There was something very unaccountable in all this. I say unaccountable, with the distinct understanding that it was unaccountable only to that obtuse condition of mind which is produced by the demon of the blind heart. My difficulties of judging were only temporary, however. The sinister spirit made his whisper conclusive in the end.
“This vehemence,” it suggested, “which is so unwonted with her, is evidently unnatural, It—is affected for an object. What is that object? It is the ordinary one with persons in the wrong, who always affect one extreme of feeling when they would conceal another. She fears that you will suspect that she is very well satisfied in your absence; accordingly she strives to convince you that she was never so dissatisfied. Of course you can not believe that a man so well endowed as Edgerton, so graceful, having such fine tastes and accomplishments, can prove other than an agreeable companion! What then should be your belief?”
There was a devilish ingenuity in this sort of perversion. It had its effect. I believed it; and believing it, revolted, with a feeling of hate and horror, at the supposed loathsome hypocrisy of that fond embrace, and those earnest pleadings, which, in the moment of their first display, had seemed so precious to my soul. In the morning, when I was setting forth from home, she put her arm on my shoulder:—
“Come home soon. Edward, and let us go together on the hill. Let nobody know. Surely we shall be company enough for each other. I will sketch you a view of the river while you read Wordsworth to me.”
“Now,” whispered my demon in my ears, “that is ingenious. Let nobody know; as if, having a friend in the neighborhood—on a visit—be sick and in bad spirits—you should propose to yourself a pleasure trip of any kind without inviting him to partake of it? She knows THAT to be out of the question, and that you must ask Edgerton if you resolve to go yourself.”
Such was the artful suggestion of my familiar. My resolve—still recognising the cruel policy by which I had been so long governed—was instantly taken. This was to invite Edgerton and Kingsley both.
“I will give them every opportunity. While Kingsley and myself ramble together, well leave this devoted pair to their own cogitations, taking care, however, to see what comes of them.”
I promised Julia to be home in season, but said nothing of my intention to ask the gentlemen. She thanked me with a look and smile, which, had I not seen all things through eyes of the most jaundiced green, would have seemed to me that of an angel, expressive only of the truest love.
“Ah! could I but believe!” was the bitter self-murmur of my soul, as I left the threshold.
On my way through the town I stopped at the postoffice to get letters, and received one from Mrs. Delaney—late Clifford—my wife's exemplary mother, addressed to Julia. I then proceeded to Edgerton's lodgings. He was not yet up, and I saw him in his chamber. His flute lay upon the toilet. Seeing it, I recalled, with all its original vexing bitterness, the scene which took place the night previous to my departure from my late home. And when I looked on Edgerton—saw with what effort he spoke, and how timidly he expressed himself—how reluctant were his eyes to meet the gaze of mine—his guilt seemed equally fresh and unequivocal. I marked him out, involuntarily, as my victim. I felt assured, even while conveying to him the complimentary invitation which I bore, that my hand was commissioned to do the work of death upon his limbs. Strange and fascinating conviction! But I did not contemplate this necessity with any pleasure. No! I would have prayed—I did pray—that the task might be spared me. If I thought of it at all, it was as the agent of a necessity which I could not countervail. The fates had me in their keeping. I was the blind instrument obeying the inflexible will, against which
I felt then, most truly, though I deceived myself, that I had no power, though every disposition, to save and to spare. I conveyed my invitation as a message from my wife.
“Edgerton, my wife has planned a little ramble for this afternoon. She wishes to show you some of the beauties of landscape in our new abode. She commissions me to ask you to join us.”
“Ah! did SHE?” he demanded eagerly, with a slight emphasis on the last word.
“Ay, did she! Will you come?”
“Certainly—with pleasure!”
He need not have said so much. The pleasure spoke in his bright eyes—in the tremulous hurry of his utterance. I turned away from him, lest I should betray the angry feeling which disturbed me. He did not seek to arrest my departure. He had few words. It was sufficiently evident that he shrunk from my glance and trembled in my presence. How far otherwise, in the days of our mutual innocence—in our days of boyhood—when his face seemed clear like that of a pure, perfect star, shining out in the blue serene of night, unconscious of a cloud.
