Then Georgia reeled rather than walked from the room, up stairs, and into her own bedroom; and there, sinking down on the floor, she lay as still and motionless as if she were indeed dead. For hours she lay thus, as if frozen there, as if she would never rise again—crushed, humbled, degraded to the dust. Sounds of laughter and music came wafted up the stairs; she heard the voice she hated most singing a gay Italian barcarole, and now another voice joins in—her husband's.
Oh, Georgia, your hour of anguish has come, and where is your help now? Heaven and earth are dark alike; you did not look up when life's sunshine shone on you, and now, in your utter misery, there is no helper near.
Oh, Georgia, where, in your humiliation, is the pride, the independence that has supported you hitherto? Gone—swept away, like a reed in the blast, and you lie there prostrate on the earth, prone in the dust, a living example of human helplessness, unsupported by divine grace.
Hour after hour passed, and still she lay there. The door opened at last, but she did not move. The footsteps she knew so well crossed the threshold, but she was motionless. A voice pronounced her name, and a shiver ran through her whole frame, but the collapsed form was still. A hand was laid on her arm, and she was lifted to her feet and borne to a chair, and then she raised her sunken eyes and saw the stern face of her husband bent upon her.
CHAPTER XVI.
REAPING THE WHIRLWIND.
"Oh, woman wronged can cherish hate
More deep and dark than manhood may."
Whittier.
"And in that deep and utter agony—
Though then than ever most unfit to die—
She fell upon her knees and prayed for death."