“Why, you just said yourself, dear, that he was friendlier with him than ever.”
“Oh, that's nothing. The more he disliked him the kinder he would be to him.”
“That's true,” sighed her mother. “Did he ever say anything to you about him?”
“No,” cried Olive, shortly; “he never speaks of people he doesn't like.”
The mother returned, with logical severity, “All that doesn't prove that Ben thinks he isn't a good husband.”
“He dislikes him. Do you believe a bad man can be a good husband, then?”
“No,” Mrs. Halleck admitted, as if confronted with indisputable proof of Bartley's wickedness.
In the mean time the peace between Bartley and Marcia continued unbroken, and these days of waiting, of suffering, of hoping and dreading, were the happiest of their lives. He did his best to be patient with her caprices and fretfulness, and he was at least manfully comforting and helpful, and instant in atonement for every failure. She said a thousand times that she should die without him; and when her time came, he thought that she was going to die before he could tell her of his sorrow for all that he had ever done to grieve her. He did not tell her, though she lived to give him the chance; but he took her and her baby both into his arms, with tears of as much fondness as ever a man shed. He even began his confession; but she said, “Hush! you never did a wrong thing yet that I didn't drive you to.” Pale and faint, she smiled joyfully upon him, and put her hand on his head when he hid his face against hers on the pillow, and put her lips against his cheek. His heart was full; he was grateful for the mercy that had spared him; he was so strong in his silent repentance that he felt like a good man.
“Bartley,” she said, “I'm going to ask a great favor of you.”
“There's nothing that I can do that I shall think a favor, darling!” he cried, lifting his face to look into hers.