“Oh, Norton, Norton! Say only that you did not, and I will believe you.”
“You will believe—if I tell you—that I am not—a thief? What would a thief’s word be good for, Milly? Do I have to tell such a thing to my own wife? Why, even that poor Irish woman you can hear crying in the next cell believes in her husband; you should have heard her talking before you came—and he’s a brute.”
Milly gasped painfully, the tears were running down her cheeks. “You know you always thought some things honest that I did not—some transactions—we have often talked—how could I tell—”
“You had your ideas and I had mine,” he interrupted. “It’s mighty hard to conduct business on abstract principles—perhaps—I don’t deny it! My ways weren’t always what they ought to have been. But this is stealing. It somehow kills me to think that you—” he stopped short with a gesture, and hid his face in his hands.
Milly longed to put her arms around him, to kiss the hands that hid him from her, to do anything to show her love and grief, and her faith in him, but she did not dare. This was her husband, but she did not dare.
He spoke quite calmly after a few minutes. “You had better go back to the house now. My arrest was all a stupid blunder; I sent for Catherwood at once, and he saw Forrest. They are on the right track and I will be set free as soon as possible, to-morrow, probably; the charge is to be withdrawn. And don’t feel so badly, dear, I suppose it’s all my fault that you have never believed in me since we were married—for you never have, Milly.” He stooped and kissed her good-by, saying gently, “You must go now, dear.”
Three days after that he came home very ill. All that Milly had been longing to say to him, all that she had been longing to hear, must wait until the morrow—until the next week—until the next month; and then, and then, could it be? Until the next life!
He was so very ill from the beginning that there was nothing else to be considered; for the first time her own wishes and feelings were as naught. In the delirium he did not even know her. But there came a time before the end when she was startled as she sat by him in the twilight, holding his wasted hand to see his conscious eyes fixed upon her through the shadows. Her own responded with a depth of piteous eager love in them as she bent closer to him. Still the eyes gazed at her—what, oh, what were they saying?
“Darling,” she whispered.
His lips did not move, but the fingers of the hand which lay in hers felt feebly for something—touched the golden circle on her finger, and held it as if contented at last.