“I’ll do all I can . . .”
Though it was Bertrand’s imminent death that broke my self-control, I forgot him and forgot that we were driving to his death-bed:
“The only good you can do is to tell me this ghastly farce is played out! Two years!”
“We all make mistakes,” she answered with composure, though she had winced at that word “farce”. “I can’t help you much. In these two years I’ve grown used to doing without love. I’ve lost everything, thrown everything away.” The silence that followed seemed to daunt her; and I felt my hand being pressed. “You know as well as I do all you’ve done for me. I’ll be your wife, I’ll bear you children if I can; but I can’t give you a love I don’t feel.”
As though I had stepped aside, I saw myself lurching forward to demand satisfaction for the unuttered reproaches and contemptuous suspicions that had masqueraded so long as patience.
“Did you ever feel it?,” I heard myself asking. “Have you ever loved any one? You’ve been curious about many people; but it’s always been in your head and not in your heart.”
“I don’t let myself off!,” she moaned.
“I wonder! You have tragic scenes; but, when other people are broken, you survive. If your heart had been brought into the play . . .”
I broke off in stark horror. Never before had we held such language; and we were almost within earshot of Bertrand. Barbara was dumbfoundered at first; then she rallied and threw herself into the duel as though I were at last giving her an opportunity of which she had been unfairly deprived ever since our marriage.
“I never pretended to be in love with you,” she taunted me.