“I know, dear—­I know you will be a good, dear wife, and a dearly loved and fondly cherished wife.  But begin, dear, by giving me your confidence.  There can be no real union without confidence between husband and wife, my Cora.  Surely, you may trust me, dear,” he said, with serious tenderness.

“Yes; I can trust you.  I will trust you with all, through all, Rule.  You are wise and good.  You will forgive me and help me to do right.”  She spoke so wildly and so excitedly that he laid his hand tenderly, soothingly, on her head, and begged her to be calm and to confide in him without hesitation.

Then she told him all.

What a story for a newly-married husband to hear from his wife on the evening of their wedding day!

He listened in silence, and without moving a muscle of his face or form.  When he had heard all he arose from the sofa, stood up, then reeled to an arm chair near at hand and dropped heavily into it, his huge, stalwart frame as weak from sudden faintness as that of an infant.

“Oh, Rule!  Rule! your anger is just!  It is just!” cried Cora, wringing her hands in despair.

He looked at her in great trouble, but his beautiful eyes expressed only the most painful compassion.  He could not answer her.  He could not trust himself to speak yet.  His breast was heaving, working tumultuously.  His tawny-bearded chin was quivering.  He shut his lips firmly together, and tried to still the convulsion of his frame.

“Oh, Rule, be angry with me, blame me, reproach me, for I am to blame—­bitterly, bitterly to blame.  But do not hate me, for I love you, Rule, with a sister’s love.  And forgive me, Rule—­not just now, for that would be impossible, perhaps.  But, oh! do forgive me after a while, Rule, for I do repent—­oh, I do repent that treason of the heart—­that treason against one so worthy of the truest love and honor which woman gives to man.  You will forgive me—­after a while—­after a—­probation?”

She paused and looked wistfully at his grave, pained, patient face.

He could not yet answer her.

“Oh, if you will give me time, Rule, I will—­I will banish every thought, every memory of my—­my—­my season in London, and will devote myself to you with all my heart and soul.  No man ever had, or ever could have, a more devoted wife than I will be to you, if you will only trust me and be happy, Rule.  Oh!” she suddenly burst forth, seeing that he did not reply to her, “you are bitterly angry with me.  You hate me.  You cannot forgive me.  You blame me without mercy.  And you are right.  You are right.”

Now he forced himself to speak, though in a low and broken voice.

“Angry?  With you, Cora?  No, dear, no.”

“You blame me, though.  You must blame me,” she sobbed.

“Blame you?  No, dear.  You have not been to blame,” he faltered, faintly, for he was an almost mortally wounded man.

“Ah! what do you mean?  Why do you speak to me so kindly, so gently?  I could bear your anger, your reproaches, Rule, better than this tenderness, that breaks my heart with shame and remorse!” cried Cora, bursting into a passion of sobs and tears.