“And why can we never be any better?” he said, softening and growing gentle in his tone. “Unhappy and disturbed as I am, my fears do not go the length of that. I will not do you the injustice to suppose, that you will keep this delusion all your life. If you will retain it now, I appeal to your better judgment afterwards. But why should you retain it now, Hester? You are no happier for your revenge—I am no better for my punishment. It is now a long time since the offence was committed; look at it again, and see if it is equal to the penalty. Tell me, Hester, what have I done?”
“You have deceived me,” I said.
“I told you nothing untrue of myself,” he said, quietly. “I did not tell you all the truth. See how you have changed me already—a man cannot be at the bar so long without trying to justify himself. At first I was a penitent offender—but nothing but mercy can make repentance, Hester, and you have shown no mercy to me. What have I done to deserve all that you have inflicted upon me?”
“You have deceived me,” I repeated sullenly.
He started up and made a few rapid strides through the room as if going away—but then he returned again. His temper, his self-command, his patience, could not bear any more—I saw that I had fairly roused him to strive with me.
“Is this all you have to say, Hester?” he asked almost sternly. “Am I to hear this and only this rung in my ears continually—have you nothing but my first offence to urge against me—is this all?”
“Yes,” I said, “it is all, and I have nothing more to say.”
He could not trust himself to speak, but went away from me again, and rapidly returned once more. “Grant it so,” he said, with a quick and breathless voice, “if I have deceived you, I have been myself deceived—we are on equal terms.”
I could not understand what he meant—when it dawned upon me, I rose slowly, and we stood, confronting each other, looking into each other’s eyes. “Have I deceived you?” I asked—it cost me an effort to preserve my calmness, but I did it.
“Yes,” he said vehemently, “you were a sweet and tender woman when you left your father’s house. I thought you one of those whose very presence makes a home—your high spirit, your rapid mind, only gave a noble charm to your generous loving heart—I thought so, Hester—I delighted in believing it. I thought the key of my joy in this world was given to me when they put your hand in mine. Look at me now—I am bankrupt, shipwrecked—from the first hour I brought you home, happiness was ended for me. This house is wretched—the very sunshine and daylight that God has made are no longer blessings to me. My life is a burden. My duties are intolerable. My hopes have departed one by one. I tell you that more bitterly, more grievously than you have been deceived, have you deceived me.”