“I cannot answer that question,” she said at last.

“That is quite as good as saying ‘yes.’  You had seen this man; he had come between us already.  O, Marian, Marian, why were you not more candid?”

“Because I was weak and foolish.  I could not bear to make you unhappy.  O, believe me, Gilbert, I had no thought of falsehood at that time.  I fully meant to be true to my promise, come what might.”

“I am quite willing to believe that,” he answered gently.  “I believe that you acted from first to last under the influence of a stronger will than your own.  You can see that I feel no resentment against you.  I come to you in sorrow, not in anger.  But I want to understand how this thing came to pass.  Why was it that you never wrote to me to tell me the complete change in your feelings?”

“It was thought better not,” Marian faltered, after a pause.

“By you?”

“No; by my husband.”

“And you suffered him to dictate to you in that matter.  Against your own sense of right?”

“I loved him,” she answered simply.  “I have never refused to obey him in anything.  I will own that I thought it would be better to write and tell you the truth; but my husband thought otherwise.  He wished our marriage to remain a secret from you, and from all the world for some time to come.  He had his own reasons for that—­reasons I was bound to respect.  I cannot think how you came to discover this out-of-the-world place.”

“I have taken some trouble to find you, Marian, and it is a hard thing to find you the wife of another; but the bitterness of it must be borne.  I do not want to reproach you when I tell you that my life has been broken utterly by this blow.  I want you to believe in my truth and honour, to trust me now as you might have trusted me when you first discovered that you could not love me.  Since I am not to be your husband, let me be the next best thing—­your friend.  The day may come in which, you will have need of an honest man’s friendship.”

She shook her head sadly.

“You are very good,” she said; “but there is no possibility at friendship between you and me.  If you will only say that you can forgive me for the great wrong I have done you, there will be a heavy burden lifted from my heart; and whatever you may think now, I cannot doubt that in the future you will find some one far better worthy of your love than ever I could have been.”

“That is the stereotyped form of consolation, Marian, a man is always referred to—­that shadowy and perfect creature who is to appear in the future, and heal all his wounds.  There will be no such after-love for me.  I staked all when I played the great game; and have lost all.  But why cannot I be your friend, Marian?”

“Can you forgive my husband for his part in the wrong that has been done you?  Can you be his friend, knowing what he has done?”

“No!” Gilbert answered fiercely between his set teeth.  “I can forgive your weakness, but not the man’s treachery.”