"I never knew you felt like that. I never knew you COULD feel that way," she said, in a colorless voice. "But you made a terrible mistake."
"Do you mean to say you don't love him?"
"No, I have loved him for a long time—I can't remember when it began." She spoke very listlessly, looking past him as if at a long-familiar picture which she was tired of contemplating. "I never knew what love was before; I never even dreamed. I'd give my life right now—to undo what you have done, just for his sake, for he is innocent. Oh, don't sneer; it's true. He loves the Garavel girl, and wants to marry her."
"I know all that. I overheard you in the parlor below."
"Listen, please! I don't remember what I said then, and it doesn't matter; you took too much for granted. We must talk plainly now, before"—she pressed her palms to her temples as if they were bursting—"before it becomes impossible. I never lied to you, Stephen. Is that true?"
"I used to think so."
"I'm going to tell you the whole truth now without sparing myself. It began, I think, at Taboga, that night when he kissed me. It was the only time he ever did such a thing. It was dark, we were alone, I was frightened, and it was purely impulse on his part. But it woke me up, and all at once I knew how much he meant to me. I would have yielded utterly to him then if he had let me, but he was panic-stricken. He spoke of you, he apologized; I never saw a man in more misery. When I had time to realize the truth I tried to fight it off. But it was no use, and at last I gave up. After that I put myself in his way deliberately. I offered him opportunities continually, but he never seemed to see them. That day in the jungle I was desperate at his indifference, and I drove the horses away when he wasn't looking. I struck them with my crop—and I actually threw myself at him as boldly as I could, regardless of consequences. But he was like ice; he was speaking of you when you came. It has always been the same. When I discovered that he cared for that girl—well, if you overheard you must know. I frightened Garavel into dismissing him, and I set out to break him, just to show him that he needed me. To-night I offered to divorce you and make him all and more than I've made you, but he scorned me. That's the truth, Stephen. If we believed in oaths, I would swear it."
No one who knew the woman could have disbelieved her, and to the husband who knew her every mental and moral trait this bald, hopeless confession came as a crushing anti-climax to his great effort. It left him not the slightest doubt that she was honest. He said, dully, in a feeble attempt to right himself:
"You are shielding him. You want to make me out wrong." But she knew he knew.
"Those are the facts. Heaven knows they are bad enough, but they are by no means so bad as you thought. And I'm your wife, Stephen. That thing you did was brutal; those men will talk. I was guilty, no doubt, in my thoughts, but I'm young, and you have no right to blight my life and my reputation—yes, and yours—by a thing like that. We will have to meet those men. What are you going to do?"