“And what would you have me do?” said Judith, tonelessly.
“Forgive me for breaking off the old, and trust me to make the new pleasant to you.”
She made no answer, but stood still staring out of the window like a woman of stone. Presently she shivered and crossed to the fire, before which she crouched on a low chair. I remained by the window, anxious, puzzled, oppressed.
“Marcus,” she said at last, in a low voice. I obeyed her summons. She motioned me to a chair, and without looking at me began to speak.
“You said there was a bit of you in this room. There is everything of you. Your whole being is for me in this room. You are with me wherever I go. You are the beginning and end of life to me. I love you with a passion that is killing me. I am an emotional woman. I made shipwreck of myself because I thought I loved a man. But, as God hears me, you are the only man I have loved. You came to me like a breath of Heaven while I was in Purgatory—and you have been Heaven to me ever since. It has been play to you—but to me—”
I fell on my knees beside her. Each of the low half-whispered words was a red hot iron. I had received last night the message of her white face with incredulity. I had reviewed our past life together and had found little warrant in it for that message. It could not come from the depths. It was staggeringly impossible. And now the impossible was the flaming fact.
I fell on my knees beside her.
“Not play, Judith—”
She put out her hand to check me, and the words died on my lips. What could I say?
“For you it was a detached pleasant sentiment, if you like; for me the deadliest earnest. I was a fool too. You never said you loved me, but I thought you did. You were not as other men, you knew nothing of the ways of the world or of women or of passion—you were reserved, intellectual—you viewed things in a queer light of your own. I felt that the touch of a chain would fret you. I gave you absolute freedom—often when I craved for you. I made no demands. I assented to your philosophic analysis of the situation—it is your way to moralise whimsically on everything, as if you were a disconnected intelligence outside the universe—and I paid no attention to it. I used to laugh at you—oh, not unkindly, but lovingly, happily, victoriously. Oh, yes, I was a fool—what woman in love isn’t? I thought I gave you all you needed. I was content, secure. I magnified every little demonstration. When you touched my ear it was more to me than the embrace of another man might have been. I have lived on one kiss of yours for a week. To you the kiss was of no more value than a cigarette. I wish,” she added in a whisper, “I wish I were dead!”