_Di._ Hear me now. Remember, it was not the marriage vow, Nor promise e’er of chaste fidelity, That joined us thirty years ago in a tie Which I, I think, scarce sought. It was not I That took your innocence; you spoiled me of mine. And yet, as though the vow had been divine, Was I not faithful? Were you so to me? Had you been white in spotless purity, Could I have clung to you more faithfully? I left you, after wrongs I blush with shame E’en now through all my fifty years to name. I left you; yet I stinted still my ease,— Curtailed my pleasures—toil still extra toil,— To repay you for what you never gave. Is it not true? _Wom._ Go on, say all and more. Upon this body, as the basis, lies The ladder that has raised you to the skies. _Di._ Is that so much? am I indeed so high? Am I not rather The slave and servant of the wretched world, Liveried and finely dressed—yet all the same A menial and lacquey seeking place For hire, and for his hire’s sake doing work? _Wom._ I do not know; you have wife and child I know Domestic comfort and a noble name, And people speak in my ears too your praise. O man, O man! do you not know in your heart It was for this you came to me— It was for this I took you to my breast? O man, man, man! You come to us with your dalliance in the street, You pay us with your miserable gold, You do not know how in the—— _Di._ (_looks at his watch_). You must go now. Justice calls me elsewhere; Justice—might keep you here. You may return again; stay, let me see— Six weeks to-morrow you shall see me again; Now you must go. Do you need money? here, It is your due: take it, that you may live; And see me, six weeks from to-morrow, elsewhere. _Wom._ I will not go; You must stay here and hear me, or I shall die! It were ill for you that I should. _Di._ What! shall the nation wait? Woman, if I have wronged you, it was for good— Good has come of it. Lo, I have done some work. Over the blasted and the blackened spot Of our unhappy and unhallowed deed I have raised a mausoleum of such acts As in this world do honour unto me, But in the next to thee. _Wom._ Hear me, I cannot go! _Di._ It cannot be; the court, the nation waits. Is not the work, too, yours? _Wom._ I go, to die this night! _Di._ I cannot help it. Duty lies here. Depart! _Wom._ Listen; before I die, one word! In old times You called me Pleasure—my name now is Guilt. SCENE II.—_In Westminster Hall._ _1st Barrister._ They say the Lord Chief Justice is unwell; Did you observe how, after that decision Which all the world admired so, suddenly He became pale and looked in the air and staggered, As if some phantom floated on his eyes? He is a strange man.