“No, I knew you wouldn’t. And she knew you wouldn’t. That, of course, is why she did it in the way she did.”
The intentness of Copeland’s thought showed in his face; he continued to turn over the notes in his shaking hands.
“But you will tell her how beyond any thanks this is—beyond anything I can do or say!” He bent his head and went on brokenly. “It would be cruel, Eaton, if it weren’t so kind, so generous, so merciful!”
“I think you have done enough already to show your appreciation,” replied Eaton. “I’ll say to you that you’ve done what she expected—and what, to be frank about it, I did not expect. At least, I wasn’t very sanguine. You’d gone pretty far—farther than men go and come back again. You’ve proved your mettle. If you go on as you are, you are safe. And I’m glad—happier about it than I’ve been about anything in a mighty long time.”
“I can’t understand it. I was worse than ever you imagine. I treated her as a man doesn’t treat his dog!”
“Yes,” Eaton acquiesced, “it was all that.”
“And you can see how it leaves me,” Copeland moaned, crumpling the notes in his hand,—“with a debt these things don’t express; a debt that can’t be discharged!”
“There’s something you can do, Copeland, if you will. She hasn’t asked it; I have no reason to think it has even occurred to her. It’s my own idea—absolutely—I want you to be sure of that. It strikes me as being only decent, only just.”
“Yes, yes!” Copeland eagerly assented.
“I’m going to speak plainly, Copeland. It’s about Manning. You let the impression get abroad that your wife had given you cause to doubt her loyalty. Yes; I know all about it. Manning was your friend, not hers. The injury was not only to her; it was to that man, too. Your use of him, to cast suspicion on the woman you had sworn to shield and protect, was infamous, dastardly! Manning, I have reason to believe,”—his eyes ranged the file-cases,—“is a gentleman, a high-minded fellow, who admired your wife only as any friend might be expected to admire her; but you used him—made him an excuse to hide your own infamy. You hadn’t the courage to bring him into court; you merely let some of your new-found friends whisper insinuations that were more damning than a direct charge of infidelity. Manning cut your acquaintance, I believe, when he found what you had done. You owe him an apology, at least. And if you want to act the part of a man, you will go to Mrs. Copeland and tell her the truth.”