"You are unwell, Edward," she remarked tenderly, approaching and
throwing her arms around my neck, as she perceived the gradual
gathering of that cloud upon my brows.
"Why do you think so, Julia?"
"Oh, you look so sad--almost severe, Edward, and your words are so
few and cold. Have I offended you, dear Edward?"
I was confused at this direct question. I felt annoyed, ashamed.
I pleaded headache in justification of my manner--it did ache, and
my heart, too, but not with the ordinary pang; and I felt a warm
blush suffuse my cheek, as I yielded to the first suggestion which
prompted me to deceive my wife.
A large leading step was thus taken, and progress was easy afterward.
Oh! sweet spirit of confidence, thou only true saint, more needful
than all, to bind the ties of kindred and affection! why art thou
so prompt to fly at the approach of thy cold, dark enemy, distrust?
Why dost thou yield the field with so little struggle? Why, when
the things, dearest to thee of all in the world's gift--its most
valued treasure, its purest, sweetest, and proudest trophies--why,
when these are the stake which is to reward thy courage, thy
adherence, to compensate thee for trial, to console thee for loss
and outrage--why is it that thou art so ready to despond of the
cause so dear to thee, and forfeit the conquest by which alone thy
whole existence is made sweet. This is the very suicide of self.
Fearful of loss, we forsake the prize, which we have won; and
hearkening to the counsel of a natural enemy, eat of that bitter
fruit which banishes for ever from our lips the sweet savor which
we knew before, and without which, no savor that is left is sweet.