"She at least had never wronged you," Richard Gilbert pitilessly went on. "Have you made her any happier, Mrs. Darcy, by taking her husband from her? In spite of his myriad faults she loved him—she trusted him, and so, neither poverty, hard work, nor neglect could make her altogether miserable. You led him on—led him on from the first, in cold blood, working for your revenge. And when you had crazed his brain by your smiles and fair words, and allurements, you brought his wife here to overhear the passion you had labored to inspire. You madden her in turn, you take her from him, you order him from your presence like a dog. You took from him the one good angel of his life—his wife—and gave him up boldly to the devil. He has earned it all, you have your revenge, but—as I stand and look at you here, I wonder—I wonder if you can be Norine Bourdon."
A dry sob was her answer. He had poured forth the words, passionate reproach in his voice, passionate anger in his eyes. And she had shrank away before his just wrath like a guilty thing.
"His home is a gambler's hell—his food and drink are the liquid fire called whiskey; his associates are the scum and refuse of the city. Mrs. Darcy, I wish you joy of your work!"
"Spare me," she faltered.
Mr. Gilbert looked silently for a moment at the bowed figure, then took his hat and turned to go.
"I beg your pardon," he said, very quietly. "I had no right to speak at all. My only excuse is, that I will not so offend again. How is Helen?"
"As she always is. She says nothing; she lies and suffers in silence. Will you not see her?"
"Not to-day; it is painful to me; I can see it is painful to her, poor child. Good-afternoon, madam."
He bowed with formal coldness and was gone. So! she had had her revenge, but was the "game worth the candle" after all? Is revenge ever worth its cost, she began to wonder.
"Vengeance is mine, I will repay." Yes, yes, she was beginning to see it all? And—Christianity apart—revenge, as we wreak it, after our poor light, is so apt to recoil on ourselves.