I felt
then a thirsty spirit rising within me to see my old place where I had
comfort and shelter long ago, and to see my children. I have been to
see them: they are in B----; they did not know me there. I did not
tell them who I was. I have been faithful to my promise. I tell no one
but you, Christine C----, who have stepped into my place, and stolen
away my home. A prettier home you have made of it for a prettier wife;
but it's the old place yet, with the old stain upon it."
Wishing to consider a moment what I should do, half paralyzed, like
one who is stricken with death, I left that other ME, (for was she not
also my husband's wife?) apparently exhausted, lying upon the sofa,
and went wearily up-stairs, with heavy steps, like one whose life
has suddenly become a weight to him. What, indeed, _should_ I do?
Starvation and misery stared me in the face. If I left the house,
casting its guilt and its comfort behind me, where could I go? I could
do nothing, earn nothing now. My reputation, now that we were so lone
established, would be entirely gone. And if I left all for which I had
labored so hard, for another to enjoy, would that better the matter?
Great God! would _anything_ help me? Before me in terrific vision
rose a dim vista of future ruin, of ineffectual years writhing in the
inescapable power of the law, of long trial, of horrible suspense, of
garish publicity, of my name handed from mouth to mouth, a forlorn,
duped, degraded thing, whose blighted life was a theme of newspaper
comment and cavil.
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