I condemned myself for the feelings I had been indulging. I had felt bitter towards Edith for smiling so sweetly in her brother's face, when it had turned so coldly from me. I was envious of her power to soothe the restless spirit I had so unconsciously troubled. As I thus communed with my own heart, I unbound my hair, that the air might exhale the mist which had gathered in its folds. I brushed out the damp tresses, till, self-mesmerized, a soft haziness stole over my senses, and though I did not sleep, I was on the borders of the land of dreams.
CHAPTER XLIII.
I suppose I must have slept, though I was not conscious of it, for I did not hear Ernest enter the room, and yet when I looked again, he was sitting in the opposite window, still as a statue, looking out into the depths of night. I started as if I had seen a spirit, for I believed myself alone, and I did not feel less lonely now. There was something dejected in his attitude, and he sighed heavily as he turned and leaned his forehead against the window sash.
I rose, and softly approaching him laid my hand on his shoulder.
"Are you angry with me, Ernest?" I asked.
He did not answer, or turn towards me; but I felt a tremulous motion of his shoulder, and knew that he heard me.
"What have I done to displease you, dear Ernest?" again I asked. "Will you not speak to me and tell me, at least, in what I have offended?"
"I am not offended," he answered, without looking up; "I am not angry, but grieved, wounded, and unhappy."
"And will you not tell me the cause of your grief? Is not sympathy in sorrow the wife's holiest privilege?"