“Martin, have pity!”
“Pity! Yes, I pity the women in the streets! Am I to pity you, as I pity them? You, whom I worshipped—whom I thought as pure as the angels—wearing nothing of earth but your frail loveliness, which to me always seemed more of spirit than of clay. And you were false all the time—false as hell—the toy of the first idle profligate whom chance flung into your path? It was Lostwithiel! That man was right. He would hardly have dared to talk to you as he did if he had not been certain of his facts. Lostwithiel was your lover.”
“Martin, have pity!” she repeated, with her hands clasped before her face.
“Pity! Don’t I tell you that I pity you—pity you whom I used to revere! Great God! can you guess what pain it is to change respect for the creature one loves into pity? I told you that I would never hurt you—that I would never bring shame upon you, Isola. You have no unkindness to fear from me. But you have broken my heart, you have slain my faith in man and woman. I could have staked my life on your purity—I could have killed the man who slandered you—and you swore a false oath—you called upon Heaven to witness a lie!”
“I was a miserable creature, Martin. I could not bear to lose your love. If death had been my only penalty I could have borne it, but not the loss of your love.”
“And your sister and her husband? They were as ready with their lies as you were,” he exclaimed bitterly.
“Don’t blame Gwendolen. I telegraphed to her, imploring her to stand by me—to say that I was in London with her.”
“And you were not in London?”
“No, except to pass through, when—when I had escaped from him, and was on my way home.”
“Escaped! My God! What villainy must have been used against you—so young, so helpless! Tell me all—without reserve—as freely as you want to be forgiven.”