He sprang up suddenly, and began walking up and down the room,—­up and down,—­up and down; and without speaking any more, or seeming to wish me to answer.

“Why, what is it?  What do you mean?” said I, faintly; for my heart felt like lead in my bosom.

He did not answer at first, but walked towards me; then, turning suddenly away, sprang out of the window at the side of the room, saying, with a constrained laugh,—­

“I shall be in again, presently.  In the mean time I leave you to meditations on the shilling gallery!”

What a strange taunting sound his voice had!  There was no insane blood among the Sampsons, or I might have thought he had suddenly gone crazy.  Or if I had believed in demoniacal presences, I might have thought the murmuring, whispering old man was some tempter.  Some evil influence certainly had been exerted over him.  Scarcely less than deranged could I consider him now, to be willing thus to address me.  It was true, he was poor,—­that he had struggled with poverty.  But had it not been my pride, as I thought it was his, that his battle was bravely borne, and would be bravely won?  I could not, even to myself, express the cruel cowardice of such words as he had used to his helpless wife.  That he felt deeply and gallingly his poverty was plain.  Even in that there was a weakness which induced more of contempt than pity for him; but was it not base to tell me of it now?  Now, when his load was doubled, he complained of the burden!  Why, I would have lain down and died far sooner than he should have guessed it of me.  And he had thought it—­and—­said it!

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!