“How selfish you are!” she murmured at length in an even, frigid voice. “I had an idea you were beginning to care for your husband.”
“But I do care for him,” answered Mrs. Castillyon, with astonishment.
“Surely not, or you wouldn’t wish to cause him such great unhappiness. You know very well that he dotes upon you; you are the only light and brightness in his life; if he loses his faith in you, he loses everything.”
“But it’s only honest to confess my sin.”
“Don’t you remember the proverb that open confession is good for the soul? There’s a lot of truth in it—it is very good indeed for the soul of the person who confesses; but are you sure it’s good for the listener? When you wish to tell Paul what you have done, you think only of your own peace of mind, and you disregard entirely your husband’s. It may be only an illusion that you are a beautiful woman of virtuous temper, but all things are illusion, and why on earth should you insist on destroying that of all others which Paul holds dearest? Haven’t you done him harm enough already? When I see a madman wearing a paper crown under the impression that it is fine gold, I haven’t the brutality to undeceive him; let no one shake our belief in the fancies which are the very breath of our nostrils. There are three good maxims in the conduct of life: Never sin; but if you sin, never repent; and above all, if you repent, never, never confess. Can’t you sacrifice yourself a little for the sake of the man you’ve treated so badly?”
“But I don’t understand,” cried Grace. “It’s not self-sacrifice to hold my tongue—it’s just cowardly. I want to take my punishment; I want to start fair again, so that I can look Paul in the face.”
“My dear, you have an incurable passion for rodomontade. You’re really not thinking of Paul in the least; you have merely an ardent desire to make a scene; you wish to be a martyr and abase yourself in due form. Above all, you want to rid yourself of the burden of a somewhat guilty conscience, and to do that you are perfectly indifferent how much you make others suffer. May I suggest that if you’re really sorry for what you’ve done, you can show it best by acting differently in the future; and if you hanker after punishment, you can get as much as ever you want by taking care that no word or deed of yours lets your husband into this rather odious secret.”
Mrs. Castillyon looked down, following with her eyes the pattern of the carpet; she thought over all that Miss Ley said.
“I came to you for advice,” she moaned helplessly, “and you’ve only made me more undecided than ever.”
“Pardon me,” answered the other, with considerable asperity: “you came with your mind perfectly made up, for me to approve your disinterestedness; but as I think you uncommonly stupid and selfish, I reserve my applause.”