“Oh then,” she cried, “then are we ruined for ever and for ever. Do not, even were I to consent, O! do not lead me to wrong. What shall ever remunerate us for the loss of self-approbation?” He smiled bitterly. “It is,” he said, “a possession, I never yet cared greatly to retain.” “And is self-approbation the greatest of all earthly enjoyments? Is man so independent, so solitary a being, that the consciousness of right will suffice to him, when all around brand him with iniquity, and suspect him of guilt?” He paused, and laughed. “Let us be that which we are thought,” he cried, in a more animated tone. “The worst is thought; and that worst we will become. Let us live on earth but for each other: another country will hide us from the censures of the prejudiced; and our very dependence upon each other, will endear us more and more.” Calantha withdrew her hand—she looked upon him with fear; but she loved, and she forgot her alarm. CHAPTER XXVI. Strange as it may appear, a husband, unless his eyes are opened by the confession of his guilty partner, is the last to believe in her misconduct; and when the world has justly stamped disgrace upon her name, he shares in his wife’s dishonour, for he is supposed by all to know, and to connive at her crime. But though this be a painful truth, experience every day confirms, that a noble and confiding husband is too often, and too easily deceived. In the marriage state there is little love, and much habitual confidence. We see neglect and severity on the part of the man; and all the petty arts and cunning wiles on the side of his more frail and cowardly partner. Indifference first occasions this blindness; infatuation increases it; and in proportion as all interest is lost for the object who so deceives, such husband lives the dupe of the wife, who despises him for his blindness and dies in the same happy illusion, in which he has so long passed away his life. He even presses to his heart, as he leaves them his possessions, the children of some deceitful friend, who, under the plea of amity to himself, has fed upon his fortunes, and seduced the affections of his wife. Disgusting as such picture may be thought, is it not, unhappily for us, daily exhibited to the public view? and shall they who tolerate and see it, and smile in scorn at its continued and increasing success, affect to start with horror from Calantha’s tale? or to discredit that Avondale was yet ignorant of her guilt? He was ofttimes engaged with the duties of his profession—nor thought that whilst risking his life in the service of his country, the woman he loved and confided in, had betrayed him.