“Hambley must take care of himself,” she replied, “I have no doubt that you will invent some form of revenge which will interest you very much as a new experiment, and you will improve it and refine it and fiddle over it, like some magician preparing a brew. I should never, at any moment, have had any doubts as to that. I should like you to understand that I always knew you for cruel, unscrupulous, and without heart or conscience; I thought you a ruthless man, but where I went wrong was in not thinking you despicable. I could have respected you for thorough-going villainy,—yes, I thought there was a certain largeness of gesture about your discontent,—but I have only contempt for the sham.”
Her voice had grown still more cold and level; it licked sharply round his vanity, and as ever, his instinct flew to physical violence. He snarled, and moved in her direction, knocking over a small table, but she dodged him.
“Keep quiet, Dene,” she said, in the same glacial tone, “we really cannot play this ridiculous game of blindman’s buff.”
IV
He saw that he could do nothing against her, and indeed was too proud to try. His pride had risen correspondingly to his humiliation; he would show her that something, at all events, in him was not a sham. He was terribly, doubly hurt,—hurt in his heart, and hurt, too, with the uneasy wound of pride, his pride towards her, his pride towards himself. All that she had said had been so true; she had found the truth as a weapon, and had beaten him with it across the face. He was so battered, so gashed with scorn, that he was surprised to find himself still alive and sentient. But he was sentient. He was indomitable. His life was so strong that it had not been knocked even temporarily unconscious. It stirred: he spoke.
“I shall say nothing to justify myself,” he began. “If your ladyship wishes to think ill of me you must do so, although I dare say I could alter your opinion.” He was prompted to say this by a phrase that had occurred to his mind, and which gave him some private consolation, “I have, after all, murdered my wife, defied God, and banished my own son.” But he did not say these words aloud. “You are of course free, my lady,” he went on, “to dismiss me without being besought by me. You call me a coward; you forget I have the courage to live alone.”
“The egoism,” she amended.
“No!” he said sharply, “it’s discipline, not inclination, and it began when I was a boy, because I wouldn’t have pity. Now it’s a habit. I’ve shut myself off from pity. I’m well schooled.”
“Is that all you have to say?” asked Lady Malleson, as he ceased.
“Did you expect me to plead for mercy? You were quite right when you said you knew only the part of me that I was willing for you to know. If you had known everything, my lady, you might have been startled.” He was nursing his secret phrase. “But I plan very carefully what I shall betray to different people. Being blind, I must invent things to think about.”