“Have you nothing to say to me—not one word?” he said.
She shook her head.
“No, not one word,” she said, slowly, mechanically.
Then, with a swift change of manner, she raised her head still higher, and, with a spot of red on either cheek, said:
“Yes! You believe that I have done this thing. You believe that all this time, not only before, but since—since I have been your—wife, I have been deceiving you, have let another man make love to me, have made love to him—”
“How can I help believing it?” he broke in.
“You think that I am a liar and a false woman?” she said. She drew a long breath. “Well, think so. It is easy for you to do so. You judge me by yourself. Have you not deceived me, before and since our marriage? You say you cared for me! You came to me and asked me to be your wife. You knew that I knew nothing of the world, and your sort of man. You were a lord, a gentleman. ‘A gentleman!’” She laughed with bitter scorn. “They were better gentlemen in the Camp; and, though you might be disposed to call them a set of vagabonds, there’s not one of them who would stoop, who would be so mean as to do what you did. You asked me to be your wife because you wanted the money, not because you loved me—for you loved another woman—you love her still!” He took a step forward, his face white, his lips opened to utter a denial. She held up her hand, and it shook. “No use, no use! I have known it ever since the day we were married. I have played the spy, as you have done!” She laughed bitterly. “I was in the anteroom, and heard you and Lady Ada—heard every word!”
His head drooped. He stretched out his hand.
“Don’t say a word!” she said, with an impatient movement of her head. “I have seen you together since she has been here; I have seen her look at you, have heard her voice when she spoke to you. I have learned a great deal since I came to this London of yours. I know what these grand ladies are. Do you think I haven’t listened to the stories of Lady Wyndover and other women? Do you think I don’t know how they live, how little they care what they do, what other women’s hearts they break, so that they can have their own way? You think I don’t know that Lady Ada says to herself, that though you may be my husband, you really belong to her?”
Trafford stood stricken dumb. What could he say? If he had possessed the eloquence of a Cicero he would not succeed in convincing her that his love for Lady Ada was a thing of the past, and that he had grown to love his wife. He turned his head away with a sigh that was like a groan. She looked at him with flashing eyes.