"My influence, did you say?" And there was a touch of sarcasm in his tone, mingled with a grief painful to hear. "What has my influence with her ever been, Grace?"
"I know, I know," she cried, wringing his hand, and turning from him towards the stairs, that he might not see the tears gathering in her eyes. Tears of sympathy with his wrongs, and partly, perhaps, of regret: for she was thinking of that curious misapprehension, years ago, when she had been led to believe that it was herself who was his chosen bride. "I would not have treated him so," her heart murmured; "I would have made his life a happy one, as he deserves it should be."
He gained upon her fast steps; and, drawing her arm within his, led her downstairs, and placed her in the carriage.
"Dear Mr. Grubb," she whispered, as he clasped her hands, "do not let what I have been obliged to say render you harsh with poor Adela. Different days may be in store for you both; she may yet be the mother of your children, when happiness in each other would surely follow. Do not be unkind to her."
"Unkind to Adela! No, Grace. Separation, rather than unkindness."
"Separation!" gasped Grace, the ominous word affrighting her.
"I have thought sometimes that it may come to it. A man cannot patiently endure contumely for ever, Grace."
He withdrew his hand from hers, and turned back into his desolate home. Grace sank back in the carriage, with a mental prayer.
"God keep him; God comfort him, and help him to bear!"