The Works of George W. M. Reynolds — page 124: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE MISTRESS 107 cannot divide my time between you and my wife. My heart is here, and I am wearied of playing the dissembler there. It is cruel and unjust toward every one; cruel and unjust toward you, cruel and unjust toward my wife, cruel and unjust toward myself. No, I can endure it no longer. I must be all in all to you, as you are all in all to me. I will leave you no more.”’ “Tell me, dear Jules, what has taken place,” said Mrs. Chesterfield, gazing with fervid tenderness upon her para- mour. ‘ Have you had words with the viscountess? ”’ “ Words?’’ he ejaculated. ‘“‘ Henceforth I feel that we shall always have words, if we continue to live together. It cannot be. It is impossible that I can receive her caresses only to repulse them; that is a part my better feelings will not longer allow me to play. No, I cannot. Much rather would I break with her at once, candidly confess to her that I love another, and beseech her not to interfere with my happiness.”’ While he was thus speaking, Mrs. Chesterfield drooped her head upon his breast, and as her countenance was thus con- cealed from him, an expression of triumphant satisfaction appeared thereon, as if she felt that she had now brought him to the point toward which she had gradually and cautiously and skilfully been leading him on. And if he could only have seen that look, transient though it were, a veil would have fallen from his eyes in a moment. He would have penetrated the selfishness of the siren to whom he had abandoned him- self, he would have had the conviction flashing to his soul that though the ardour of her sensual passions might be real enough, the tenderness of true love which she professed for him was nought but a delusion and a snare. “What would you do?” she asked, assuming a low, tremulous voice. ‘‘ Would you precipitate matters? ”’ “There can be no rash precipitation,” he exclaimed, “ in doing that which has now become imperative. I must either renounce you or my wife. I cannot renounce you, my Augusta, whom I love so devotedly, but I will renounce her whom I love not and have never loved. The world must know it at length, but the world shall say I have not been unjust toward her. I will give her half my fortune; the remaining half will leave me still rich, amply rich enough for you and me to live in comfort and even in splendour.”’ CONNIE DOOKS (FO)