Kingsley was already at my office when I reached it, and soon after came Mr. Wharton, followed by two of our opponents. We were engaged with them the better part of the morning. When the business hours were consumed, our transactions remained unfinished, and another meeting was appointed for the ensuing day. I invited Wharton as well as Kingsley to join us in our afternoon rambles, which they both promised to do. I went home something sooner to make preparations, and only recollected, on seeing Julia, that I had thrown the letter from her mother, with other papers, into my desk. When I told her of the letter, her countenance changed to a death-like paleness which instantly attracted my notice.
“What is the matter—are you sick, Julia!”
“No! nothing. But the letter—where is it?”
“I threw it on my table, or in my desk, with other papers, to have them out of the way; and hurrying home sooner than usual, forgot to bring it with me. I suppose there's nothing in it of any importance?”
“No, nothing, I suppose,” she answered faintly.
I told her what I had done with respect to our guests.
“I am very sorry,” she answered, “that you have done so. I do not feel like company, and wished to have you all to myself.”
“Oh, selfish; but of this I will believe moderately! As for company, with the exception of Wharton, they are old friends; and it would not do to take a pleasure ramble, with poor Edgerton here, and not make him a party.”
There was an earnest intensity of gaze, almost amounting to a painful stare, in Julia's eyes, as I said these words. She really seemed distressed.
“But really, Edward, our pleasure ramble is not such a one as would make it a duty to invite your friends. How difficult it seems for you to understand me. Could not we two stroll a piece into the woods without having witnesses?”
“Why, is that all? Why then should you have made a formal appointment for such a purpose? Could we not have gone as before—without premeditation?”
The question puzzled her. She looked anxious. Had she answered with sincerity—with truth—and could I have believed her to have been sincere, how easy would it have been to have settled our difficulties. Had she said—“I really wish to avoid Mr. Edgerton, whose presence annoys me—who will be sure to come—when you are sure to be gone—and whom I have particular reasons to wish not to meet—not to see.”
This, which might be the truth, she did not dare to speak. She had her reasons for her apprehension. This, which was reasonable enough, I could not conjecture; for the demon of the blind heart was too busy in suggesting other conjectures. It was evident enough that she had secret motives for her course, which she did not venture to reveal to me; and nothing could be more natural, in the diseased state of my mind, than that I should give the worst colorings to these motives in the conjectures which I made upon them. We were destined to play at cross-purposes much longer, and with more serious issues.
Our friends came, and we set forth in the pleasant part of the afternoon. We ascended our hill, and resting awhile upon the summit, surveyed the prospect from that position. Then I conducted the party through some of our woodland walks, which Julia and myself had explored together. But I soon gave up the part of cicerone to Wharton, who was to the “MANOR BORN.” He was a native of the neighborhood, boasted that he knew every “bosky dell of this wild wood” and certainly conducted us to glimpses of prettiest heights, and groves, and far vistas, where the light seemed to glide before us in an embodied gray form, that stole away, and peeped backward upon us from long allies of the darkest and most solemn-sighted pines.
“But there is a finer spot just below us,” he said—“a creek that is like no other that I have ever met with in the neighborhood. It is formed by the Alabama—is as deep in some places, and so narrow, at times, that a spry lad can easily leap across it.”
“Is it far?”
“No—a mile only.”
“But your wife may be fatigued, Clifford?” was the suggestion of Kingsley. She certainly looked so; but I answered for her, and insisted otherwise. I met her glance as I spoke, but, though she looked dissatisfaction, her lips expressed none. I could easily conjecture that she felt none. She was walking with Edgerton—and while all eyes watched the scenery, he watched her alone. I hurried forward with Kingsley, but he immediately fell behind, loitered on very slowly, and left Wharton and myself to proceed together. I could comprehend the meaning of this. My demon made his suggestion.
“Kingsley suspects them—he sees what you are unwilling to see—he is not so willing to leave them together.”
We reached the stream, and wandered along its banks. It had some unusual characteristics. It was sometimes a creek, deep and narrow, but clear; a few steps farther and it became what, in the speech of the country, is called a branch; shallow, purling soft over a sand-bed, limpid yellow, and with a playful prattle that put one in mind of the songs of thoughtless children, humming idly as they go. The shrubbery along its (sic) seemed to follow its changes. Where the bluffs were high, the foliage was dense and the trees large. The places where its waters shallowed, were only dotted with shrub trees and wild vines, which sometimes clambered across the stream and wedded the opposing branches, in bonds as hard to break as those of matrimony. The waters were sinuous, and therefore slow. They seemed only to glide along, like some glittering serpent, who trails at leisure his silvery garments through the woods quietly and slow, as if he had no sort of apprehension.
