“You do not seem to have an appetite, dear; what is the matter?” asked Edith.

“I am not very well,” said Marian, rising and leaving the table, and refraining with difficulty from bursting into tears.

“It’s dat ar cussed infunnelly party at Lockemup—­last Toosday!” said Jenny, as she cleared away the tea service—­“a-screwin’ up tight in cusseds an’ ball-dresses! an’ a-dancing all night till broad daylight! ‘sides heavin’ of ever so much unwholesome ’fectionery trash down her t’roat—­de constitution ob de United States hisself couldn’t stan’ sich! much less a delicy young gall!  I ’vises ov you, honey, to go to bed.”

“Indeed, Marian, it was too much for you to lose your rest all night, and then have to get up early to go to school.  You should have had a good sleep this morning.  And then to be detained so late this evening.  Did you have to keep any of the girls in, or was it a visit from the trustees that detained you?”

“Neither,” said Marian, nervously, “but I think I must take Jenny’s advice and go to bed.”

CHAPTER XVIII.

THAT NIGHT.

From that miserable night, Marian saw no more of Thurston, except occasionally at church, when he came at irregular intervals, and maintained the same coolness and distance of manner toward her, and with matchless self-command, too, since often his heart yearned toward her with almost irresistible force.

Cold and calm as was his exterior, he was suffering not less than Marian; self-tossed with passion, the strong currents and counter-currents of his soul whirled as a moral maelstrom, in which both reason and conscience threatened to be engulfed.

And in these mental conflicts judgment and understanding were often obscured and bewildered, and the very boundaries of right and wrong lost.

His appreciation of Marian wavered with his moods.

When very angry he would mentally denounce her as a cold, prudent, calculating woman, who had entrapped him into a secret marriage, and having secured his hand, would now risk nothing for his love, and himself as a weak, fond fool, the tool of the beautiful, proud diplomat, whom it would be justifiable to circumvent, to defeat, and to humble in some way.

At such times he felt a desire, amounting to a strong temptation, to abduct her—­to get her into his power, and make her feel that power.  No law could protect her or punish him—­for they were married.

But here was the extreme point at which reaction generally commenced, for Thurston could not contemplate himself in that character—­playing such a part, for an instant.

And then when a furtive glance would show him Marian’s angel face, fairer and paler and more pensive than ever before—­a strong counter-current of love and admiration approaching to worship, would set in, and he would look upon her as a fair saint worthy of translation to heaven, and upon himself as a designing but foiled conspirator, scarcely one degree above the most atrocious villain.  “Currents and counter-currents” of stormy passion, where is the pilot that shall guide the understanding safely through them?  It is no wonder, that once in a while, a mind is wrecked.