I knew it wasn't so. I knew he loved me,--that Le meant nothing,--that it was a passing discontent, a hateful feeling engendered by the sight of the costly trifles before us. Yes,--I knew that. But, good heavens! to tell his wife of it! I sat, with my head throbbing, and holding my hands, utterly tearless; for tears were no expression of the distressful pain, and blank disappointment of a life, that I felt. I said I felt this damp, dark suspicion. It was there like a presence, but it was as indefinite as dark; and I had a sort of control, in the midst of the tumult in my brain and heart, as to what thoughts I would let come to me. Not that! Faults there might be,--great ones,--but not that, the greatest! At least, if I could not respect, I could forgive,--for he loved me. Surely, surely, that must be true! It would come, that flash, like lightning, or the unwilling memories of the drowning. I remembered the rich Miss Kate Stuart, who, they said, liked him, and that her father would have been glad to have him for a son-in-law. And I had asked him once about it, in the careless gayety of happy love. He had said, he supposed it might have happened--perhaps--who knows?--if he had not seen me. But he had seen me! Could it be that he was thinking of? My calmness was giving way. As soon as I spoke, though it was only in a word of ejaculation, my pity for myself broke all the flood-gates down, and I fell on my face in a paroxysm of sobs. A very calm, loving voice, and a strong arm raising me, brought me back at once from the wild ocean of passion on which I was tossing. I had not heard him come in. I was too proud and grieved to speak or to weep. So I dried my tears and sat stiffly silent. "You are tired, dear!" said my husband, tenderly. "No,--it's no matter." "Everything is matter to me that concerns you. You know that,--you believe that, Delphine?" "Why, what a strange sound! just as it used to sound!" I said to myself, whisperingly. I know not what possessed me; but I was determined to have the truth, and the whole truth. I turned towards him and looked straight into his eyes. "Tell me, truly, as you hope God will save you at your utmost need, _do_ you love me? Did you marry me from any motive but that of pure, true love?" "From no other," answered he, with a face of unutterable surprise; and then added, solemnly, "And may God take me, Delphine, when you cease to love me!" It was enough. There was truth in every breath, in every glance of his deep eyes. A delicious languor took the place of the horrible tension that had been every faculty,--a repose so sweet and perfect, that, if reason had placed the clearest possible proofs of my husband's perfidy before me, I should simply have smiled and fallen asleep on his true heart, as I did. When I opened my eyes, I met his anxious look. "Why, what has come over you, Del? I did not know you were nervous."