have kept you here for the sake of our boy,” he said slowly, “and here you must stay. But, for your sake and mine, independent of him, you must answer me one question. Were you West’s mistress?”
She started to her feet, and dashed the tears from her eyes. “No!” she cried. “Before God—no! I was just as bad, I know, for I intended to be, but that one thing I had not done.”