At length the cloud seemed to clear away from the brow of
her husband. He once more resumed his labors, and with an
avidity which he had not betrayed before. His passion now

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amounted to intensity. He gave himself no respite from his
toils. Late and early he was at his task — morning and night—
without intermission, and with the enthusiasm of one who rejoices
in the completion of a favorite and long-cherished study.
Aurelia was not unhappy at this second change; to go back to
his old engagements and tastes seemed to her to indicate a return
to his former equanimity and waveless happiness. It was
with some surprise, however, and not a little concern, that she
was not now permitted to watch his progress. He wrought in
secret — his studio was closed against her, as, indeed, it was
against all persons. Hitherto it had not been so in her instance.
She pleasantly reproached him for this seclusion, but he answered
her — “Fear not, you shall see all when it is done.”
There was something in this reply to disquiet her, but she was
in a state of mind easily to be disquieted.

She was conscious also of a secret withheld from her husband—
and her reproaches sunk back upon her heart, unuttered, from
her lips. She could not, because of what she felt, declare to him
what she thought; and she beheld his progress, from day to day,
with an apprehension that increased momently, and made her
appearance, in one respect, not unlike his own. She was not
aware that he was the victim of a strange excitement, in which
his present artist labors had a considerable share. He seemed
to hurry to their prosecution with an eager impatience that
looked like frenzy — and to return from his daily task with a
frame exhausted, but with an eye that seemed to burn with the
subtlest fires. His words were few, but there was a strange intelligence
in his looks. His cheeks had grown very pale, his frame
was thinned, his voice made hollow, in the prosecution of these
secret labors; and yet there was a something of exultation in
his glance, which fully declared that, however exhausting to his
frame might be the task he was pursuing, its results were yet
looked to with a wild and eager satisfaction. At length the
work was done. One day he stood before her in an attitude of
utter exhaustion. “It is finished!” he exclaimed. “You shall
see it to-morrow.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“Nay, to-morrow! to-morrow!”

He then retired to sleep, and rested several hours. She looked

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on him while he slept. He had never rested so profoundly since
he had begun the labor from which he was now freed. The
slumber of an infant was never more calm, was never softer,
sweeter, or purer. The beauty of Cœlius was that of the
most peaceful purity. She bent over him as he slept, and kissed
his forehead with lips of the truest devotion, while two big tears
gathered in her large eyes, and slowly felt their way along her
cheeks. She turned away lest the warm drops falling upon his
face might awake him. She turned away, and in her own apartment
gave free vent to the feelings which his pure and placid
slumbers seemed rather to subdue than encourage. Why, with
such a husband — her first love — and with so many motives to
happiness, was she not happy? Alas! who shall declare for
the secret yearnings of the heart, and say, as idly as Canute to
the sea, “thus far shalt thou go, and no farther — here shall thy
proud waves be stayed.” Aurelia was a creature of fears and
anxieties, and many a secret and sad presentiment. She was
very far from happy — ill at ease — and — but why anticipate?
We shall soon enough arrive at the issue of our melancholy narrative!

That night, while she slept — for grief and apprehension have
their periods of exhaustion which we misname repose — her husband
rose from his couch, and with cautious footsteps departed
from his dwelling. He was absent all the night and returned
only with the dawn. He re-entered his home with the same
stealthy caution with which he had quitted it, and it might have
been remarked that he dismissed his brother, with two other
persons, at the threshold. They were all masked, and otherwise
disguised with cloaks. Why this mystery? Where had
they been — on what mission of mischief or of shame? To
Cœlius, such a necessity was new, and scarcely had he entered
his dwelling than he cast aside his disguises with the air of one
who loathes their uses. He was very pale and haggard, with a
fixed but glistening expression of the eye, a brow of settled
gloom, from which hope and faith, and every interest in life
seemed utterly to be banished. A single groan escaped him
when he stood alone, and then he raised himself erect, as if
hitherto he had leaned upon the arms of others. He carried
himself firmly and loftily, his lips compressed, his eye eagerly

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looking forward; and thus, after the interval of a few seconds,
he passed to the chamber of his wife. And still she slept. He
bent over her, earnestly and intently gazing upon those beauties
which grief seemed only to sadden into superior sweetness. He
looked upon her with those earnest eyes of love, the expression
of which can never be misunderstood. Still he loved her, though
between her heart and his, a high, impassable barrier had been
raised up by the machinations of a guilty spirit. Tenderness
was the prevailing character of his glance until she spoke. Her
sleep, though deep, was not wholly undisturbed. Fearful images
crossed her fancy. She started and sobbed, and cried, “Save,
O save and spare him — Flavius, my dear Flavius!” and her
breathing again became free, and her lips sunk once more into
repose. But fearful was the change, from a saddened tenderness
to agony and despair, which passed over the features of
Cœlius as he listened to her cry. Suddenly, striking his clenched
hands against his forehead, he shook them terribly at the sleeping
woman, and rushed wildly out of the apartment.