"It will not. You know it will not. You will never be able to renounce
your love. Neither of us will he able to renounce it. It isn't possible.
It isn't human. . . . Well, what then? If we continue to love each
other--you here and I down there--we shall be just as guilty in the eyes
of the Church, shan't we?"
I did not answer him, and after a moment he came closer to me on the
seat and said almost in a whisper:
"Then think again, Mary. Only give one glance to the horrible life that
is before you when I am gone. You have been married a year . . . only a
year . . . and you have suffered terribly. But there is worse to come.
Your husband's coarse infidelity has been shocking, but there will be
something more shocking than his infidelity--his affection. Have you
never thought of _that_?"
I started and shuddered, feeling as if somebody must have told him the
most intimate secret of my life. Coming still closer he said:
"Forgive me, dear. I'm bound to speak plainly now. If I didn't I should
never forgive myself in the future . . . Listen! Your husband will get
over his fancy for this . . . this woman. He'll throw her off, as he has
thrown off women of the same kind before. What will happen then? He'll
remember that you belong to him . . . that he has rights in you . . .
that you are his wife and he is your husband . . . that the infernal law
which denies you the position of an equal human being gives him a
right--a legal right--to compel your obedience. Have you never thought
of _that_?"
For one moment we looked into each other's eyes; then he took hold of my
hand and, speaking very rapidly, said:
"That's the life that is before you when I am gone--to live with this
man whom you loathe . . . year after year, as long as life lasts . . .
occupying the same house, the same room, the same . . ."