In this weary life of ours,
_"With darkness and the death-hour rounding it,"_
It is strange how many people seem actually to enjoy making other
people miserable.
Christian rose and dressed; for her household ways must go on as
usual; she must take her place at the breakfast-table, and make it
cheerful and pleasant, so that the children might not find out any thing
wrong with mother. She did so, and sent them away to their morning
play--happy little souls! Then she sat down to think for a little, all
alone.
Not what to do--that was already decided; but how to do it--how to tell
Dr. Grey in the least painful way that his love had not been the first
love she had received--and given; that she had had this secret, and kept
it from him, though he was her husband, for six whole months.
Oh, had she but told him before her marriage, long, long ago! Now, he
might think she only did it out of fear, dread of public opinion, or
seeking protection from the public scandal that might overtake her,
however innocent. For was she not in the hands of an unscrupulous
man and a malicious woman? It was hopeless to defend herself. Why
should she attempt it? Had she not better let herself be killed--she
sometimes thought she should be killed, to so great a height of morbid
dread had risen her secret agony--and die, quietly, silently, thus
escaping out of the hands of her enemies, who pursued her with this
relentless hatred.
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