“Do not humble yourself to plead to me, Viola. My heart seems frozen within me—frozen by the discovery of your unworthiness.”
She began to be vaguely frightened at his harshness. How dare he scold her now, he who was to be her husband tomorrow!
A flash of pride shone through her tears, and she exclaimed, rashly:
“I will not let you scold me, Philip. Whatever I did, it was for your sake—because I loved you!”
He answered, scathingly:
“Was it for my sake, then, you drove young George Merrington to suicide?”
“Merciful Heaven! how came you by that knowledge, Philip?” she groaned.
“No matter how, Viola, so that you do not deny it. For a week that knowledge has lain heavy as a stone on my heart. I have asked myself how I could wed a woman with so cruel a nature that she drove men mad just to gratify her insatiate vanity. You must know that my ideal of true womanhood is based on angelic sweetness, tenderness, and compassion, and the knowledge of your faults was a shock I could barely endure. But our wedding-day was near, and my love for you triumphed over my reason. I made all possible excuses for you, and let things drift on until tonight.”
Viola bowed her head without a word, since he had told her that pleading was useless. She could only listen in terrified silence, wondering whither his words were tending.
He paused a moment, cleared his throat nervously, and proceeded: