No, not a word.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Of course, she heard?
GERALD.
What did I say? What did I do? What must she think of me? I can’t bear this suspense. For the last fortnight, she’s been another woman. So grave—so thoughtful—so unlike herself. There is no laugh to grate upon me now. What would I give to bring it back again?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Is it she only who has changed?
GERALD.
Ever since I saw that figure on the ground, I can see nothing else. And it is I who brought it to the dust—I, who had sworn to cherish it. Yes, you are right; I too am different; I see things from a different point of view. And when I think of Margery’s young life, so full of hope and joy—Margery, who never asked to be my wife—Margery, whom I compelled to marry me—with all the joy crushed out of her—I feel too much ashamed even to ask forgiveness. And as I watch her move about the house—silent and sorrowful—I ask myself, how much did Margery give up for me? I took her from the station of life in which she was born, and in which she was happy. I set her in another and a strange one. Was mine the only sacrifice? How much of friendship and of old association did she resign for my sake? My life continued as it was before—I had my old friends and my old pursuits. What had she? Nothing—but my love. And I took it away from her. Because she made a few mistakes, and a few people laughed—a few more didn’t call—and I mistook a light heart for an empty head. What do all these things matter? what is a man worth who sets such things above a love like hers?
MRS. SYLVESTER.