Roswell resumed his seat, and Marion took a low stool at his side and waited for him to speak.
"It is not very much," he said, taking a letter from the table, "but I have here a refusal of the McIlvaine cottage at Bar Harbor for the season. Would you like to go there?"
An expression of astonishment came to Marion's face. "Is this true?" she asked.
"I am only waiting for you to say yes before sending my reply."
"Why did you do this, Roswell?" she said, with a tone of tenderness in her voice.
"Because I felt it would be better for both of us to go away this summer. I am working too hard, I think, and must have a rest. But that is only a selfish reason; I feel it would do you good to be among new people and new scenes."
Marion looked into his eyes a moment and a dark expression of disgust came across her face. "Why don't you speak the truth, Roswell?" she said. "Why don't you say that you are going away because your wife is a selfish woman who is discontented in her home; why don't you say that she is a wicked creature who cares for nothing but her own amusement, and that you are taking her where she can find new excitements? Why don't you say this?" she repeated, and then she buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
Roswell leaned forward and stroked her head softly. "I love my wife," he said, "and I will not permit you to say such things about her."
"You don't know how wicked she is; you don't know how black her heart has been," Marion replied, between the sobs. "O, Roswell, I shall never be happy till I tell you all about it and ask you to forgive me. I have thought it over every moment since you left, and I have tried to feel right in my heart, but I can't until you know how wicked I have been. You are too good and generous for a selfish creature like me; but you must know that I have been untrue to you in my heart. Roswell, I did not love you when I married you; I never loved you until a week ago. I did not know your goodness before, and I was thoughtless. O, forgive me, Roswell; forgive me."
Roswell raised her head until he could look into her face. "I forgave you long ago, dearest," he said, "and now I want to see you dry those sweet eyes. I guessed your trouble last winter. At first it was hard for me to bear, and I had black thoughts in my heart, too; but when I remembered how I had been bound up in my musty cash books and ledgers, and how I had failed to enter into your life, I felt I had no right to reproach you. I saw that you were drifting from me, and I knew the fault was mine. Then I prayed that I might save you and win you back again."