He thumped the table with his fist. "You guilty woman," he repeated, just above a whisper. "You guilty—My wife, conspiring with your lover while he keeps me here by force, by brute force. Can you argue against that ... against that?"
It was the great moment of Ann Lytton's life. It seemed as though the inner conflict was causing congestion in her chest, stilling her heart, clogging her breathing, making her blind and powerless to move or speak or think. It was the last struggle against her old manner of thought, against the old Ann, the strangling for once and for all that narrow conscience, the wiping out of that false conception of morality, for she emerged from her moment of doubt, of torment, a beautiful, brave creature. Her great sacrifice had been offered; it had been repulsed with contempt and now she stood free, ready to fight for her spiritual honor, her self-respect, in the face of a world's disapproval, if that should become necessary.
"Yes, I can argue against that," she cried, closing her eyes and smiling in fine confidence. "I can, Ned Lytton. I can, because he is my lover, because the love he bears for me is pure, is good, is true holiness!"
She leaned toward him across the table, still smiling and letting her voice drop to its normal tone, yet losing none of its triumphant resonance.
"And you can say that," he jeered, "after he's been ... after you've been letting him keep you a month!"
"Oh, you can't hurt me with your insults, Ned, for they won't go home. You know that statement isn't true; you know me too well for that. I'm your wife by law, Ned, but beyond that I'm as free as I was five years ago, before I ever saw you. Emancipating myself wasn't easy. I came out here hampered by tradition and terms and prejudice, but I've learned the truth from this country, these people, from ... you. I've learned that without love, without sympathy, without understanding or the effort, the desire, to understand, no marriage is a marriage; that without them it is only ugly, hideous.
"I've had to fight it all out and think it all out for myself. Circumstances and people have helped me make my decision. I owed you something, I still thought, and I came here to-day to fulfill my duty, to give you another chance. If you had met me with even friendliness, I'd have shut my eyes, my ears, my heart to Bruce Bayard in spite of all he means to me. I'd have gone with you, thinking that I might take up the work of regeneration where he left off and give my life to making a man of you, foregoing anything greater, better for myself, in the hope that some day, some time you and I might approach halfway to happiness.
"But what did you do; what did I find? In the first moments hate of me came into your face; you jeered at me for coming, mocked me. That's what happened. Then you suspect me, suspect Bayard, who has kept you alive, who has given you another chance at everything ... including me."
"Suspect him? Of course I suspect him! You've admitted your guilt, you damned—"
"Don't go on that way, Ned. It's only a waste of time. I told you what would have happened, if you had greeted me in another way. You've had your chance ... you've had your thousand chances in these last five years. It's all over now. It's over between us, Ned. It's been a bitter, dreary failure and the sooner we end it all, the better. Don't think I'm going to transgress what you call morality," she pleaded, smiling weakly. "You deserted me, Ned, after you'd abused me. You've refused to support me, you've been unfaithful in every way. I don't think the law that made me your wife will refuse to release me now—"