He made no reply.

“Is it not worth your while to defend yourself?” she burst out, passionately.  “Your silence is an insult!”

“My silence is a confession,” he answered, sadly. “She may accept your mercy—­I may not even hope for it.”

Something in the tone of his voice reminded her of past days—­the days of perfect love and perfect confidence, when she had been the one woman in the world to him.  Dearly treasured remembrances of her married life filled her heart with tenderness, and dimmed with tears the angry light that had risen in her eyes.  There was no pride, no anger, in his wife when she spoke to him now.

“Oh, my husband, has she taken your love from me?”

“Judge for yourself, Catherine, if there is no proof of my love for you in what I have resisted—­and no remembrance of all that I owe to you in what I have confessed.”

She ventured a little nearer to him.  “Can I believe you?”

“Put me to the test.”

She instantly took him at his word.  “When Miss Westerfield has left us, promise not to see her again.”

“I promise.”

“And not even to write to her.”

“I promise.”

She went back to the writing-table.  “My heart is easier,” she said, simply.  “I can be merciful to her now.”

After writing a few lines, she rose and handed the paper to him.  He looked up from it in surprise.  “Addressed to Mrs. MacEdwin!” he said.

“Addressed,” she answered, “to the only person I know who feels a true interest in Miss Westerfield.  Have you not heard of it?”

“I remember,” he said—­and read the lines that followed: 

“I recommend Miss Westerfield as a teacher of young children, having had ample proof of her capacity, industry, and good temper while she has been governess to my child.  She leaves her situation in my service under circumstances which testify to her sense of duty and her sense of gratitude.”

“Have I said,” she asked, “more than I could honorably and truly say—­even after what has happened?”

He could only look at her; no words could have spoken for him as his silence spoke for him at that moment.  When she took back the written paper there was pardon in her eyes already.

The last worst trial remained to be undergone; she faced it resolutely.  “Tell Miss Westerfield that I wish to see her.”

On the point of leaving the room, Herbert was called back.  “If you happen to meet with my mother,” his wife added, “will you ask her to come to me?”

Mrs. Presty knew her daughter’s nature; Mrs. Presty had been waiting near at hand, in expectation of the message which she now received.

Tenderly and respectfully, Mrs. Linley addressed herself to her mother.  “When we last met, I thought you spoke rashly and cruelly.  I know now that there was truth—­some truth, let me say—­in what offended me at the time.  If you felt strongly, it was for my sake.  I wish to beg your pardon; I was hasty, I was wrong.”