“Jacob,” she said, in a softened tone, “have you forgotten the morning when we both stood before the altar, and pledged to each other eternal constancy? It is ten years since, years not unmarked by sorrow and privation, but we have been the happier for being together, have we not? You remember our little Margaret, Jacob,—how she lighted up our humble home with her sweet, winning ways, till God saw fit to take her to himself? If she had lived, I don’t think you would have found it in your heart to neglect me so. Can we not be to each other what we have been, Jacob? I may have been in fault sometimes, with my hasty temper, but I have never swerved from my love for you.”
“You are at liberty to do so as soon as you like,” he said, coldly.
“Good heavens!” she exclaimed; “and this to your wedded wife!”
“That is a slight mistake of yours,” he returned, with a sneer, resting his calculating eyes upon her face, as if to mark the effect of his words.
Her hand released its hold upon his arm, and she staggered back as if about to fall.
“My God! what do you mean? What can you mean? Tell me quickly, if you would not have me go mad before your eyes.”
“That might be the best way of ending the matter,” said he, with deliberate cruelty. “Nevertheless I will not refuse to gratify your reasonable curiosity. I declare to you solemnly that you are not my wedded wife.”
“You would deceive me,” she said, with sudden anger.
“Not in this matter, though I acknowledge having deceived you once. The priest who performed the ceremony was so only for that occasion.”
Margaret passed her hand across her eyes as if she were trying to rouse herself from some stupefying dream.