Hetzel was perplexed, puzzled as to what to do or say; so, very sensibly, held his tongue. By and by Arthur began, “My wife—my wife—oh, Hetzel, listen.”
Then, brokenly, in half sentences, with frequent pauses, he managed to give Hetzel some account of the day’s happening, winding up thus: “You—you see how it is. She had offered to tell me that secret she said she had, but I wouldn’t let her. I wanted her to keep it, to show her how much I loved her. At least, that’s what I thought. But I—I know now that it was my cowardice. I was afraid to hear it. We were so happy, I didn’t want to run any risk of having our happiness lessened by—by thinking about unpleasant things. My ignorance was comfortable—I dreaded enlightenment. I was afraid of what it might be. I preferred to keep it entirely out of my head. God, that was a terrible mistake! If I had only had the courage to let her speak! But I was a coward. I went to work and persuaded myself that I was acting from motives of generosity—that I wanted to spare her the pain of talking about it—that I loved her too much to care about it—and all that. But that wasn’t it at all. It was weakness, and downright cowardice, and evasion of my duty. I see it plainly now—now, when worse has come to worst. And she—she thinks—she thinks that I made inquiries behind her back, and found out what it was, and got to be friendly with Peixada in that way, and then went and put that advertisement into the papers just for the sake of—of humiliating her—oh, God!—and she thinks it was I who arranged to have her taken to prison. She actually believes that—believes that I did that! She wouldn’t listen to me. Her indignation carried her away. She doesn’t see how unreasonable it is. She hates me and despises me, and never will care for me again.”
Hetzel himself was staggered. Arthur’s tale ended, there befell a long silence.
Finally Arthur broke out petulantly, “Well, why don’t you speak? Why don’t you tell me what there is to be done?”
“It—I think it is very grave. You must let me consider a little while.”
Another long silence. Hetzel, with bent head, was walking up and down the room. At length, coming to a standstill, he began, “Yes, it is very serious. But it is not—can not be—irremediable. There must be a way out of it—of course there must. I—I—by Jove, let’s look it squarely in the face. It will merely make matters worse to—to sit still and think about how bad it is.”
“What else is there to do?”
“This,” answered Hetzel. “We must get her \ out of prison.”
“That’s very easy to say.”
“Well, we’ll do it, no matter how difficult it may be. She mustn’t be left in the Tombs an hour longer than we can help. After that, it will be time to make her understand your part in the business. But now we must bend every muscle to get her out of prison. Whom do you know who will go bail for her?”