'I have also thought of that,' he said, 'but I cannot.'
When two people have been married, and have lived together for some years, they do not require many words to understand one another. She knew it would be quite useless to try and move him.
'Why did you forgive me, then?' she said, wringing her hands. 'Why did you let me stay with you as your wife and promise to forgive me?'
He knew that he would not do her any harm. It was not his fault that he had now reached the limit of his forbearance.
'Say to people what you like,' he said; 'I shall not say anything. You can say, if you like, that there is water in the vault, or that there is only room for father and mother and you and me.'
'And you imagine that they will believe that!'
'Well, you must manage that as best you can.'
He was not angry; she knew that he was not. It was only as he said: on that point he could not give way.
She went further into the room, put her hands at the back of her head, and sat gazing out of the window without saying anything. The terrible thing is that so much happens to one in life over which one has no control, and, above all, that something may spring up within one's self over which one is entirely powerless. Some years ago, when she was already a staid married woman, love came to her; and what a love--so violent that it was quite impossible for her to resist.
Was not the feeling which now mastered her husband--was not that, after all, a desire to be revenged?
He had never been angry with her. He forgave her at once when she came and confessed her sin.
'You have been out of your senses,' he said, and allowed her to remain with him at Lerum as if nothing had happened.
But although it is easy enough to say one forgives, it may be hard to do so, especially for one whose mind is slow and heavy, who ponders over but never forgets or gives vent to his feelings. Whatever he may say, and however much he may have made up his mind, something is always left within his heart which gnaws and longs to be satisfied with someone else's suffering. She had always had a strange feeling that it would have been better for her if he had been so enraged that he had struck her. Then, perhaps, things could have come right between them. All these years he had been morose and irritable, and she had become frightened. She was like a horse between the traces. She knew that behind her was one who held a whip over her, even if he did not use it; and now he had used it. He had not been able to refrain any longer. And now it was all over with her.