The next effect was to make me see that all thought of a separation must now be given up. How could I accuse my husband when I was myself in the same position? If he loved another woman, I loved another man.
In my distress and fright I saw only one means of escape either from the filthy burden to which I was bound or the consciousness of a sinful heart, and that was to cure myself of my passion. I determined to do so. I determined to fight against my love for Martin Conrad, to conquer it and to crush it.
My first attempt to do this was feeble enough. It was an effort to keep myself out of the reach of temptation by refusing to see Martin alone.
For three or four days I did my best to carry out this purpose, making one poor excuse after another, when (as happened several times a day) he came down to see me—that I was just going out or had just come in, or was tired or unwell.
It was tearing my heart out to deny myself so, but I think I could have borne the pain if I had not realised that I was causing pain to him also.
My maid, whose head was always running on Martin, would come hack to my room, after delivering one of my lying excuses, and say:
"You should have seen his face, when I told him you were ill. It was just as if I'd driven a knife into him."
Everybody seemed to be in a conspiracy to push me into Martin's arms—Alma above all others. Being a woman she read my secret, and I could see from the first that she wished to justify her own conduct in relation to my husband by putting me into the same position with Martin.
"Seen Mr. Conrad to-day?" she would ask.
"Not to-day," I would answer.