an opening. After that first evening never
does he draw nigh the subject: never once is the detested name of
Musgrave mentioned between us. If he had been one most dear to us both
and had died untimely, we could not avoid with more sacred care any
allusion to him. And, even if, by doing infinite violence to myself, I
could bring myself to overcome the painful steepness of the hill of
difficulty that lies between me and the subject, and tell the tardy
truth, to what use, pray? Having once owned that I had lied, could I
resent any statement of mine being taken with distrust? Would he believe
me? Not he! He would say, "If you were as innocent as you say, why did
you _lie_? If you were innocent, what had you to fear?" So I hold my
peace. And, as the days go, and the winter wanes, it seems to me that I
can plainly see, with no uncertain or doubtful eyes, Roger's love wane
too.

After all, why should I wonder? I may be sorry, for who ever saw gladly
love--the one all-good thing on this earth, most of whose good things
are adulterated and dirt-smirched--who ever saw it _gladly_ slip away
from them? But I cannot be surprised.

With Roger, love and trust must ever go hand-in-hand; and, when the one
has gone, the other must needs soon follow.

After all, what he loved in me was a delusion--had never existed. It was
my blunt honesty, my transparent candor, the open-hearted downrightness
that in me amounted to a misfortune, that had at first attracted him.
And now that he has found that the unpolished abruptness of my manners
can conceal as great an amount of deception as the most insinuating
silkiness of any one else's, I do not see what there is left in me to
attract him. Certainly I have no beauty to excite a man's passions, nor
any genius to enchain his intellect, nor even any pretty accomplishment
to amuse his leisure.

Why _should_ he love me? Because I am his wife? Nay, nay! who ever loved
because it was their duty? who ever succeeded in putting love in
harness, and _driving_ him? Sooner than be the object of such up-hill
conscientious affection, I had far rather be treated with cold
indifference--active hatred even. Because I am young? That seems no
recommendation in his eyes! Because I love him? He does not believe it.
Once or twice I have tried to tell him so, and he has gently pooh-poohed
me.

Sometimes it has occurred to me that, perhaps, if I had him all to
myself, I might even yet bring him back to me--might re