When we had reached a higher spot of bluff than the rest, Wharton, who was an active rather than an athletic man, challenged me to follow him. He made the leap having little space to spare. I had not done such a thing for some years. But my boyhood had been one of daring. The school in which I had grown up had given me bodily hardihood and elasticity; at all events I could not brook defiance in such a matter, and, with moderate effort, succeeded in making a longer stride. I looked back at this moment and saw Julia, still closely attended by Edgerton, just about emerging into view from a thick copse that skirted the foot of a small hill over which our course had brought us. I could not distinguish their features. They were, however, close together. Kingsley was on their right, a little in advance of them, but still walking slowly. I pointed my finger toward a shallow and narrow part of the stream as that which they would find it most easy to cross. A tree had been felled at the designated point, and just below it, in consequence of the obstructions which its limbs presented to the easy passage of the water, several sand bars had been made, by which, stepping from one to the other, one might cross dryshod even without the aid of the tree. Kingsley repeated my signal to those behind him, and led the way. I went on with Wharton, without again looking behind me.
But few minutes had elapsed after this, when I heard Julia scream in sudden terror. I looked round, but the foliage had thickened behind me, and I could no longer see the parties. I bounded backward, with no enviable feelings. My apprehensions for my wife's safety made me forgetful of my suspicions. I reached the spot in time to discover the cause of her alarm.
She was in the midst of the stream, standing upon one of the sandflats, steadying herself with difficulty, while she supported the whole form of William Edgerton, who lay, seemingly lifeless, and half buried in one of the sluices of water which ran between the sandrifts. I had just time to see this, and to feel all the pangs of my jealousy renewed, when Kingsley rushed into the water to his rescue. He lifted him out to the banks as if he had been an infant, and laid him on the shore. I went to the relief of Julia, who, trembling like a leaf, fainted in my arms the moment she felt herself in safety.
The whole affair was at that time unaccountable to me. It necessarily served to increase my pangs. Had I not seen her with my own eyes tenderly supporting the fainting frame of the man whom I believed to be my rival—whom I believed she loved? Had I not heard her scream of terror announcing her interest in his fate—her apprehensions for his safety? His danger had made her forgetful of her caution—such was the assurance of my demon—and in the fullness of her heart her voice found utterance. Besides, how was I to know what endearments—what fond pressure of palms—had been passing between them, making them heedless of their course, and consequently, making them liable to the accident which had occurred. For, it must be remembered, that the general impression was that Edgerton's foot had slipped, and, falling into the stream while endeavoring to assist Julia, he had nearly pulled her in after him. His fainting afterward we ascribed to the same nervous weakness which had induced that of Julia. On this head, however, Kingsley was better informed. He told me, in a subsequent conversation, that he had narrowly observed the parties—that, until the moment before he fell, the hands of the two had not met—that then, Edgerton offered his to assist my wife over the stream, and scarcely had their fingers touched, when Edgerton sank down, like a stone, seemingly lifeless, and falling into the water only after he had become insensible.
All was confusion. Mine, however, was not confusion. It was commotion—commotion which I yet suppressed—a volcano smothered, but smothered only for a time, and ready to break forth with superior fury in consequence of the restraint put upon it. This one event, with the impressive spectacle of the parties in such close juxtaposition, seemed almost to render every previous suspicion conclusive.
Julia was soon recovered; but the swoon of Edgerton was of much longer duration. We sprinkled him with water, subjected him to fanning and friction, and at length aroused him. His mind seemed to wander at his first consciousness—he murmured incoherently. One or two broken sentences, however, which he spoke, were not without significance in my ears.
“Closer! closer! leave me not now—not yet.”
I bent over him to catch the words. Kingsley, as if he feared the utterance of anything more, pushed me away, and addressing Edgerton sternly, asked him if he felt pain.
“What hurts you, Mr. Edgerton? Where is your pain?”
The harsh and very loud tones which he employed, had the effect which I have no doubt he intended. The other came to complete consciousness in a moment.
“Pain!” said he—“no! I feel no pain. I feel feeble only.”
And he strove to rise from the ground as he spoke.
“Do not attempt it,” said Kingsley—“you are not able. Wharton, my good fellow, will you run back to town, and bring a carriage?”
