He stopped at last his restless pacing to and fro and paused beside her. The fierce tide of anger, the first bitterness of his disillusion, had subsided. He was cold, with the coldness of despair. His face was worn and haggard, as if from the suffering of years, but it was set in rigid lines, from which all feeling seemed to have vanished. His eyes were dry and hard.
"I think," he said, and there was a dull, toneless sound in his voice; he spoke slowly, like one who either weighed his words with great care, or was afraid to trust himself too far, "I think there had better be an end to this. I should only say, if I said all I thought, things I might afterwards—regret; and I wouldn't"—his voice broke ever so little—"God knows I don't want to be unjust! But I cannot"—he let his hand fall with a look of dull despair—"I cannot understand how you have kept this from me all these months!"
He paused, as if expecting an answer, an excuse, perhaps of some sort; but she said nothing, and he went on, after a moment, his voice growing more uncertain: "It isn't so much the marriage—that could be, perhaps"—He hesitated, his heavy brows drawn together frowning—"The man must be an absolute wretch," he said, suddenly, "there must be—for your sake I hope so—some way out"——
"Oh, for me"—she made a little gesture of utter carelessness—"for me it can make no difference—now."
"For myself," he went on, not heeding her words, perhaps not fully grasping their meaning, "I couldn't—whether the marriage held or not—I couldn't forgive—being so deceived."
He stopped and again seemed to expect some protest, but she only repeated, in a dull voice of complete acquiescence: "No, I didn't think you could forgive—being so deceived"——
"Even if I could forgive," he said, "I could never trust"——
"No," she repeated, "you could never trust." Her face was colorless, but impassive, as if it had been turned to stone, her voice was almost as firm as his. "You are quite right," she said. "I deserve all the harsh things you could say. It is kind of you to say—so few. Perhaps, later, you'll judge me more gently; but—I couldn't expect it now. And so"—she faltered and caught her breath, as if her strength failed her—"and so good-bye," she said at last. "I think it can only hurt us both to—discuss this any longer."
Her calmness stunned him. He had been prepared for tears—excuses—but she offered no defence and made no effort to arouse his pity. There was a dignity in her complete submission. He looked at her, his face working with varied emotions; and then he said "Good-bye" mechanically and took her hand for an instant. It was icy cold and lay impassively in his. He dropped it and moved towards the door, as if under some spell, deprived of all capacity for thought or feeling. Involuntarily, her eyes followed him. Was this the parting, after so many months? But at the door he paused, he looked back. The firelight played on her hair, on her white dress, the drooping lines of her slender form, the deathly pallor of her face, the despair in her eyes.... He softened, perhaps, or it might be that the mere physical spell of her beauty held him, even when all that made the glory of his love, had been rudely shattered. He came back, caught her in his arms, and pressed burning kisses on her lips. She trembled as if they had been blows, but she made no effort to free herself. And then, as if ashamed of his weakness, he let her go and went out hastily. A moment later she heard the front door close, with a dull sound that echoed through the quiet rooms.
She stood where he had left her, staring blankly about her at the familiar objects which seemed to have acquired, during the last hour, an air of change, of unreality. What had happened, what had she done? Awhile ago she had been borne up by a courage that seemed almost heroic, a sense of moral victory. Now that had failed her. She was simply a woman despised and heart-broken, who by her own suicidal act had destroyed her happiness.