She was glad that she had no children—­could she live to be shamed by them, scorned by them?  And yet—­how sweet it would have been to feel clinging arms about her neck; to hear little voices lisp the sweetest word on earth to a mother’s ear, if only she might have been as other mothers—­as other wives!  Never, never once had she breathed or hinted a wish that Philip should marry her; she had a superstitious dread that once the chain was forged his love for her would cease—­marriage could not now reinstate her in the world’s sight—­she had ceased to remember that her life was a crime.  She had heard it said so often that marriage was simply an institution founded upon expediency; that all systems having been tried, the one that worked best was the union of a man to one wife, that she herself began to doubt its being a heaven-ordained institution, and the only state tolerated by Divine Providence.  But if she ceased to feel herself actually a guilty and sinning woman, she was none the less sensitive to the world’s scorn; to the bitterness of holding a position that society refused to tolerate or to recognize.

But, after all, she knew happiness which is denied to nine-tenths of women, nay, to ninety-nine out of a hundred.  She enjoyed the passionate, unfailing devotion of the man whom she adored—­no harsh word ever crossed his lips to her—­she was his first care and thought—­no party of pleasure ever tempted him from her side—­nothing but the claim of business could induce him to spend an evening away from her.  And so the years passed on.  It is an unalterable law of nature that passion must succumb before habit, but it may be succeeded by a calm content, a happy trustful confidence, that wears better, and is perhaps in the long run more satisfactory.

Twelve years elapsed, and during that time Virginia enjoyed unbroken health.  Then, one winter, she caught a severe cold, which settled on her lungs; her life was despaired of.  No woman was ever a more tender, more devoted nurse than Philip.  But this illness left her extremely delicate; she could no longer brave all weathers as formerly, nor be Philip’s constant companion in his walks and drives.  She was forbidden to go out at night, and they had been so in the habit of going to the play, especially in the winter months.  At first he insisted on remaining at home with her, but she was too unselfish to allow him to sacrifice himself.  There was many an evening when she was unable to leave her room, and when talking would bring on severe paroxysms of coughing.  She succeeded in prevailing upon him to visit the theatre without her, and sometimes even to dine with a friend.  After a time he got into the habit of going about alone, and, although he was even more tender and considerate than before, she felt an agonising consciousness that he could, after all, do without her, which he had sworn ten thousand times he never could.  She began to have sleepless nights and passionate fits of crying.  Nemesis was coming upon her with gigantic strides.  Philip did not suspect that she was unhappy; he thought her illness affected her spirits.  A great change had come over her, which he deplored.  She no longer was the bright, amusing companion of yore.