She sat, crushed and confounded, for a time, and it was only by a great effort that she spoke at all. “I did not know, Randolph; I did not know. You should have told me before.” “I believed you did know. You told me that you did.” “Not that. Did you think I could know _that_ and treat him as a friend? Oh, Randolph! how could you? You ought to have told me before.” “Perhaps I ought,” he said. “But remember, Monica, I spoke out very plainly, and still you insisted that he was, and should continue to be, your friend—your repentant friend.” Monica raised her eyes to her husband’s face, full of a sort of mute reproach. She felt that she merited the rebuke—that he might have said much more without being really harsh—and yet it was very hard, in this hour of their re-union, to have to hear, from lips that had never uttered till then anything but words of gentleness and love, these reproofs and strictures on her conduct. She saw that he was moved: that there was a repressed agitation and excitement in his whole manner; but she could not guess how deeply he had been roused and stirred by the careless jests he had heard passed that day, nor how burning an indignation he felt towards the man who had plotted to ruin his happiness. “You should not have left me, Randolph,” said Monica, “if you could not trust me.” He went up to her quietly, and took her hands. She stood up, looking straight into his eyes. “I did trust you—I do trust you,” he answered, with subdued impetuosity. “Can I look into your face and harbour one doubt of your goodness and truth? I trust _you_ implicitly; it is your judgment, not your heart, that has been at fault.” She looked up gratefully, and drew one step nearer. “And now that you have come back, all will be right again,” she said. “Randolph, I will never speak to that man again.” His face was stern; it wore a look she did not understand. “I am not sure of that,” he answered, speaking with peculiar incisiveness. “It may be best that you _should_ speak to him again.” She looked up, bewildered. “Randolph, why do you say that? Do you think that, after all, he has repented?” Randolph’s face expressed an unutterable scorn. She read the meaning of that glance, and answered it as if it had been expressed in words. “Randolph, do you believe for a moment that I would permit any one to speak ill of you to me? Am I not your wife?” His face softened as he looked at her, but there was a good deal of sadness there, too. “I do not believe you would deliberately listen to such words from him; but are not poisoned shafts launched sometimes that strike home and rankle? Has no one ever come between you and me, since the day you gave yourself to me in marriage?” He saw her hesitation, and a great sadness came into his eyes. How near she was and yet how far! His heart ached for her in her loneliness and isolation, and it ached for himself too. Monica broke the silence first.