that led to the library was winding, sweeping by the lofty
staircase, and terminating in a kind of picture gallery. Some of these
were relics of the old Italian masters, and their dark, rich coloring
came out in the lamp light with gloomy splendor. I had seen them a
hundred times, but never had they impressed me with such lurid grandeur
as now. One by one, the dark lines started on the canvas glowing with
strange life, and standing out in bold, sublime relief. I hurried by
them and stood in front of the library door with the key trembling in my
hand. I heard no sound within. All was still as death. Perhaps,
exhausted by his lonely vigils, he slept, and it would be cruel to
awaken him. Perhaps he would frown on me in anger, for not respecting
the sanctity of his vow. I had seen him at noon, but he did not speak or
look at me; and as his mother said, he had never appeared so pale, so
heart-worn, and so wretched. He was evidently ill and suffering, though
to his mother's anxious inquiries he declared himself well, perfectly
well. There was one thing which made me glad. The gay, mingling laughs,
the sounds of social joy, of music and mirth, came so softened through
the long winding avenue, that they broke against the library in a soft,
murmuring wave that could not be heard within.

Why did I stand trembling and irresolute, as if I had no right to
penetrate that lonely apartment? He was my husband, and a wife's
agonized solicitude had drawn me to him. If he repulsed me, I could but
turn away and weep;--and was not my pillow wet with nightly tears?

Softly I turned the key, and the door opened, as if touched by invisible
hands. He did not hear me,--I know he did not,--for he sat at the upper
end of the room, on a window seat, leaning back against the drapery of
the curtain that fell darkly behind him. His face was turned towards the
window, through whose parted damask the starry night looked in. But
though his face was partially turned from me, I could see its contour
and its hue as distinctly as those of the marble busts that surrounded
him. He looked scarcely less hueless and cold, and his hand, that lay
embedded in his dark wavy hair, gleamed white and transparent as
alabaster. I stood just within the door, with suspended breath and
wildly palpitating heart, praying for courage to break the spell that
bound me to the spot. All my strength was gone. I felt myself a guilty
intruder in that scene of self-humiliation, penance