Perhaps we should be parted on
the morrow--nay, perhaps in an hour's time. Then utter discouragement
assailed me; I wondered what the bliss of being united availed me if it
were to end in so cruel a disruption.
My morbid imagination reveled in scenes of mourning. I speculated as to
who would be the first to depart, Marguerite or I. Either alternative
caused me harrowing grief, and tears rose to my eyes at the thought of
our shattered lives. At the happiest periods of my existence I often
became a prey to grim dejection such as nobody could understand but
which was caused by the thought of impending nihility. When I was most
successful I was to general wonder most depressed. The fatal question,
"What avails it?" rang like a knell in my ears. But the sharpest sting
of this torment was that it came with a secret sense of shame, which
rendered me unable to confide my thoughts to another. Husband and wife
lying side by side in the darkened room may quiver with the same shudder
and yet remain mute, for people do not mention death any more than they
pronounce certain obscene words. Fear makes it nameless.
I was musing thus while my dear Marguerite knelt sobbing at my feet.
It grieved me sorely to be unable to comfort her by telling her that I
suffered no pain.
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