But Irene could not answer. Major Willard, as the reader knows, had ridden with her at night, and alone. But once, and only once. A few times since then she had encountered, but never deigned to recognize, him. In her pure heart the man was held in utter detestation.
Now was the time for a full explanation; but pride was aroused—strong, stubborn pride. She knew herself to stand triple mailed in innocency—to be free from weakness or taint; and the thought that a mean, base suspicion had entered the mind of her husband aroused her indignation and put a seal upon her lips as to all explanatory utterances.
"Then I am to believe the worst?" said Hartley, seeing that his wife did not answer. "The worst, and of you!"
The tone in which this was said, as well as the words themselves, sent a strong throb to the heart of Irene. "The worst, and of you!" This from her husband! and involving far more in tone and manner than in uttered language. "Then I am to believe the worst!" She turned the sentences over in her mind. Pride, wounded self-love, a smothered sense of indignation, blind anger, began to gather their gloomy forces in her mind. "The worst, and of you!" How the echoes of these words came back in constant repetition! "The worst, and of you!"
"How often has Major Willard ridden with you at night?" asked Hartley, in a cold, resolute way.
No answer.
"And did you always come directly home?"
Hartley Emerson was looking steadily into the face of his wife, from which he saw the color fall away until it became of an ashen hue.
"You do not care to answer. Well, silence is significative," said the husband, closing his lips firmly. There was a blending of anger, perplexity, pain, sorrow and scorn in his face, all of which Irene read distinctly as she fixed her eyes steadily upon him. He tried to gaze back until her eyes should sink beneath his steady look, but the effort was lost; for not a single instant did they waver.
He was about turning away, when she arrested the movement by saying,