no settlements either, when I married.
He said he had a conscientious scruple
against them; that they were insulting to a
man's honour and degrading to any husband.
This was one of the reasons why, at home,
they did not wish me to marry him. But I
waa only glad to be able to show him
how I trusted him, by meeting his wishes
and refusing, on my own account, to
accept the legal protection of settlements. It
was such a pride to me to sacrifice all to him.
Thus I knew nothing of his real life—his
pursuits or his fortunes. I never asked him
any questions, as much from indifference to
everything but his love as from a wifely
blindness of trust. When he came home at
night, sometimes very gay, singing opera
songs, and calling me his little Medora,
as he used when in a good humour, I
was gay too, and grateful. And when he
came home moody and irritable—which he
used to do, often, after we had been married
about three months, once even threatening to
strike me, with that fearful glare in his eyes I
remember so well, and used to see so often
afterwards—then I was patient and silent,
and never attempted even to take his hand
or kiss his forehead when he bade me be still
and not interrupt him. He was my law, and
his approbation the sunshine of my life; so
that my very obedience was selfishness; for
my only joy was to see him happy, and my
only duty to obey him.

My sister came to visit us. My husband
had seen very little of her before our marriage;
for she had often been from home
when he was with us, down at Hurst Farm
—that was the name of my dear mother's
place—and I had always fancied they had
not liked even the little they had seen of
each other. Ellen was never loud or importunate
in her opposition. I knew that she
did not like the marriage, but she did not interfere.
I remember quite well the only
time she spoke openly to me on the subject
how she flung herself at my knees, with a
passion very rare in her, beseeching me to
pause and reflect, as if I had sold myself to
my ruin when I promised to be Harry's wife.
How she prayed! Poor Ellen! I can
see her now, with her heavy, uncurled hair
falling on her neck as she knelt half undressed,
her large eyes full of agony and
supplication, like a martyred saint praying.
Poor Ellen! I thought her prejudiced then;
and this unspoken injustice has lain like a
heavy crime on my heart ever since: for I
know that I judged her wrongfully, and that
I was ungrateful for her love.

She came to see us. This was about
a year and a half after I married. She was
more beautiful than ever, but somewhat
sterner, as well as sadder. She was tall,
strong in person, and dignified in manner.
There was a certain manly character
in her beauty, as well as in her
mind, that made one respect and fear her
too a little. I do not mean that she was
masculine, or hard, or coarse: she was
a true woman in grace and gentleness;
but she was braver than women in general.
She had more self-reliance, was more resolute
and steadfast, and infinitely less impulsive,
and was more active and powerful in body.

My husband was very kind to her. He
paid her great attention; and sometimes I
half perceived that he liked her almost
better than he liked me—he used to look at
her so often: but with such a strange expression
in his eyes! I never could quite
make it out, whether it was love or hate.
Certainly, after she came his manner changed
towards me. I was not jealous. I did not
suspect this change from any small feeling of
wounded self-love, or from any envy of my
sister; but I saw it—I felt it in my heart—
yet without connecting it with Ellen in any
way. I knew that he no longer loved me as
he used to do, but I did not think he loved
her; at least, not with the same kind of love.
I used to be surprised at Ellen's conduct to
him. She was more than cold; she was
passionately rude and unkind; not so much
when I was there as when I was away. For
I used to hear her voice speaking in those deep
indignant tones that are worse to bear than
the harshest scream of passion; and sometimes
I used to hear hard words—he speaking
at the first soft and pleadingly, often to
end in a terrible burst of anger and
imprecation. I could not understand why
they quarrelled. There was a mystery
between them that I did not know of; and I did
not like to ask them, for I was afraid of them
both—as much afraid of Ellen as of my husband
—and I felt like a reed between
them as if I should have been crushed
beneath any storm I might chance to wake
up. So, I was silent—suffering alone, and
bearing a cheerful face so far as I could.

Ellen wanted me to return home with her.
Soon after she came, and soon after I heard
the first dispute between them, she urged me
to go back to Hurst Farm; at once, and for
a long time. Weak as I am by nature, it has
always been a marvel to me since, how strong
I was where my love for my husband was
concerned. It seemed impossible for me to
yield to any pressure against him. I believe
now that a very angel could not have turned
me from him!

At last she said to me in a low voice:
"Mary, this is madness! —it is almost sinful!
Can you not see—can you not hear ? " And
then she stopped and would say no more,
though I urged her to tell me what she
meant. For this terrible mystery began to
weigh on me painfully, and, for all that I
trembled so much to fathom it, I had begun
to feel that any truth would be better than
such a life of dread. I seemed to be living
among shadows; my very husband and sister
not real, for their real lives were hidden
from me. But I was too timid to insist on