“felt
The agonizing sense
Of seeing lore from passion melt
Into indifference;
The fearful shame that, day by day,
Burns onward, still to burn,
To have thrown her precious heart away,
And met this black return,”

till death at last closed the scene.  Not that she died of one downright blow on the heart.  That is not the way such cases proceed.  I cannot detail all the symptoms, for I was not there to watch them, and aunt Z. was neither so faithful an observer or narrator as I have shown myself in the school-day passages; but, generally, they were as follows.

Sylvain wanted to go into the world, or let it into his house.  Mariana consented; but, with an unsatisfied heart, and no lightness of character, she played her part ill there.  The sort of talent and facility she had displayed in early days, were not the least like what is called out in the social world by the desire to please and to shine.  Her excitement had been muse-like, that of the improvisatrice, whose kindling fancy seeks to create an atmosphere round it, and makes the chain through which to set free its electric sparks.  That had been a time of wild and exuberant life.  After her character became more tender and concentrated, strong affection or a pure enthusiasm might still have called out beautiful talents in her.  But in the first she was utterly disappointed.  The second was not roused within her thought.  She did not expand into various life, and remained unequal; sometimes too passive, sometimes too ardent, and not sufficiently occupied with what occupied those around her to come on the same level with them and embellish their hours.

Thus she lost ground daily with her husband, who, comparing her with the careless shining dames of society, wondered why he had found her so charming in solitude.

At intervals, when they were left alone, Mariana wanted to open her heart, to tell the thoughts of her mind.  She was so conscious of secret riches within herself, that sometimes it seemed, could she but reveal a glimpse of them to the eye of Sylvain, he would be attracted near her again, and take a path where they could walk hand in hand.  Sylvain, in these intervals, wanted an indolent repose.  His home was his castle.  He wanted no scenes too exciting there.  Light jousts and plays were well enough, but no grave encounters.  He liked to lounge, to sing, to read, to sleep.  In fine, Sylvain became the kind, but preoccupied husband, Mariana, the solitary and wretched wife.  He was off continually, with his male companions, on excursions or affairs of pleasure.  At home Mariana found that neither her books nor music would console her.

She was of too strong a nature to yield without a struggle to so dull a fiend as despair.  She looked into other hearts, seeking whether she could there find such home as an orphan asylum may afford.  This she did rather because the chance came to her, and it seemed unfit not to seize the proffered plank, than in hope, for she was not one to double her stakes, but rather with Cassandra power to discern early the sure course of the game.  And Cassandra whispered that she was one of those