In the flush of full
realization, there was for him no question of renunciation. She was his,
he hers; that was determined. But what, then, was he to do? There was no
chance of her getting free. In her husband's view, it seemed, under no
circumstances was marriage dissoluble. Nor, indeed, to Miltoun would
divorce have made things easier, believing as he did that he and she
were guilty, and that for the guilty there could be no marriage. She, it
was true, asked nothing but just to be his in secret; and that was the
course he knew most men would take, without further thought. There was
no material reason in the world why he should not so act, and maintain
unchanged every other current of his life. It would be easy, usual. And,
with her faculty for self-effacement, he knew she would not be unhappy.
But conscience, in Miltoun, was a terrible and fierce thing. In the
delirium of his illness it had become that Great Face which had marched
over him. And, though during the weeks of his recuperation, struggle of
all kind had ceased, now that he had yielded to his passion, conscience,
in a new and dismal shape, had crept up again to sit above his heart: He
must and would let this man, her husband, know; but even if that caused
no open scandal, could he go on deceiving those who, if they knew of an
illicit love, would no longer allow him to be their representative? If
it were known that she was his mistress, he could no longer maintain his
position in public life--was he not therefore in honour bound; of his
own accord, to resign it? Night and day he was haunted by the thought:
How can I, living in defiance of authority, pretend to authority over
my fellows? How can I remain in public life? But if he did not remain
in public life, what was he to do? That way of life was in his blood; he
had been bred and born into it; had thought of nothing else since he was
a boy.
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