I wanted to—­and half hoped that all my teaching was wrong, I made a bargain with myself.  I told myself, quite calmly, that I knew perfectly well all the possibilities of the future.  That if I went forward with you, I went forward deliberately with open eyes, knowing what, logically, I might expect to find in the future.  Ignorance—­that blissful comfort of so many women,—­was denied me.  Still, the spell of Nature was upon me, and for a time I dreamed that a depth of passionate love like mine, a life of loyal devotion might wrap one man round, and keep him safe—­might in fact, work a miracle—­and make one polygamous man monogamous.  But, even while that hope was in my heart, reason rose up and mocked it, bidding me advance into the Future at my peril.  I did it, but I made a bargain with myself, I agreed to abide the consequences—­and to abide them calmly.”

“And during all those days when I supposed we were so near together—­you showed me nothing of this that was in your heart.”

“Men and women know very rarely anything of the great struggles that go on in the hearts of one another.  Besides, I knew how easily you would reply—­naturally.  We are all on the defensive in this life.  It was with things deeper than words that I was dealing—­the things one does—­not says.  Even in the early days of our engagement I knew that I was not as essential to you as you were to me.  Life held other interests for you.  Even the flattery of other women still had its charm for you.  Young as I was, I said to myself:  ’If you marry this man—­with your eyes open—­blame yourself, not him, if you suffer.’  I do believe that I have been able to do that.”

Shattuck was astride his chair again, his elbows on the back, his chin in his hands.  He no longer responded.  Words were dangerous.  His lips were pressed close together, and there was a long deep line between his eyes.

“My love for you absorbed every other emotion of my life.  But I seemed to lack some of the qualities that aid to reconcile other wives to 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.”