"I came in search of you," said he, in a low voice, "to see what I
could do toward your happiness. I knew that in your situation, a wife
separated from her husband, dependent on heaven knew what for a
maintenance, you must have many anxious, distressful hours. If I had
known where to find you, I should have sent you money regularly from
the first, and eased your mind with a definite understanding. And now
I wish to do this--nay, I _will_ do it, for it is my right. Whatever
may have happened, you are still the Madge Faringfield I--I loved from
the first; nothing can make you another woman to me: and though you
chose to be no longer my wife, 'tis impossible that while I live I can
cease to be your husband."
The corners of her lips twitched, but she recovered herself with a
disconsolate sigh. "Chose to be no longer your wife," she repeated.
"Yes, it appeared so. I wanted to shine in the world. I have shone--on
the stage, I mean; but that's far from the way I had looked to. A
woman in my situation--a wife separated from her husband--can never
shine as I had hoped to, I fancy. But I've been admired in a way--and
it hasn't made me happy. Admiration can't make a woman happy if she
has a deeper heart than her desire of admiration will fill. If I could
have forgot, well and good; but I couldn't forget, and can't forget.
And one must have love, and devotion; but after having known yours,
Philip, whose else could I find sufficient?"
And now there was a pause while each, fearing that the other might not
desire reunion, hesitated to propose it; and so, each one waiting for
the other to say the word, both left it unsaid.
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