Surely, surely, he had made a great mistake in marrying her.
At the same time the control of her was largely in his own hands even yet.
“Aileen,” he said, coolly, at the end of her speech, “you talk too much.
You rave.
You’re growing vulgar, I believe.
Now let me tell you something.”
And he fixed her with a hard, quieting eye.
“I have no apologies to make.
Think what you please.
I know why you say what you do. But here is the point. I want you to get it straight and clear. It may make some difference eventually if you’re any kind of a woman at all.
I don’t care for you any more.
If you want to put it another way—I’m tired of you.
I have been for a long while.
That’s why I’ve run with other women.
If I hadn’t been tired of you I wouldn’t have done it.
What’s more, I’m in love with somebody else—Berenice Fleming, and I expect to stay in love.
I wish I were free so I could rearrange my life on a different basis and find a little comfort before I die.
You don’t really care for me any more.
You can’t.
I’ll admit I have treated you badly; but if I had really loved you I wouldn’t have done it, would I?
It isn’t my fault that love died in me, is it?
It isn’t your fault.
I’m not blaming you.
Love isn’t a bunch of coals that can be blown by an artificial bellows into a flame at any time.
It’s out, and that’s an end of it.
Since I don’t love you and can’t, why should you want me to stay near you?
Why shouldn’t you let me go and give me a divorce?
You’ll be just as happy or unhappy away from me as with me. Why not?
I want to be free again.
I’m miserable here, and have been for a long time.
I’ll make any arrangement that seems fair and right to you.
I’ll give you this house—these pictures, though I really don’t see what you’d want with them.” (Cowperwood had no intention of giving up the gallery if he could help it.) “I’ll settle on you for life any income you desire, or I’ll give you a fixed sum outright.
I want to be free, and I want you to let me be.
Now why won’t you be sensible and let me do this?”
During this harangue Cowperwood had first sat and then stood.
At the statement that his love was really dead—the first time he had ever baldly and squarely announced it—Aileen had paled a little and put her hand to her forehead over her eyes.
It was then he had arisen.
He was cold, determined, a little revengeful for the moment.
She realized now that he meant this—that in his heart was no least feeling for all that had gone before—no sweet memories, no binding thoughts of happy hours, days, weeks, years, that were so glittering and wonderful to her in retrospect.
Great Heavens, it was really true!
His love was dead; he had said it! But for the nonce she could not believe it; she would not.
It really couldn’t be true.
“Frank,” she began, coming toward him, the while he moved away to evade her.
Her eyes were wide, her hands trembling, her lips moving in an emotional, wavy, rhythmic way.
“You really don’t mean that, do you?
Love isn’t wholly dead, is it?
All the love you used to feel for me?
Oh, Frank, I have raged, I have hated, I have said terrible, ugly things, but it has been because I have been in love with you!
All the time I have.
You know that.