at
she would have done. Of course, dear madam, I hear you say, _vous
autres_, "She needn't have made such a fool of herself! She might have
explained or--something!" I quite agree with you. That is what all of
us think who have survived the delirium of the honeymoon, that _mielle
de la lune-acy_ which all of us must encounter as our children do the
measles; but, you see, Mrs. Truscott was not yet through with it, and
what is more, I have heard you remark on several occasions that she was
an awfully weak sort of a heroine and would make Jack wretched yet.
Bless your womanly hearts! I never pretended that she was a Zenobia, or
a Jeanne la Pucelle, or a Susan B. Anthony. She was absurd, if you will,
but she was utterly in love with her husband, as Mrs. Turner said, and
thought far more of him than the rest of mankind put together, which is
more than some of you can say, though I'm bound to admit that she had
better reason than most of you, _placens uxor mea_ frankly included.

She had rushed up-stairs for a fresh burst of tears, and presently
Marion, all love and sympathy, came to see her, and the result of that
interview complicated matters in a way that baffles description. So far
from upholding her course, Miss Sanford had looked first grave, then
frightened, then indignant. In plain words she told her that at such a
time, when the man who had saved her life,--saved her honor,--showed
himself her best friend, her husband's best friend, stood charged with a
foul crime of which she well knew him to be guiltless, and had sent her
a simple note that could have no possible purpose other than to say that
now, at last, he might, to save his own name, have to tell of Gleason's
fiendish conduct towards her--to refuse it, to send it back--"Oh, Grace,
Grace, you _don't_ mean you could have done _that_! Oh, it was
monstrous! it was shameful!"

And Marion Sanford had rushed into her own room, banged--yes, _banged_
the door, locked it, put a chair against it, would have moved the
washstand up against it, but her strength gave out, and she hurled
herself upon the bed in a tempest of passionate tears.

Ah, well! even now--ten years after--it is no easy thing to write or
tell of those days. It was part of our purpose to go around the garrison
and show how other people looked at the matter, but it may be as well to
say that, except Blake, Warner, and the surgeon, every officer thought
Ray guilty. So, too, did most of the men except ove