SYBIL. Practically you did--with your tender nursing and sweet
compassion. Isn't it straining a point--to shirk bringing him back?
AGNES. [Rising.] I did not take him from you. You--you sent him to me.
SYBIL. Ho, yes! That tale has been dinned into your ears often enough,
I can quite believe. I sent him to you--my coldness, heartlessness,
selfishness sent him to you. The unsympathetic wife--eh? Yes, but you
didn't put yourself to the trouble of asking for my version of the
story before you mingled your woes with his. [AGNES faces her
suddenly.] You know him now. Have I been altogether to blame, do you
still think? Unsympathetic! Because I've so often had to tighten my
lips, and stare blankly over his shoulder, to stop myself crying out in
weariness of his vanity and pettiness? Cruel! Because, occasionally,
patience becomes exhausted at the mere contemplation of a man so
self-absorbed? Why, you married miserably, the Duke of St. Olpherts
tells us! Before you made yourself my husband's champion and protector,
why didn't you let your experience speak a word for me? [AGNES quickly
turns away and sits upon the settee, her hands to her brow.] However, I
didn't come here to revile you. [Standing by her.] They say that you're
a strange woman--not the sort of woman one generally finds doing such
things as you have done; a woman with odd ideas. I hear--oh, I'm
willing to believe it!--that there's good in you. [AGNES breaks into a
low peal of hysterical laughter.]
AGNES. Who tells you--that?
SYBIL. The Duke.
AGNES. Ha, ha, ha! A character--from him! ha, ha, ha!
SYBIL. [Her voice and manner softening.] Well, if there is pity in you,
help us to get my husband back to London, to his friends, to his old
ambitions.
AGNES. Ha, ha, ha, ha! your husband!
SYBIL. The word slips out. I swear to you that he and I can never be
more to each other than companion figures in a masquerade. The same
roof may cover us; but between two wings of a house, as you may know,
there often stretches a wide desert. I despise him; he hates me.
[Walking away, her voice breaking.] Only--I did love him once . . . I
don't want to see him utterly thrown away--wasted . . . I don't quite
want to see that . . . [AGNES rises and approaches SYBIL, fearfully.]
AGNES. [In a whisper.] Lift your veil for a moment. [SYBIL raises her
veil.] Tears--tears--[with a deep groan]--Oh--! [SYBIL turns away.] I
--I'll do it . . . I'll go back to the Palazzo . . . at once . . .
[SYBIL draws herself up suddenly.] I've wronged you! Wronged you! O God!
O God! [She totters away and goes into her bedroom. For a moment or two
SYBIL stands still, a look of horror and repulsion upon her face. Then
she turns and goes towards the outer door.]
SYBIL. [Calling.] Sandford! Sandford!
[SIR SANDFORD CLEEVE and the DUKE OF ST. OLPHERTS enter.]
SIR SANDFORD. [To SYBIL.] Well--?
SYBIL. She is going back to the Palazzo.
SIR SANDFORD. You mean that she consents to--?
SYBIL. [Stamping her foot.] I mean that she will go back to the
Palazzo. [Sitting and leaning her head upon her hands.] Oh! oh!
SIR SANDFORD. Need we wait any longer, then?
SYBIL. These people--these people who are befriending her! Tell them.