With bursting brain, stunned with unanalyzed pain and bewilderment, as yet but half comprehending the wild words he has unwittingly heard, Armstrong strides blindly onward, trying to fly, to escape from the fever of his heart, from the sound of the wailing childish voice that has tolled the death-knell of his peace.

He does not care, does not know whither he goes, for the path before him is misty and blurred in the gleaming moonlight, his eyes are dim with fury and anguish. He rolls heavily against an old seaman tottering home from the public-house, and with an oath closes on him; they struggle for a moment, until Armstrong, staggering backward, loses his footing, and falls from the elevated edge of the esplanade to the soft sand skirting the sea, some ten feet below. The physical shock sobers him; he remains where he has fallen, crouching on the shore, his haggard face buried in his hands. Presently he bursts into a low discordant laugh and homely disjointed soliloquy:

"Tom Armstrong, Tom Armstrong, my man, you've made a mess of it at last! It has been pretty plain sailing with you all your life; but now you must take in your canvas, for you've come to grief at last—you've come to grief—to grief—to grief! Oh, fool—fool—fool that I have been! Pip-headed idiot, I deserve my fate!"

And then he falls into silence again, and goes over, day by day, hour by hour, the short sunny spell of his one love-dream. Every look, every word, every smile, every kiss he lives through again with the lurid lamp of truth and disillusion hanging overhead. A fierce brute-like passion seizes him, he springs to his feet with flaming eyes and distorted face.

"Confusion seize her for a hypocrite," he shouts—"a consummate, lying hypocrite! How dare she blind me as she has done? How dare she debase me in my own eyes, and make my life unbearable? What had I done to her, the jade? Only loved her—only loved her better than my life! Oh, how can such women be? Have they no soul, no heart, no conscience? How could she look me in the face with those clear pure eyes, black perjury lodging in her breast all the time, as she has done every day since I married her? How she has lied to me—how she has lied with her lips, with her eyes, with her smile, with every motion of her body, morning, noon, and night! Confusion seize her!"

He dashes on again for miles and miles along the sleeping coast, muttering and gasping, trying to stanch the gaping wound of his love and pride, until the fading moonlight meets the rosy glow of dawn and dies in her embrace; and then, at last thoroughly worn out, he sinks again to rest, his face white and set, the storm of his passion stilled forever, all wrath and bitterness gone from his breast, only pity, remorse, and infinite melancholy dwellers therein. Reason has reasserted her sway, and many dark things are light to him now.

The problem which Addie weakly tried to solve some hours before is clear as day to him she has wronged, and he pities her as sincerely as he pities himself.

"Poor little soul!" he thinks drearily. "Heaven help her, how she must have suffered! And what pluck she must have! Poor little Addie! What chance had she against us all—against my brutish obstinacy and desire, against her greedy, selfish kindred, her miserable surroundings—what chance had she? Not one to stand by her, to save her from me—not even the memory of a lover, I feel sure—not even that! And I called her a hypocrite, a liar, instead of a martyr, a heroine! I have wished her ill because she made her sacrifice without a murmur, nobly, unselfishly; because she sought to build my happiness on the wreck of her own; because she smiled in my face when her heart was perhaps breaking! Oh, forgive me, forgive me, dear; and Heaven teach me how to deal with you gently, unselfishly, tenderly to the end!"

He sits for a full hour without moving, buried in deep thought, mapping out his life and hers, which, alas, is still bound to his till death! And then he rises, undresses, takes a plunge off the rock against which he has been leaning, swims out half a mile to sea, returns, and, much refreshed and quite composed, dresses and walks back to the town, from which he has wandered many miles due west.

He finds his wife, who has evidently not been to bed all night, in her sitting-room, with pale wan face and eyes strained with tears and frightened watching.

"Oh, here you are!" she sobs hysterically, when he enters at last. "Where have you been? I thought you were never coming home again. You—you should not have frightened me so!"

"I am sorry I frightened you, Addie," he says gently. "I walked on to Sandyfort last night, had a swim there, and then came back; the morning was so lovely, I couldn't take to the train. Why did you sit up? That was wrong."

She makes no reply, but presently creeps up to him and lays her hand on his shoulder, stammering out—

"You—you came to the door of the dressing-room? You—you heard me last night?"

He assents mutely.

"Then, Tom," she cries, clinging to him feverishly, "you must forget every word I said; they meant nothing—nothing! I don't know what came over me. I was not myself; I think I was mad. You—you—"

"Don't, dear, don't," he says, with a still cold gentleness, putting her from him; "it is of no use. You can never deceive me again, Addie—never! Give up the effort; it would be only useless pain to me and to you."

