She saw herself in the dust, pelted, mocked at.
That seemed at first to be incredible. But she saw it so plainly that she
could not even pretend to herself that she was deceived by some unusual
play of light or combination of shadows. What she saw--was:
Her husband had thrown off his allegiance to her and transferred his
admiration, perhaps his affection, to the woman who had most deftly and
delicately insulted her in the face of all her world. And he had done
this with the most abominable publicity. That was what she saw in a clear
light like the light of the East. That was what sent a lash across her
temperament, scarring it perhaps, but waking it into all it could ever
have of life. In each woman there is hidden a second woman, more fierce
and tender, more evil and good, more strong and fervent than the woman
who hides her in the ordinary hours of life; a woman who weeps blood
where the other woman weeps tears, who strikes with a flaming sword where
the other woman strikes with a willow wand.
This woman now rose up in Lady Holme, rose up to do battle.
The laughing, frivolous world was all unconscious of her. Lord Holme was
unconscious of her. But she was at last fully conscious of herself.
This woman remembered Robin Pierce's odd belief and the light words with
which she had chastised it. He had persistently kept faith in, and sought
for, a far-away being. But she was a being of light and glory.
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