"It is worse than I thought, Anne, much worse. Your judgment did not lead you astray. She has separated husband and wife."
"Then she has told you all, Tom. Oh! how glad I am, not only for Amy's sake but for her own; it would have been so dreadful for her to have lived on upholding the falsehoods she must have told to work her ends."
"That is the worst part of the business, Anne, she has unfortunately told the truth, and, as far as I can see, the chance of reconciling those who ought to be heart and soul to each other is remote indeed. Time and the wife's love—you say she does love him—may, by God's grace, do much. I see nothing that you or I can do."
"Wretched girl! What has she told?"
"What Vavasour ought only to have heard from his wife's lips. Of her previous love for another and of their unfortunate meeting the day of her marriage."
"I always hoped she had told him," said Anne, clasping her hands despairingly. "The concealment was no sin on Amy's part, only weakness. But as for Frances, there can be no excuse for her. She has been cruelly, shamefully unkind, and revengeful!"
"She has; there is no denying it, but all through your friend's own fault; she nursed in her heart—which should have been as clear as day to her husband—a secret; and that one sin has brought in the end its own punishment, and while we blame Frances' culpable revenge, we must blame the wife's breach of faith and disloyalty."
"Oh, Tom, what hard words!" cried Anne, "poor Amy's has not been a guilty secret."
"No, but appearances are sadly against her, and we know nothing of what the husband thinks; even if he does believe her guiltless, he must naturally feel wounded at his wife's want of love and trust."
"Yes," replied Anne, sadly, "what you say is very just and true. Can nothing then be done? Nothing at all?"