‘Poor—in feeling, most of all,’ said Dinah with irrepressible bitterness.
‘In the constant exhibition of feeling, you mean, in reiterations of “I love you.”’ Gaston turned, having got thus far; he walked back to her with marked deliberation. ‘In the art of quarrelling about nothing—in showy expenditure of emotion on trifles ... emotion of which, I take it, only a limited quantity is dealt to each of us, and which we should store up for large occasions—in capacity of this kind I am, doubtless, poor. If I were a moral nonentity, Dinah, no human heart in my breast at all, it would seem strange, after four years’ companionship, close as ours, that you should love me still!’
There was an inflection in Gaston Arbuthnot’s voice that overstepped the line of tenderness. His face, though it was calm, wore an unwonted flush. To Dinah, burning with passionate sense of injury, the very reasonableness of his speech was an offence. To Dinah his quiet pleading seemed fine words—altogether beside the present grave issue of their lives.
‘Love! Ah, I love you, well as ever, to my misfortune! I shall love you till my death. Do we measure love out by the meagre quantity of it we get in return?’
‘And loving me, after this strong fashion, you desire that we should spend our lives apart? You tempt me to say a cutting thing,’ broke forth Gaston with warmth, ‘yet I believe it to be a true one. A man had better be loved less, Dinah, and that his wife should remain contentedly at his side.’
‘No doubt of it. If you had married an educated woman you might have been happy with her—according to your notions of happiness. But there’s no going back on that now. I exist, you see.’
‘Yes, Dinah, you exist.’
‘And I am two-and-twenty. And since we came to this place, I scarce know why, I have awakened. I see my ignorance. I know that I want more than I used to want in life. Gaston—I cannot fall asleep again. If you let me return among my own people I shall take to their plain country ways—in time, perhaps, shall find a little peace. At least I shall have work, real work, such as I was brought up to. I could never plod, patiently, at cross-stitch flowers for days and days together as I have done. And I can never rise to being a lady, as a week ago I thought I might.’
‘Then the only outlook would seem to be Tavistock Moor. It is not a brilliant one for either of us—for myself, in particular.’ Turning away from her, Gaston took up his hat, he moved aimlessly, and with a dull step towards the door. ‘If I do not cry “Kismet” with a better grace,’ he added, ‘you must remember this sentence of widowerhood has come upon one suddenly—as I think, without justice. But I shall not seek to stay you. I wish you to take back your freedom, unconditionally.’