"Sometimes, my husband, I have thought my feelings for you were such as I ought to entertain for my father or an elder brother. I venerate and admire your character; I would die for you,--oh, how willingly!--but sometimes I fear it is not _love_ I feel for you." She paused, and looked at me earnestly. "How long have you felt as you now do?" I asked, with an icy calmness. "I do not know. I cannot tell. But I have not thought of it seriously till Alphonse came here,--and I want you to send him away." "And do you love Alphonse?" I asked, slowly. "Oh, God! I do not know. I cannot tell what is the matter with me. Perhaps it is mere infatuation. Alas! I cannot tell." "And why do you come with this to me?" I said sneeringly, devil that I was. "Because you are my husband,--because you are wise and strong and good, and the only one who can advise me,--because I am in danger, and you can save me," she cried, looking imploringly on my frigid features. "And for that purpose you come to _me?_" "I do, I do!" she exclaimed. At the same time she threw her arms around me passionately, buried her face in my bosom, and wept. There was a struggle within me,--not violent nor desperate, but calm and cold,--while the face of that fair young creature was pressed close to my heart by her own arms thrown clingingly around me. I did not move the while; I did not respond to her sad embrace even by the slightest pressure of my hand. Yet I was all the time conscious that a pure and noble being was supplicating me for help,--a being who had devoted her life to me,--whose soul was stainless, while mine was spotted with the leprosy of a selfish nature. Like one under the influence of nightmare, who knows he does but dream and makes an effort fruitless as imaginary to lift himself out of it, I did try to follow what my heart said I should do,--fold my dear wife in my arms, and reassure her in all things. But I did no such thing. The other spirit--I should say seven others more hateful and detestable than any which had before possession of me--conquered. I raised Eudora from her kneeling posture. I placed her on the sofa beside me. I began to hate her,--to hate her for her goodness, her gentleness, her truthfulness, her fidelity,--to hate her because she dared make such an avowal, and because it was true. What right had she to permit her feelings to be influenced by another,--she, my lawfully wedded wife? I would not admit the truth to myself that _I_ was the sole, miserable, detestable cause. Oh, no!