“It will not need,” said Edgerton, striving again to rise, and staggering up with difficulty.
“It will need. You must not overtask yourself. The walk is a long one before us.”
Meantime, Wharton was already on his way. It was a tedious interval which followed before his return with the carriage, which found considerable difficulty in picking a track through the woods. Julia, after recovery, had wandered off about a hundred yards from the party. She betrayed no concern—no uneasiness—made no inquiries after Edgerton, of whose condition she knew nothing—and, by this very course, convinced me that she was conscious of too deep an interest in his fate to trust her lips in referring to it. All that she said to me was, that “she had been so terrified on seeing him fall, that she did not even know that she had screamed.”
“Natural enough!” said my demon. “Had she been able to have controlled her utterance, she would have taken precious good care to have maintained the silence of the grave. But her feelings were too strong for her policy.”
And I took this reasoning for gospel.
The carriage came. Edgerton was put into it, but Julia positively refused to ride. She insisted that she was perfectly equal to the walk and walk she would. I was pleased with this determination, but not willing to appear pleased. I expostulated with her even angrily, but found her incorrigible. Chagrin and disappointment were obvious enough on the face of William Edgerton.
I took my seat beside him, and left Kingsley and Wharton to escort my wife home. We had scarcely got in motion before a rash determination seized my mind.
“You must go home with me, Edgerton. It will not do, while you are in this feeble state, to remain at a public tavern.”
He said something very faintly about crowding and inconveniencing us.
“Pshaw—room enough—and Julia can be your nurse.”
His eyes closed, he sunk back in the carriage, and a deep sigh escaped him. I fancied that he had a second time fainted; but I soon discovered that his faintness was simply the sudden sense of an overcoming pleasure. I knit my teeth spasmodically together; I cursed him in the bitterness of my heart, but said nothing. It was a feeling of desperation that had prompted the rash resolution which I had taken.
“At least,” I muttered to myself, “it will bring these damning doubts to a final trial. If they have been fools heretofore, opportunity will serve to madden them. We shall see—we shall know all very soon;—and then!—”
Ay, then!
Mrs Porterfield, good old lady, half blind, half deaf, infirm and gouty, but very good natured, easily complied with my request to accommodate my friend. My friend!—She soon put one of her bed-rooms in order, and Edgerton was in quiet possession of it sometime before the pedestrians came home. When my wife was told of what I had done, she was perfectly aghast. Her air of chagrin was well put on and excellently worn. But she said nothing. Kingsley wore a face of unusual gravity.
“You are either the most wilful or the most indifferent husband in the world,” was his whispered remark to me as he bade me good night, refusing to remain for supper.
I said something to my wife about tending Edgerton—seeing to his wants—nursing him if he remained unwell, and so forth She looked at me with a face of intense sadness, but made no reply.
“She is too happy for speech,” said my demon; “and such faces are easily made for such an occasion.”
I went in to Edgerton after a brief space; I found him feeble, complaining of chill. His hands felt feverish. I advised quiet and sent off for a physician. I sat with him until the physician came, but I observed that my presence seemed irksome to him. He answered me in monosyllables only; his eyes, meanwhile, being averted, his countenance that of one excessively weary and impatient for release. The physician prescribed and left him, as I did myself. I thought he needed repose and desired to be alone. To my great surprise he followed me in less than half an hour into the supper-room, where he stubbornly sat out the evening. He refused to take the physic prescribed for him and really did not now appear to need it. His eyes were lighted up with unusual animation, his cheeks had an improved color, and without engaging very actively in the conversation, what he said was said with a degree of spirit quite uncommon with him during the latter days of our intimacy.
Mr. Wharton spent the evening with us, and the ball of talk was chiefly sustained by him and myself. My wife said little, nothing save when spoken to, and wore a countenance of greater gravity than ever. It seemed that Edgerton made some effort to avoid any particularity in his manner, yet seldom did I turn my eyes without detecting his in keen examination of my wife's countenance. At such times, his glance usually fell to the ground, but toward the close of evening, he almost seemed to despise observation, or—which was more probable—was not conscious of it—for his gaze became fixed with a religious earnestness, which no look of mine could possibly divert or unfix. He solicited my wife to play on the guitar, but she declined, until requested by Mrs. Porterfield, when she took up the instrument passively, and sung to it one of those ordinary negro-songs which are now so shockingly popular. I was surprised at this, for I well knew that she heartily detested the taste and spirit in which such things were conceived. Under the tuition of my demon, I immediately assumed this to be another proof of the decline of her delicacy. And yet, though I did not think of this at the time, she might have employed the coarse effusion simply as an antidote against the predominance of a morbid sentimentalism. There is a moment in the history of the heart's suffering, when the smallest utterance of the lips, or movement of the form, or expression of the eye, is prompted by some prevailing policy—some motive which the excited sensibilities deem of importance to their desires.
