What could poor Lotta Hedman say? She had never loved Sigrun as she did this night. She resisted still, knowing that Rhånge came of a family of suicides. Perhaps he would kill himself if he lost his wife. But she dared not say anything of this to Sigrun; it might only increase her fear of him.
"But you have your father and mother at home," was all she could find to say.
"You forget the infection. I cannot go home to them now."
She went over to Lotta and made her sit down again in the chair.
"Lotta, I am so unhappy," she said. "Every day is an agony. Am I to suffer like this all my life?"
"But, Sigrun, how can you bring this sorrow on us all?"
"Sorrow?" said Sigrun—"sorrow? What is it, after all, to sorrow for the dead? What is it compared with sorrowing for the living? I must do it, Lotta, for Edward's sake. Think what a man he was when I first met him. Calm, happy, eager to make his way. A good preacher, and loved by his congregation. Now—can you not see how he has changed? He is going to ruin here in poverty and loneliness. I must leave him, Lotta. If I were dead, he would find another place, another living, where he could rise to all that he meant to do when he had the ill-fortune to meet me."
"You cannot make me see that you need do anything so dreadful."
Sigrun shrugged her shoulders.
"I am not trying to make you believe that it is only for his sake. I do it because I am miserable, and must free myself from my misery. Oh, Lotta, if only I could really die! I know that would be the best. But, next to that, the best thing is for me to disappear. I am going to pieces; it is driving me mad. Perhaps I am mad already."