"I am not thinking of blaming you," she said, gently, "not at all. I thank you for your kindness; I do indeed. Captain Clendenon, you should know me well enough to think better of me than that implied. Please go on."
"There is but little more," he answered, more at ease. "You will recollect, I suppose, having signified to Senator Winans a wish to revisit the home of your childhood?"
She slightly bowed her head.
"He merely wished me to tell you that should you still desire it, you are at liberty to visit Memphis now, or whenever you wish to do so, to remain as long as you please."
He rose at the last word, and she rose also, pale, proud, defiant, woman-like, having the "last words."
"Ah, indeed! I may go to Memphis, then, if it so please me?"
"Yes, Mrs. Winans;" and taking a step forward, he looked down at the fair face that he saw for the first time shaded with contempt and anger. "You are not angry?"
A mutinous quiver of the red lip answered him; just then it seems impossible for her to speak. A great, choking lump seems to rise into her throat, and prevent her from speech. Her heart is in a whirl of contending emotions—joy that her husband remembers and cares for her comfort—grief, pain, indignation evoked by his message—he is willing she should go far away from him, he is indifferent about seeing her, while she—she has been so wild to see him.
While she stands thus, the captain says, in his grave, singularly sweet tones:
"Mrs. Winans, I have known you so long, and am so much older, and perhaps, wiser, than you—I have learned wisdom knocking around this hard old world, you know—that you will pardon a word of advice from an old friend, as you were kind enough to call me just now. Try and overlook what seems to you injustice in your husband. His course toward you seems to him the wiser one, and he is perhaps the best judge of what was right for him—in this lately expressed wish of his he seems actuated solely by a desire for your comfort and happiness—he wishes ardently that you may content yourself during the period of his voluntarily enforced absence. Think as kindly as you can of him. I am sure that all this tangled web of fate will come straight and plain at last."