“Reginald Grove! You miserable thing,” she said in wholesome anger; “is that all you can remember about me—us? You are not worth saving.”
“Oh, Mrs. Mancredo, you are—are only and honestly Mrs. Reginald Grove! I heard you say it. Wait, my brain can’t stand it. You are—”
“Only and honestly Mrs. Reginald Grove,” she repeated. “My only marriage is with you, just as you understand and remember its limitation, nothing more. We are all seeking a simple life here, with little marriage or giving in marriage, because the power of the angels, with whom we co-operate for the redemption of the Cerberi, is all and in all for us.
“And Reginald, listen to me carefully: No one blames another here; no one hurries or worries, or enters on wordy discussions of past blunders or future plans. We act, leaving no room for license, but taking the liberty to each one be his or her best self, according to individual judgment.
“Now, Reginald, my permanent relation to you is that of sister. I have in no real sense ever been, or wanted to be, your wife; neither shall I ever be. You will hear from the lawyer tomorrow how absolutely sisterly was the affection which impelled me to agree to your wish for our marriage, such as it was; and you will see that the plans I laid in my own mind at eighteen, will be carried out if you like them, now in our maturity. I shall then be legally divorced from you, and—”
She looked at him. His face was bright and cheerful, interested, and perhaps a little perplexed; but above all, cheerful, alert and rather exhilarated.
She continued. “Remember this: We here are all dwellers on the threshold which is between things seen with the physical vision (so to say) and the things which are invisible to those eyes. We are chiefly interested in getting ourselves (and keeping ourselves) in right relations to the realms of supersensuous life, with which we may choose to surround ourselves. For of course we draw about us spirits, which in tendencies and longings are like ourselves. Listen to me: One of the family here, who has a far-reaching inheritance of psychic-faculty and self-poised spiritual power, is—”
“Is,” said Reginald, “the one woman in the world who is, in a way, my wife more than you are.”
Alitza sprang to her feet, flushed and with blazing eyes. For however thoroughly she ought to have been glad that the way was so clear, and Reginald so evidently relieved and ready to give her up, she was not prepared for this raw style of arriving at the conclusion. Till, suddenly, “Truth is his strong point, you know,” seemed uttered in her ears, as if in Ethel’s distant spirit tone. She caught herself up and steadied her angry pulse, and listened, trembling and expectant; but there was nothing more.
Then “Very well, you know your business and I know mine,” she said, and left him.