“Yes, he is! He is!” she returned eagerly. “He would forgive me, and I ought to tell him. I should never have a happy moment if I didn’t. My life would be spoilt.”
“And what about his?” asked Anne quietly.
Madge gazed at her. “You mean he—he wouldn’t forget it?”
Anne answered with a curious smile.
“You don’t understand much about men, my little Madge,” she said. “When they love, their instinct of possession is stronger than anything you can guess. It’s bound up with a thousand forces from primitive barbarous times. It may be unreasonable and savage, but it’s there. A generous man forgives, and even tries to understand. But the wound remains, and it rankles in spite of him. Have you the right to inflict such a wound? The wrong is yours. You should be the only one to suffer.”
“But I shall suffer,” broke in Madge. “And much more, if I feel I’m deceiving him.”
“Then accept the extra suffering, and bear it alone,” returned Anne quickly. “One pays for everything, Madge. Is it fair to call upon some one else to share the expenses?”
There was silence for a moment.
“If you had married—afterwards, I mean,” said Madge hesitatingly, “wouldn’t you have told your husband?”
“There was no question of my marriage,” answered Anne rather painfully. “But if your circumstances were mine,” she added after a moment, “I should act as I advise you to act.”