“You have only to read the ‘new’ fiction,”—she went on, a mocking smile lighting up her pale face, “and indeed all ‘new’ literature generally, to be assured that your ideas of domestic virtue are quite out of date. Both men and women are, according to certain accepted writers of the day, at equal liberty to love when they will, and where they may. Polygamous purity is the ‘new’ creed! Such love, in fact, [p 372] so we are taught, constitutes the only ‘sacred’ union. If you want to alter this ‘movement,’ and return to the old-fashioned types of the modest maiden and the immaculate matron, you must sentence all the ‘new’ writers of profitable pruriency to penal servitude for life, and institute a Government censorship of the modern press. As matters stand, your attitude of the outraged husband is not only ridiculous,—it is unfashionable. I assure you I do not feel the slightest prick of conscience in saying I love Lucio,—any woman might be proud of loving him;—he, however, will not, or cannot love me,—we have had a ‘scene,’ and you have completed the dramatic effect by witnessing it,—there is no more to be said or done in the affair. I do not suppose you can divorce me,—but if you can, you may—I shall make no defence.”
She turned, as if to go;—I still stared dumbly at her, finding no words to cope with her effrontery,—when Lucio’s voice, attuned to a grave and soothing suavity, interposed,—
“This is a very painful and distressing state of things,”—he said, and the strange half-cynical, half contemptuous smile still rested on his lips—“but I must positively protest against the idea of divorce, not only for her ladyship’s sake, but my own. I am entirely innocent in the matter!”
“Innocent!” I exclaimed, grasping him again by the hand; “You are nobility itself, Lucio!—as loyal a friend as ever man had! I thank you for your courage,—for the plain and honest manner in which you have spoken. I heard all you said! Nothing was too strong,—nothing could be too strong to awaken this misguided woman to a sense of her outrageous conduct,—her unfaithfulness——”
“Pardon me!” he interrupted delicately—“The Lady Sibyl can scarcely be called unfaithful, Geoffrey. She suffers,——from——let us call it, a little exaltation of nerves! In thought she may be guilty of infidelity, but society does not know that,—and in act she is pure,—pure as the newly-driven snow,—and as the newly-driven snow, will society, itself immaculate, regard her!”
[p 373]
His eyes glittered,—I met his chill derisive glance.
“You think as I do, Lucio!” I said hoarsely—“You feel with me, that a wife’s unchaste thought is as vile as her unchaste act. There is no excuse,—no palliative for such cruel and abominable ingratitude. Why,”—and my voice rose unconsciously as I turned fiercely again towards Sibyl—“Did I not free you and your family from the heavy pressure of poverty and debt? Have I grudged you anything? Are you not loaded with jewels?—have you not greater luxuries and liberties than a queen? And do you not owe me at least some duty?”
“I owe you nothing!” she responded boldly—“I gave you what you paid for,—my beauty and my social position. It was a fair bargain!”
“A dear and bitter one!” I cried.
“Maybe so. But such as it was, you struck it,—not I. You can end it when you please,—the law ...”