He was wretchedly unhappy and lonely. He could find no interest
in any of the things which had pleased him before. He was
ashamed to meet any of his friends, because he imagined that
everyone must have heard the dreadful story--or because he was
not equal to making up explanations for his mournful state. He
no longer cared much about his work. What was the use of making
a reputation or earning large fees when one had nothing to spend
them for?
All his thoughts were fixed upon the wife and child he had lost.
He was reminded of Henriette in a thousand ways, and each way
brought him a separate pang of grief. He had never realized how
much he had come to depend upon her in every little thing--until
now, when her companionship was withdrawn from him, and
everything seemed to be a blank. He would come home at night,
and opposite to him at the dinner-table would be his mother,
silent and spectral. How different from the days when Henriette
was there, radiant and merry, eager to be told everything that
had happened to him through the day!
There was also his worry about little Gervaise. He might no
longer hear how she was doing, for he could not get up courage to
ask his mother the news. Thus poor George was paying for his
sins. He could make no complaints against the price, however
high--only sometimes he wondered whether he would be able to pay
it. There were times of such discouragement that he thought of
different ways of killing himself.
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