“As it is I cannot right one wrong without committing another. _There_ lives the wife of my youth, mother of my son and co-partner in the right to that little grave upon the hillside where sleep the two innocents, flesh of our flesh. _Here_ is the wife who married me in all trust, who will soon be mother, also, of my child. Was ever man so unfortunately placed? Curses upon a system that makes it easy for a man to get a divorce upon the most trivial pretext. If I had only—but why speak of what cannot be changed? I can see nothing but days and nights of sleepless remorse in my pathway, whichever way I turn, whatever happens. On my life, Bartram, the future is too black a hell to enter into! Were it not a cowardly act, I believe I would make an end of my wretched existence.” “Have you told her, your present wife, of all this?” Nathan asked. “No; I could not tell her all. It seemed unnecessary. She knew when she married me that I had divorced my first wife for infidelity. Were I to tell her now of this late discovery she would at once jump at correct conclusions in the matter and be inconsolably wretched, for I believe she loves me, unworthy as I am; while I—I must strive against hating any object that stands in the way of retracing my steps back to those halcyon days of love and happiness. I tell you, Bartram, the human heart is a wayward animal and hard to be held in the leash. But forgive me for giving utterance to thoughts that should never be allowed lodgment in my brain.” “Have you written to your first wife, Agnes?” Nathan inquired, as Major Walden began gloomily to pace the floor of the library. “Yes; I wrote telling her all,—all my misery,—and inclosed the letter from Teasdale. She shall have that to clear herself there, and she shall have the satisfaction of knowing that remorse with guilt is harder to bear than injustice with innocence. I think, after a time, I will tell Mrs. Walden as much as is necessary, and let little Freddy go to his mother. I have promised Agnes that, and I have made my will providing liberally for her, for I feel as if this strain cannot long be borne without the snapping of some of those strings that are essential to the harmony of this mysterious something we call life, and the grave or mad-house will ere long claim a victim.” “You have my profound sympathy, Major,” said Nathan; “but you know it is said, ‘life has no wounds time cannot heal.’” “I know, I know; but, alas, I am haunted by a fear that Agnes may not be living; that she may have been crushed by this terrible blow of my inflicting! She was so sensitive, so gentle. Oh, I cannot bear the thought! I want her to know the truth, now.” “Do you not think she might know that, even if in the other world?” Nathan ventured.