She retired soon. Her departure was followed by that of Edgerton first, and next of Wharton. Mrs. Porterfield had already gone. I was alone at the entrance of our cottage. Not alone! My demon was with me—suggestive of his pangs as ever—full of subtlety, and filling me with the darkest imaginings. The destroyer of my peace was in my dwelling. My wife may or may not be innocent. Happy for her if she is, but how can that be known? It mattered little to me in the excited mood which possessed me. Let any man fancy, as I did, that one, partaking of his hospitality, lying in the chamber which adjoined his own, yet meditated the last injury in the power of man to inflict against the peace and honor of his protector. Let him fancy this, and then ask what would be his own feelings—what his course?
Still, there is a sentiment of justice which is natural to every bosom with whom education has not been utter perversion. I believed much against Edgerton; I suspected my wife; I had seen much to offend my affections; much to alarm my fears; yet I KNEW nothing which was conclusive. That last event, the occurrence of the afternoon, seemed to prove not that the two were guilty, but that my wife loved the man who meditated guilt. This belief, doubtful so long, and against which I had really striven, seemed now to be concluded. I had heard her scream; I had seen her tenderly sustaining his form; I had felt her emotions, when, the danger being over, her feminine nature gained the ascendancy and she fainted in my arms. I could no longer doubt, that if she was still pure in mind, she was no longer insensible to a passion which must lessen that purity with every added moment of its permitted exercise. Still, even with this conviction, something more was necessary to justify me in what I designed. There must be no doubt. I must see. I must have sufficient proof, for, as my vengeance shall be unsparing, my provocation must be complete. That it might be so I had brought Edgerton into the house. Something more was necessary. Time and opportunity must be allowed him. This I insisted on, though, more than once, as I walked under the dark whispering groves which girdled our cottage, and caught a glimpse of the light in Edgerton's chamber, my demon urged me to go in and strangle him. I had strength to resist this suggestion, but the struggle was a long one.
I did not soon retire to rest. When I did, I still remained sleepless. But Julia slept. In her sleep she threw herself on my bosom, and seemed to cling about and clasp me as if with some fear of separation. Had I not fancied that this close embrace was meant for another than myself, I had been more indulgent to the occasional moanings of distress that escaped her lips. But, thinking as I did, I forced her from me, and in doing so she wakened.
“Edward,” she exclaimed on wakening, “is it you?”
“Who should it be?” I demanded—all my suspicions renewed by her question.
“I am so glad. I have had such a dream. Oh! Edward, I dreamed that you were killing me!”
“Ha! what could have occasioned such a dream?”
My demon suggested, at this moment, that her dream had been occasioned by a consciousness of what her guilty fancies deserved. But she replied promptly:—
“Nay, I know not. It was the strangest fancy. I thought that you pursued me along the river—that my foot slipped and I fell among the bushes, where you caught me, and it was just when you were strangling me that I wakened.”
“Your dream was occasioned by the affair of the afternoon. Was nobody present but ourselves?”
“Yes—there was a man at a little distance beyond us, and he seemed to be running from you also.”
“A man! who was he?”
“I don't know exactly—his back was turned, but it seemed as if it was Mr. Edgerton.”
“Ha! Mr. Edgerton!”
A deep silence followed. She had spoken her reply firmly, but so slowly as to convince me of the mental reluctance which she felt in uttering this part of the dream. When the imagination is excited, how small are the events that confirm its ascendency, and stimulate its progress. This dream seemed to me as significant as any of the signs that informed the ancient augurs. It bore me irresistibly forward in the direction of my previous thoughts. I began to see the path—dark, dismal—perhaps bloody—which lay before me. I began to feel the deed, already in my soul, which destiny was about to require me to perform. A crime, half meditated, is already half committed. This is the danger of brooding upon the precipice of evil thoughts. A moment's dizziness—a single plunge—and all is over!
