"Ah, best hide it, Clara!" he said passionately. "Hide that fair face I loved so well—hide those eyes in which I dreamed of finding my life's sunshine! Clara, Clara! What can I say to you, fallen rose of womanhood? How can I—" he suddenly bent over her as though to caress her, then drew back with a quick agonized sigh. "You thought me blind, Clara! . . ." he went on in low tones, "blind to my own dishonor—blind to your faithlessness,—I tell you if you had taken my heart between your hands and wrung the blood out of it drop by drop, I could not have suffered more than I have done! Why have I been silent so long?—no matter why,—but now, now Clara,—this life of ours must end!"
She shuddered away from him.
"End it then!" she muttered in a choked voice. "You can do as you like,—you can divorce me."
"Yes," said Lord Winsleigh musingly. "I can divorce you! There will be no defense possible,—as you know. If witnesses are needed, they are to be had in the persons of our own domestics. The co-respondent in the case will not refute the charge against him,—and I, the plaintiff, must win my just cause. Do you realize it all, Clara? You, the well-known leader of a large social circle—you, the proud beauty and envied lady of rank and fashion,—you will be made a subject for the coarse jests of lawyers,—the very judge on the bench will probably play off his stale witticism at your expense,—your dearest friends will tear your name to shreds,—the newspapers will reek of your doings,—and honest housemaids reading of your fall from your high estate, will thank God that their souls and bodies are more chaste than yours! And last,—not least,—think when old age creeps on, and your beauty withers,—think of your son grown to manhood,—the sole heir to my name,—think of him as having but one thing to blush for—the memory of his dishonored mother!"
"Cruel—cruel!" she cried, endeavoring to check her sobs, and withdrawing her hands from her face. "Why do you say such things to me? Why did you marry me?"
He caught her hands and held them in a fast grip.
"Why? Because I loved you, Clara—loved you with all the tenderness of a strong man's heart! When I first saw you, you seemed to me the very incarnation of maiden purity and loveliness! The days of our courtship—the first few months of our marriage—what they were to you, I know not,—to me they were supreme happiness. When our boy was born, my adoration, my reverence for you increased—you were so sacred in my eyes, that I could have knelt and asked a benediction from these little hands"—here he gently loosened them from his clasp. "Then came the change—what changed you, I cannot imagine—it has always seemed to me unnatural, monstrous, incredible! There was no falling away in my affection, that I can swear! My curse upon the man who turned your heart from mine! So rightful and deep a curse is it that I feel it must some day strike home."
He paused and seemed to reflect. "Who is there more vile, more traitorous than he?" he went on. "Has he not tried to influence Errington's wife against her husband? For what base purpose? But Clara,—he is powerless against her purity and innocence;—what, in the name of God, gave him power over you?"
She drooped her head, and the hot blood rushed to her face.
"You've said enough!" she murmured sullenly. "If you have decided on a divorce, pray carry out your intention with the least possible delay. I cannot talk any more! I—I am tired!"