Still the Cloud

For three days and nights did I watch beside the sick bed of my
wife. In all this time her fate continued doubtful. I doubt if any
anxiety or attention could have exceeded mine; as it was clear to
myself that, in spite of jealousy and suspicion, my love for her
remained without diminution. Yet this watch was not maintained
without some trials far more severe and searching than those which
it produced upon the body. Her mind, wandering and purposeless, yet
spoke to mine, and renewed all its racking doubts, and exaggerated
all its nameless fears. Her veins burned with fever. She was fitfully
delirious. Words fell from her at spasmodic moments--strange,
incoherent words, but all full of meaning in my ears. I sat beside
the bed on one hand, while, on one occasion, her mother occupied
a seat upon that opposite. The eyes of my wife opened upon both of
us--turned from me, convulsively, with an expression, as I thought,
of disgust, then closed--while her lips, taking up their language,
poured forth a torrent of threats and reproaches.

I can not repeat her words. They rang in my ears, understood, indeed,
but so wildly and thrillingly, that I should find it a vain task
to endeavor to remember them. She spoke of persecution, annoyance,
beyond propriety, beyond her powers of endurance. She threatened
me--for I assumed myself to be the object of her denunciation--with
the wrath of some one capable to punish--nay, to rescue her, if
need be, by violence, from the clutches of her tyrant. Then followed
another change in her course of speech. She no longer threatened or
denounced. She derided. Words of bitter scorn and loathing contempt
issued from those bright, red, burning, and always beautiful lips,
which I had never supposed could have given forth such utterance,
even if her spirit could have been supposed capable of conceiving
it. Keen was the irony which she expressed--irony, which so well
applied to my demerits in one great respect, that I could not help
making the personal application.