I doubt whether Julia slept much the remainder of the night. I know that I did not. She had her consciousness as well as mine. THAT I now know. The question—“was her consciousness a guilty one?” That was the only question which remained for me!
The next morning I saw Edgerton. He looked quite as well as on the previous night, but professed to feel otherwise—declined coming forth to breakfast and begged me to send the physician to him on my way to the office. I immediately conjectured that this was mere practice, for he had not taken the medicine which had been prescribed.
“He must keep sick to keep HERE,” said my demon. “He can have no pretext, otherwise, to stay!”
When I was about to leave the house Julia followed me to the door.
“Don't forget to bring mother's letter with you,” was her parting direction. I had not been half an hour at the office before a little servant-girl, who tended in the house, came to me with a message from her, requesting that the letter might be sent by her.
This earnestness struck me with surprise. I remembered the expression in my wife's face the day before when I told her the letter had been received, I now recalled to mind the fact, that, on no occasion, had she ever shown me any of her mother's letters; though nothing surely would have seemed more natural, as she knew how keen was my anxiety to hear at all times from the old maternal city.
My suspicions began to warm, and I resolved upon another act of baseness in obedience to the counsel of my evil spirit. I pretended to look awhile for the letter, but finally dismissed the girl, saying that I had mislaid it, but would bring it home with me when I came to dinner. The moment she had gone I examined this precious document. It was sealed with one of those gum wafers which are stuck on the outside of the envelope. In turning it over, as if everything was prepared to gratify my wish, I discovered that one section of the wafer had nearly parted from the paper. To the upper section of the fold it adhered closely. To the lower it was scarcely attached at all, and seemed never to have been as well fastened as the upper.
The temptation was irresistible. A very slight effort enabled me to complete the separation without soiling the paper or fracturing the seal. This was all done within my desk, the leaf of the desk being raised and resting upon my head. In this position I could easily close the desk, in the event of any intrusion, without suffering the intruder to see in what I had been engaged. Thus guarded I proceeded to read the precious epistle, which I found very much what I should have expected from such a woman. It said a great deal about her neighbors and her neighbors' dresses; and how her dear Delaney was sometimes “obstropolous,” though in the end a mighty good man; and much more over which I hurried with all the rapidity of disgust. But there was matter that made me linger. One or two sentences thrown into the postscript contained a volume. I read, with lifted hair and a convulsed bosom, the following passage:—
“Delaney tells me that Bill Edgerton has gone to travel. He says to Tennessee. But I know better. I know he can't keep from you, let him try his best. But be on your guard, Julia. Don't let him get too free. Your husband's a jealous man, and if he was once to dream of the truth, he'd just as leave shoot him as look at him. I thought at one time he'd have guessed the truth before. So far you've played your cards nicely, but that was when I was by you, to tell you how. I feel quite ticklish when I think of you, and remember you've got nobody now to consult with. All I can say is, keep close. It would be the most terrible thing if Clifford should find out or even suspect. He wouldn't spare either of you. It's better for a woman in this country to drag on and be wretched, than to expose herself to shame, for no one cares for her after that. Be sure and burn this the moment you've read it. I would not have it seen for the world. I only write it as a matter of duty, for I can't forget that I'm your mother, though I must say, Julia, there were times when you have not acted the part of a daughter.”
Precious, voluminous postscript! Considerate mother! “Be on your guard, Julia. Don't let him get too free!” Prudent, motherly counsel! “You've played your cards nicely.” Nice lady! “I feel quite ticklish!” Elegant sensibilities!
Enough! The evil was done. Here was another piece of damning testimony, indirect but conclusive, to show that I was bedevilled. I refolded the letter, but I could not place my lips to the wafer. The very letter seemed to breathe of poison. Faugh! I put it from me, went to the basin, and wetting the end of my finger, sufficiently softened the gum to make it more effectually fasten the letter than when I had received it. This done, I proceeded to the business of the day with what appetite was left me.