"I can not—I can not!" she answers, with a quiver in her voice; for something in his face, in his tone, chills her to the heart and tells her, even more powerfully than his words have done, that he will never believe her again; that smiles or tears, protest or prayer, will fall on his ear in vain meaningless sound. "I can not," she repeats, "because you are mistaken. You must—oh, you must listen to me! I tell you it is not fair to judge; I was not myself at the moment, I was—"

"You were not the 'self' who sacrificed your youth and your liberty so loyally to me at the moment. No; you had cast your chains aside and were inhaling a breath of freedom—unhallowed freedom, you poor little bird," he says with dreary sadness—"and I scared you, Addie. You must let your wings grow again, you must go back to your careless happy maidenhood, get clear of the shadow I brought on your path."

"I can not do that—I can not do that; it is too late now!"

"You can, you can," he says. "Youth has strong recuperative power; you will be the same again, Addie, soon. It will all come back; the boys will bring it, the old home, the old associations will bring it to you. This short time of trial will fade from your memory; like a thunderous cloud, it will pass from your sky; you will find, behind, the clear light of spring. Believe me, it will be so."

She comes over to him, slowly, hesitatingly, and, dropping upon her knees by his side, seizes his hands.

"Don't, Tom; don't talk like that! What is the use? You married me, and nothing can divide us now. I am your wife, and I don't want anything back but your faith in me."

"That you can never recover—at least not in the sense you mean," he says, freeing his hands gently from her detaining clasp and walking away from her side. "Do not ask it, please."

"No," she answers, in a low voice, "I will not again."

She rises slowly to her feet, and stands looking blankly out on the sunny waves. "I will not again," she thinks bitterly, "because anything I have to give is of no value to him now; even if I had the love of Juliet to give—which I haven't nor ever could have for any man—even if I had that, he would not care for it now. I have killed that feeling in him; I can read it in the weary bitterness of his face. His fancy for me was sudden, violent, unaccountable even to himself, and it has died a death as sudden as was its birth—a few wild unmeaning words, and it is no more. So much for man's constancy! It is well for me that I did not love him, that he was not the husband of my choice, or this might have been a bitterer, crueler day than it is. Poor Ariadne! I wonder did she make much of a fuss when she was left on the rock, and for how long did she feel it before the other man—I forget his name—came up and rescued her—eh? Were you speaking?"—aloud, sharply.

"Yes, Addie: I want to know if you will discuss this matter sensibly with me, and help me to arrive at the most satisfactory arrangement for our future lives."

"Certainly, if you wish it; I am quite ready. Had we not better take seats? You must be tired after your long walk."

Her tone is as steady and as matter-of-fact as his own; they sit at the table facing each other.

"We must begin by accepting the fact—"

"That you have had no breakfast as yet. Am I right?"

"Breakfast?" he repeats absently. "Yes, no—I—I don't remember. No; now that I come to think, I have had none as yet."

"Will you allow me to ring and order some for you now?"

"Thank you, you are very kind."

When the servant has retired, he resumes quietly—

"By accepting the fact boldly and clearly that we have made a mistake, you and I, in casting our lots together—You follow me?"

She nods, without speaking.

"But, having done so, it is our duty to look our position steadily, cheerfully, even, if possible, hopefully in the face, and without useless repining or mutual recrimination. We are husband and wife still, in name at least, in the eyes of the law and the world at large, and nothing but death can free us from that self-imposed bondage."

"Nothing," she echoes absently.

"Nothing but a contingency which is not likely to occur, and which therefore I need not discuss with you. The question which now must occupy us is how to make our future lives as bearable as we can in the circumstances. If you wish it, we can manage to live apart without much—"

"No no," she breaks in vehemently, "not that—not that! If you mean that I am to live at Nutsgrove without you, I will consent to no such arrangement. I will never return there without you; you can not move me in that."

"I do not wish to do so. The plan I would propose is that you and I return there together, as we had originally intended, and, for a couple of years at least, keep up before the world in general, and your brothers and sisters in particular"—here he winces for the first time—"the semblance, the form of union. Do you feel equal to such an undertaking? Would it be too much for you?"

"No," she answers, almost cheerfully; "it would not. I could do my part easily."

"Yes," he says, with a melancholy smile, "I suppose you could. You—you are a capital actress, Addie."

She flushes quickly.

"Not as good as you think—oh, Tom, not as good—"

But he goes on, heedless of the interruption—

"The task will not be so difficult as it may appear to you now. Life at Nutsgrove will be very different from what it has been here. I, of course, shall be away at my business all day, and shall have many interests to occupy me which will not touch your life. You will have the boys and the girls to look after, your household affairs, and, I suppose, social engagements which will fill your days pleasantly, I hope. Then it is decided we return together? You have no other plan you would like better to suggest?"

