life. I seemed to be without mother-love. My children were dear to me
only because they were yours. The maternal passion, which in so many
women is the absorbing emotion of life, was denied me. My children
were to me merely the tribute to posterity which Life had demanded of
me as the penalty of your love--nothing more. I must be singularly
unfitted for marriage, because, when the hour came in which I felt
that I was no longer your wife, your children seemed no longer mine.
They merely represented the next generation--born of me. I know that
this is very shocking. I have become used to it,--and, it is the
truth. I have not blamed you, I could not--and be reasonable. No man
can be other than Nature plans or permits, but how I have pitied
myself! I have been through the tempest alone. In spite of reason,--in
spite of philosophy--I have suffered from jealousy, from shame, from
rage, from self contempt. But that is all past now."

She had not raised her voice, which seemed as without feeling as it
was without emphasis. She carefully examined her handkerchief corner
by corner, and he noticed for the first time how thin her hands had
become.

"Naturally," she went on in that colorless voice, "my first impulse
was to be done with life. But I could not bring myself to that, much
as I desired it. It would have left you such a wretched memory of me.
You could never have pardoned me the scandal--and I felt that I had
at least the right to leave you a decent recollection of me."

Shattuck's head fell forward on his arms.--The idea of denial or
protest did not occur to him.

The steady voice went monotonously on. "I could not bear to humble you