I do not know how I got through with the business of that day. Even in my weakness I was possessed of a singular degree of strength. I saw Kingsley, Wharton, and all of the parties whom we met the day before. We came to a final decision on the subject of Kingsley's claims; I took down the heads of several papers which were to be drawn up; the terms of sale and transfer, bounds and characteristics of the land to be conveyed; and engaged in the discussion of the various topics which were involved in these transactions, with as keen a sense of business, I suspect, as any among them. The habit of suppressing my feelings availed me sufficiently under the present circumstances. Kingsley said nothing on the subject of yesterday's adventure, nor was I in the mood to refer to it. With some effort I was cheerful; spoke freely of indifferent topics, and pleased myself with the idea of my own firmness, while persuading my hearers of my good humor and my legal ability. I do not deny that I paid for these proofs of stoicism. Who does not? There is no such thing as suppressing passions which are already in action—at least, there is no such thing as suppressing them long. If the summer tempest keeps off to-day it will come to-morrow, and its force and volume is always in due proportion to the delay in its utterance. The solitudes of the forest heard my groans and agonies when man did not—and the venom which I kept from my lips, overflowed and poisoned the very sources of life and happiness within my heart.
I gave the letter to Julia without a word. She did not look at me while extending the hand to receive it, and hurried to her chamber without breaking the seal. I watched her departing form with a vague, painful emotion of inquiry, such as would possess the bosom of one, looking on a dear object, with whom he felt that a disruption was hourly threatened of every earthly tie. That day she ate no dinner. Her brow was clouded throughout the meal. Edgerton was present, seemingly as well as at his first arrival. I had learned casually from Mrs. Porterfield that he had been in our little parlor all the morning; while another remark from the good old lady gave me a new idea of the employment of my wife.
“This writing,” said she, addressing the latter, “does your eyes no good. Indeed they look as if you had been crying over your task.”
“What writing?” I asked, looking at Julia, She blushed, but said nothing, and the blush passed off, leaving the sadness more distinct than ever.
“Oh, she has been writing whole sheets for the last two mornings. I went in this morning to bring her out to assist me in entertaining Mr. Edgerton, who looked so lonesome; and I do assure you I thought at first, from the quantity of writing, that you had given her some of your law-papers to do. The table was covered with it.”
“Indeed!” said I—“this must be looked into. It will not do for the wife to take the husband's business from him. It looks mischievous, Mrs. Porterfield—there's something wrong about it.”
“Indeed there must be, Mr. Clifford, for only see how very sad it makes her. I declare, she looks this last few weeks like a very different woman. She does nothing now but mope. When she first came here she seemed to me so cheerful and happy.”
All this was so much additional wormwood to my bitter. The change in Julia, which had even struck this blind old lady, corresponded exactly with the date of Edgerton's arrival. When I saw the earnest tenderness in his countenance as he watched her, while Mrs. Porterfield was speaking, I ceased to feel any sympathy for the intense sadness which I yet could not but see in hers. I turned away, and leaving the table soon after, went to our chamber, but the traces of writing were no longer to be seen. The voluminous manuscripts had all been carefully removed. I was about to leave the chamber when Julia met me at the door.
“Come back; sit with me,” she said. “Why do you go off in such a hurry always? Once it was not so, Edward.”
“What! are you for the honeymoon again?”
“Do not smile so, and speak so irreverently!” she said, with a reproachful earnestness that certainly seemed to me very strange, thinking of her as I did. My evil spirit was silent. He lacked readiness to account for it. But he was not unadroit, and moved me to change the ground.
“But what long writing is this, Julia?”
“Ah! you are curious?”
“Scarcely.”
“TELL me that you are?”
“What! at the expense of truth?”
“No! but to gratify my desire. I hoped you were; but, curious or not, it is for you.”
“Let me see it, then.”
“Not yet; it is not ready.”
“What! shall there be more of it?”
“Yes, a good deal.”
“Indeed! but why take this labor? Why not tell me what you have to say?”
“I wish I could, but I can not. You do not encourage me.”
“What encouragement do you wish to speak to your husband?”
“Oh, much! Stay with me, dear husband.”
“That will keep you from your writing.”
“Ah! perhaps it will render it unnecessary.”
“At all events it will keep me from mine;” and I prepared to go. She put her hand upon my shoulder—looked into my eyes pleadingly—hers were dewy wet—and spoke:—
“Do not go-stay with me dear husband, do stay. Stay only for half an hour.”
Why did I not stay? I should ask that question of myself in vain. When the heart grows perverse, it acquires a taste for wilfulness. I, myself, longed to stay; could I have been persuaded that she certainly desired it, I should have found my sweetest pleasure in remaining. But there was the rub—that doubt! all that she said, looked, did, seemed, through the medium of the blind heart, to be fraudulent.
