There are emotions that seem to crowd and supersede each other, so that the order of time is inverted. I came to the point of disdainful composure, even before the struggle and distress began. I sat quietly where my husband left me,--such a long, long time! It seemed hours. I remembered how thoughtful I had determined to be of all our expenses,--the little account-book in which I had already entered some items; how I had thought of various ways in which I could assist him; yes, even little I was to be the most efficient and helpful of wives. Had I not taken writing-lessons secretly, and formed a thorough business-hand, and would I not earn many half-eagles with my eagle's quill? I remembered how I had thought, though I had not said it, (and how glad now I was I had not!) that we would help each other in sickness and health,--that we would toil up that weary hill where wealth stands so lusciously and goldenly shining. But then, hand in hand we were to have toiled,--hopefully, smilingly, lovingly,--not with this cold recrimination, nor, hardest of all, with--reproach!
Suddenly, a strange suspicion fell over me. It fell down on me like a pall. I shuddered with the cold of it.
I knew it wasn't so. I knew he loved me,--that Le meant nothing,--that it was a passing discontent, a hateful feeling engendered by the sight of the costly trifles before us. Yes,--I knew that. But, good heavens! to tell his wife of it!
I sat, with my head throbbing, and holding my hands, utterly tearless; for tears were no expression of the distressful pain, and blank disappointment of a life, that I felt. I said I felt this damp, dark suspicion. It was there like a presence, but it was as indefinite as dark; and I had a sort of control, in the midst of the tumult in my brain and heart, as to what thoughts I would let come to me. Not that! Faults there might be,--great ones,--but not that, the greatest! At least, if I could not respect, I could forgive,--for he loved me. Surely, surely, that must be true!
It would come, that flash, like lightning, or the unwilling memories of the drowning. I remembered the rich Miss Kate Stuart, who, they said, liked him, and that her father would have been glad to have him for a son-in-law. And I had asked him once about it, in the careless gayety of happy love. He had said, he supposed it might have happened--perhaps--who knows?--if he had not seen me. But he had seen me! Could it be that he was thinking of?