The fluctuations of hope and fear, confined to this one channel, made each day in her presence a delicious torment.  There was one deliberate act of hers which especially helped to intoxicate me.  When we were at Vienna her twentieth birthday occurred, and as she was very fond of ornaments, we all took the opportunity of the splendid jewellers’ shops in that Teutonic Paris to purchase her a birthday present of jewellery.  Mine, naturally, was the least expensive; it was an opal ring—­the opal was my favourite stone, because it seems to blush and turn pale as if it had a soul.  I told Bertha so when I gave it her, and said that it was an emblem of the poetic nature, changing with the changing light of heaven and of woman’s eyes.  In the evening she appeared elegantly dressed, and wearing conspicuously all the birthday presents except mine.  I looked eagerly at her fingers, but saw no opal.  I had no opportunity of noticing this to her during the evening; but the next day, when I found her seated near the window alone, after breakfast, I said, “You scorn to wear my poor opal.  I should have remembered that you despised poetic natures, and should have given you coral, or turquoise, or some other opaque unresponsive stone.”  “Do I despise it?” she answered, taking hold of a delicate gold chain which she always wore round her neck and drawing out the end from her bosom with my ring hanging to it; “it hurts me a little, I can tell you,” she said, with her usual dubious smile, “to wear it in that secret place; and since your poetical nature is so stupid as to prefer a more public position, I shall not endure the pain any longer.”

She took off the ring from the chain and put it on her finger, smiling still, while the blood rushed to my cheeks, and I could not trust myself to say a word of entreaty that she would keep the ring where it was before.

I was completely fooled by this, and for two days shut myself up in my own room whenever Bertha was absent, that I might intoxicate myself afresh with the thought of this scene and all it implied.

I should mention that during these two months—­which seemed a long life to me from the novelty and intensity of the pleasures and pains I underwent—­my diseased anticipation in other people’s consciousness continued to torment me; now it was my father, and now my brother, now Mrs. Filmore or her husband, and now our German courier, whose stream of thought rushed upon me like a ringing in the ears not to be got rid of, though it allowed my own impulses and ideas to continue their uninterrupted course.  It was like a preternaturally heightened sense of hearing, making audible to one a roar of sound where others find perfect stillness.  The weariness and disgust of this involuntary intrusion into other souls was counteracted only by my ignorance of Bertha, and my growing passion for her; a passion enormously stimulated, if not produced, by that ignorance.  She was my oasis of mystery in the dreary desert of knowledge.