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Updated: May 20, 2025
Exactly how this was to be managed, and the manner of Zephas' effacement from the scene, never troubled her childish fancy, and, it is but fair to say, her woman's conscience. In the logic before alluded to, it seemed to her that all ethical responsibility for her actions rested with the husband who had unduly married her. Nor were those visions always roseate.
She might be living in a poor cabin, doing all the housework herself, and her husband only a fisherman, but he had treated her like a lady. And so the afternoon passed. The outlying fog began to roll in at the Golden Gate, obliterating the headland and stretching a fleecy bar across the channel as if shutting out from vulgar eyes the way that he had gone. Night fell, but Zephas had not yet come.
But when they were alone again in their little cottage, and Zephas' honest eyes with no trace of evil knowledge or suspicion in their homely, neutral lightness were looking into hers with his usual simple trustfulness, Mrs. Bunker trembled, whimpered, and I grieve to say basely funked her boasted confession. But here the Deity which protects feminine weakness intervened with the usual miracle.
Bunker that she was to carefully retain any correspondence that might be in her hands until further orders, almost at the same time that Zephas as regretfully told her that his projected Southern trip had been suspended. Mrs. Bunker was disappointed, and yet, in some singular conditions of her feelings, felt relieved that her meeting with Marion was postponed.
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