A Father's Griefs

She continued to improve, but slowly. Her organization was always
very delicate. Her frame was becoming thin, almost to meagreness;
and this last disaster, whatever might be its cause, had contributed
still more to weaken a constitution which education and nature had
never prepared for much hard encounter. But, though I saw these
proofs of feebleness--of a feebleness that might have occasioned
reasonable apprehensions of premature decay, and possibly very rapid
decline--there were little circumstances constantly occurring--looks
shown, words spoken--which kept up the irritation of my soul,
and prevented me from doing justice to her enfeebled condition.

My sympathies were absorbed in my suspicions. My heart was the
debateable land of self. The blind passion which enslaved it, I
need scarce say, was of a nature so potent, that it could easily
impregnate, with its own color, all the objects of its survey.
Seen through the eyes of suspicion, there is no truth, no virtue;
the smile is that of the snake; the tear, that of the crocodile;
the assurance, that of the traitor. There is no act, look, word,
of the suspected object, however innocent, which, to the diseased
mind of jealousy, does not suggest conjectures and arguments,
all conclusive or confirmatory of its doubts and fears. It is not
necessary to say that I shrunk from Julia's endearment, requited
her smiles with indifference; and, though I did not avoid her
presence--I could not, in the few days when her case was doubtful--yet
exhibited, in all respects, the conduct of one who was in a sort
of Coventry.