"No; let us go home," she says, shortly.

"So be it. We agree to take up the burden of our separate existences as bravely and as cheerfully as we can, having one tie in common—the secret of our mistake to hide between us. At the same time, if you think it necessary or advisable to confide in your brother Robert and your sister Pauline, I will raise no objection. You have never had, I heard you say one day, any secret from them as yet."

"No; I don't think I have—at least, not of any importance," she interrupts hurriedly; "but—but I would rather have this now. I would rather—oh, much rather they did not even suspect!"

"I think you are right. I think, after mature deliberation, that the more jealously we guard our unfortunate secret—for a time at least—the better it will be. For you must know, my dear, that in cases of this kind—in fact, in almost all cases of family disagreements and domestic ruptures—no matter how much the man be in fault—and he is generally the leading culprit—the burden of blame of trouble, of disgrace even, always falls heaviest on the weakest shoulders. And you are very young yet, Addie, and you have not many friends; that is why I have taken it upon myself to advise you as I have done, to advise you to bear for the present the shelter of my name and protection."

"How good you are—how very good!"

"Hush! You know nothing of me—nothing. Do not criticise, but help me to render you justice, to repair the wrong I have done you in my—"

"Wrong—wrong? What wrong have you done me?" she asks wildly.

"You are unnerved and excited from want of food and of rest. Here comes breakfast at last. Afterward you must go and lie down and have a good sleep; you look as if you wanted it badly."

In constrained silence they finish their meal; then he rises wearily.

"I am going down to the club for an hour or two, and then I shall have a few letters to write. I hope to see you quite refreshed by dinner-time. Ugh, how dark and cold the morning has become, hasn't it? Coming along, I noticed the storm-warning up at the coastguard station. I'm afraid we're in for bad weather."

"Yes; it looks like a change."

"Would you like to be moving, Addie? Have you had enough of the sea? We've had a pleasant fortnight here, and splendid weather for the season. If you'd like to begin moving slowly homeward, I'm quite ready."

"Very well; let us move before the storm then."

"I'll write to-day to Nutsgrove to prepare them for our arrival at the end of the week."

"Thank you. That will be very nice."

He walks slowly to the door, hesitates for a moment, then returns to where she sits toying with her spoon.

"You—you bear me no ill-will, Addie? We—we are friends still, are we not?"

"Oh, yes, I suppose so—whatever you like!" she answers coldly. "You have taken upon yourself the definition of our relationship; let us be friends certainly, if you think it judicious."

He looks at her for a moment with frowning brow, then says shortly—

"That is all I have to say. We understand each other, I think, at last."

"Do we?"

"And this subject need never be reopened between us; do you hear me, Addie?"—a little sternly, for she is humming the refrain of a flippant little song that the band had played on the night before. "I wish the discussion of this subject not to be renewed. I have said all I want to say, and I have heard all I want to hear from you. Until this day twelvemonth I refuse to listen to another word on the subject; on that day we can compare notes and give each other suggestions for the improvement of our programme of life. Are you listening? Do you hear me?"

"Oh, yes, I hear you! Good-morning!"

Later on in the day Addie sits on the rocks where she stood on the night before muffled in her woolly wrap, her life almost as free from restraint and vexatious watchfulness as if she still bore her maiden name. Yes, her days are her own again in all that minor detail of movement that makes the sum of existence; she can cast aside every cumbersome article of her trousseau, take off her hat, her cloak, even her shoes and stockings, and paddle in the cool waves, unheeded, unadmonished. But, such is the inconsistency of woman's nature, with the power of this freedom for which she has so lately panted, all desire to exercise it has passed away; she sits very still and subdued, wrapped up in her cloak, shivering a little, her gray eyes fixed in troubled perplexity on the tumbling waters.

"Yes," she thinks, with a dreary sigh, "I suppose he is right; there is no use in crying over spilled milk; it is better to accept the inevitable, and make the best of it. Fretting and worrying won't mend matters for him or for me. And, after all, have I not the best things in life left to me still—my own darling brothers and sisters and the home I love? They ought to be enough, surely, surely! Oh, yes, yes, I will do as he wishes! I will put the past from me, forget it, and enjoy the good things left to me. Is it my fault? I never meant to hurt or harm him—Heaven knows that—he knows it too—therefore why can't I be happy by and by? Oh, I must, I must"—with a burst of protesting passion—"and I will!" Then after a long wistful pause—"If I were not so heavily weighted! If I had any hope of paying him back, of lightening the debt! But I have none—none! I got my chance. I've had my day, and lost it—lost it forever!"