The step taken, the marriage over, nothing could any more affect either fact.  Only, unfortunately for the satisfaction and repose she had desired and expected, her love to her husband had gone on growing after they were married.  True she sometimes fancied it otherwise, but while the petals of the rose were falling, its capsule was filling; and notwithstanding the opposite tendency of the deoxygenated atmosphere in which their thoughts moved, she had begun already to long after an absolute union with him.  But this growth of her love, and aspiration after its perfection, although at first they covered what was gone by with a deepening mist of apparent oblivion, were all the time bringing it closer to her consciousness—­out of the far into the near.  And now suddenly that shape she knew of, lying in the bottom of the darkest pool of the stagnant Past, had been stung into life by a wind of words that swept through Nestley chapel, had stretched up a hideous neck and threatening head from the deep, and was staring at her with sodden eyes:  henceforth she knew that the hideous Fact had its appointed place between her and her beautiful Paul, the demon of the gulfy cleft that parted them.

The moment she spoke in reply to his greeting her husband also felt something dividing them, but had no presentiment of its being any thing of import.

“You are over-tired, my love,” he said, and taking her hand, felt her pulse.  It was feeble and frequent.

“What have they been doing to you, my darling?” he asked.  “Those little demons of ponies running away again?”

“No,” she answered, scarce audibly.

“Something has gone wrong with you,” he persisted.  “Have you caught cold?  None of the old symptoms, I hope?”

“None, Paul.  There is nothing the matter,” she answered, laying her head lightly, as if afraid of the liberty she took, upon his shoulder.  His arm went round her waist.

“What is it, then, my wife?” he said tenderly.

“Which would you rather have, Paul—­have me die, or do something wicked?”

“Juliet, this will never do!” he returned quietly but almost severely.  “You have been again giving the reins to a morbid imagination.  Weakness and folly only can come of that.  It is nothing better than hysteria.”

“No, but tell me, dear Paul,” she persisted pleadingly.  “Answer my question.  Do, please.”

“There is no such question to be answered,” he returned.  “You are not going to die, and I am yet more certain you are not going to do any thing wicked.  Are you now?”

“No, Paul.  Indeed I am not.  But——­”

“I have it!” he exclaimed.  “You went to church at Nestley last night!  Confound them all with their humbug!  You have been letting their infernal nonsense get a hold of you again!  It has quite upset you—­that, and going much too long without your dinner.  What can be keeping it?” He left her hurriedly and rang the bell.  “You must speak to the cook, my love.  She is getting out of the good habits I had so much trouble to teach her.  But no—­no! you shall not be troubled with my servants.  I will speak to her myself.  After dinner I will read you some of my favorite passages in Montaigne.  No, you shall read to me:  your French is so much better than mine.”