"It is the language of regret. She laments our marriage. She
could have found another, surely, who could have made her happier.
Perhaps, had Edgerton and herself known each other intimately
before!--"
Dark, perverse imagining! It crushed me. I felt, I can not tell,
what bitterness. Let no one suppose that I endured less misery than
I inflicted. The miseries of the damned could not have exceeded
mine in some of the moments when these cruel conjectures filled my
mind. Then followed some such proofs as these of the presence of
the Evil One:-"You sigh, Julia. You are unhappy."
"Unhappy? no, dear Edward, not unhappy! What makes you think so?"
"What makes you sigh, then?"
"I do not know. I am certainly not unhappy. Did I sigh, Edward?"
"Yes, and seemingly from the very bottom of your heart. I fear,
Julia, that you are not happy; nay, I am sure you are not! I feel
that I am not the man to make you happy. I am a perverse--"
"'Nay, Edward, now you speak so strangely, and your brow is stern,
and your tones tremble! What can it be afflicts you? You are angry
at something, dear Edward. Surely, it can not be with me."
"And if it were, Julia, I am afraid it would give you little
concern."
"Now, Edward, you are cruel. You do me wrong. You do yourself wrong.
Why should you suppose that it would give me little concern to see
you angry? So far from this, I should regard it as the greatest
misery which I had to suffer. Do not speak so, dearest Edward--do
not fancy such things. Believe me, my husband, when I tell you
that I know nothing half so dear to me as your love--nothing that
I would not sacrifice with a pleasure, to secure, to preserve THAT!"
"Ah! would you give up painting?"
"Painting! that were a small sacrifice! I worked at it only because
you used to like it."
"What, you think I do not like it now?"
"I KNOW you do not."
"But you paint still?"
"No! I have not handled brush or pencil for a week. Mr. Edgerton
was reproaching me only yesterday for my neglect."
"Ah, indeed! Well, you promised him to resume, did you not? He is
a rare persuader! He is so amiable, so mild--you could not well
resist."
It was from her face that I formed a rational conjecture of the
expression that must have appeared in mine. Her eyes dilated with
a look of timid wonder, not unmixed with apprehension. She actually
shrunk back a space; then, approaching, laid her hand upon my wrist,
as she exclaimed:-"God of heaven, Edward, what strange thought is in your bosom?
what is the meaning of that look? Look not so again, if you would
not kill me!"