My wish is, that if there be a devil, he may get this seducer and give him his just dues, as I would wish to see a murderer caught and hung. I believe in justice to sinners as well as to saints.
Some might say, “Why not have charity?” and my reply would be,
“Urge neither charity nor shame to me,
Uncharitably with me have you dealt,
And shamefully by you my hopes are butchered,
My charity is outrage, life my shame
And in that shame still lives my sorrow’s rage.”
The last mark of respect I could show her was to erect a beautiful monument on her grave, inscribed with “Mary, the wife of Charles Japhet,” which the world may read, though it has never known the secret of our lives until now. Though she had ceased to be in my heart my wife, still she was and ever will be my wife in name.
Years have passed since that awful, memorable event. I have often tried to analyze and comprehend my feelings and condition at that time. I had such implicit, absolute confidence in the virtue of my wife that I would have risked my soul in proof of it. I had such respect for that man that nothing but overwhelming proof could have convinced me of his lack of integrity. I was rather proud of his acquaintance, pleased with what I considered his polite attentions to my wife. I would have felt it degrading, not only to them, but to myself, to have entertained the slightest suspicion of the least impropriety.
This was my condition before the fearful awakening came. Then it came so suddenly, like a flash of lightning before my eyes, that I was bewildered, stupefied. For the moment I could not realize anything, either that I existed or could think or feel—paralyzed is the best word I can use,—in thought and feeling.