“They were reconciled, then? O, the dear particular lady! Does he wipe
his boots on her? Did he take his love-potion very strong on the
wedding night?”
“Very strong, no doubt,” said Gogo. And then suddenly he clasped my
skirt, and buried his face in it.
“He would; it was his way,” he muttered. “O, girl, spare me and my
unhappiness--my broken dreams! Did you not know? I had always a
struggle to keep him from it. And now he will go down, down.”
“Yes,” I said, “while she clings to his legs, as fools drown
together.”
“Would you not have had her try to save him?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Ah! You are vindictive.”
“Don’t you hear me laughing?”
“Yes; like the devil.”
“Is it? I should be mad indeed if I could applaud her. Do you bear in
mind what she has done to me? She is of the sort who make cruelty
their pander--a frowsy, garterless Jezebel. O, how I hate prudery! For
five years I longed to open the windows on it, and let the air in, and
whatever wholesome little devils beside. I declare I loathe myself to
be of her sex. Touch me, Gogo. Am I the same, or different? O, to be
sure! I wish her joy of her bargain--and him.”
“She will pay. But for Noel, weak child of genius--leave me the sorrow
of my broken hopes, Diana.”
“And nothing else? Why did he not meet me?”
“He had not the courage at the last moment.”
“And so, having cut the ground from under me, he stepped back, and
instigated madam to her little _coup de theâtre_, I suppose, and
helped her to push me over the precipice. And you--you sympathised
with and abetted him?”
“Ay,” he said sorrowfully: “witness my long exile here, gnawing my
fingers in the hungry moonlight.”
I sank upon the ground in a passion of tears, and he mingled his grief
with mine.
“Child, I had loved him; and I had but to learn how he had abandoned
you, to leave him. I cursed him--cursed de Crespigny. Will Jove
forgive me? What matter, if I have saved you?”