“She would disguise her anxiety, that you should be gone. Leave her, and in twenty minutes she and Edgerton will be together.”
Such was the whisper of my demon. I did leave her. I went forth for an hour into the woods—returned suddenly and found them together! They were playing chess, Mrs. Porterfield, with all her spectacles, watching the game. I did not ask, and did not know, till afterward, that the express solicitation of the old lady had drawn her from her chamber, and placed her at the table. The conjecture of the evil spirit proved so far correct, and this increased my confidence in his whispers. Alas! how readily do we yield our faith to the spirit of hate! how slow to believe the pure and gentle assurances of love!
Three days passed after this fashion. Edgerton no longer expressed indisposition, yet he made no offer to depart. I took care that neither word nor action should remind him of his trespass. I gave the parties every opportunity, and exhibited the manner of an indifference which was free from all disquiet—all suspicion. The sadness, meanwhile, increased upon the countenance of Julia. She gazed at me in particular with a look of earnestness amounting to distress. This I ascribed to the strength of her passions. There was even at moments a harshness in her tones when addressing me now, which was unusual to her. I found some reason for this, equally unfavorable to her fidelity. After dinner I said to Edgerton:—
“You are scarcely strong enough for a bout at the bottle. I take wine with Kingsley this afternoon. He has commissioned me to ask you.”
“I dare not venture, but that should not keep you away.”
“It will not,” I said indifferently.
“Thank him for me, if you please, but tell him it will not do for one so much an invalid as myself.”
“Very good!” and I left him, and joined Kingsley. The business of this friend being now in a fair train for final adjustment, he was preparing for his return to Texas. He had not been at my lodgings since Edgerton's arrival in M—, but we had seen each other, nevertheless, almost every day at his or at my office. Our afternoon was rather merry than cheerful. Heaven knows I was in no mood to be a bon compagnon, but I took sufficient pains that Kingsley should not suspect I had any reasons for being otherwise. I had my jest—I emptied my bottle—I said my good things, and seemed to say them without effort. Kingsley, always cheerful and strong-minded, was in his best vein, and mingling wit and reflection happily together, maintained the ball of conversation with equal ease and felicity. He had the happy knack of saying happy things quietly—of waiting for, and returning the ball, without running after it. At another time, I should have been content simply to have provoked him. Now, I was quite too miserable not to seek employment; and to disguise feelings, which I should have been ashamed to expose, I contrived to take the lead and almost grew voluble in the frequency of my utterance. Perhaps, if Kingsley failed in any respect as a philosopher, it was in forbearing to look with sufficient keenness of observation into the heart of his neighbor. He evidently did not see into mine. He was deceived by my manner. He credited all my fun to good faith, and gravely pronounced me to be a fortunate fellow.
“How?” I demanded with a momentary cessation of the jest. His gravity and—to me—the strange error in such an observation—excited my curiosity.
“In your freedom from jealousy.”
“Oh! that, eh? But why should I be jealous?'
“It is not exactly why a man should be jealous—but why, knowing what men are, usually, that you are not. Nine men in ten would be so under your circumstances?”
“How, what circumstances?”
“With Edgerton in your house—evidently fond of your wife, you leave them utterly to themselves. You bring him into your house unnecessarily, and give him every opportunity. I still think you risk everything imprudently. You may pay for it.”
I felt a strange sickness at my heart. I felt that the flame was beginning to boil up within me. The perilous turning-point of passion—the crisis of strength and endurance—was at hand My eyes settled gloomily upon the table. I was silent longer than usual. I felt THAT, and looked up. The keen glance of Kingsley was upon me. It would not do to suffer him to read my feelings. I replied with some precipitation:—
“I see, Kingsley, you are not cared of your prejudices against Edgerton.”
“I am not—I have seen nothing to cure me. But my prejudice against him, has nothing to do with my opinion of your prudence. Were it any other man, the case would be the same.”
“Well, but I do not think it so clear that Edgerton loves my wife more than is natural and proper.”
“Of the naturalness of his love I say nothing—perhaps, nothing could be more natural. But that he does love her, and loves her as no married woman should be loved, by another than her husband, is clear enough.”
“Suppose, then, it be as you say! So long as he does nothing improperly, there is nothing to be said. There is no evil.”
“Ah, but there is evil. There is danger.”
“How? I do not see.”
“Suppose your wife makes the same discovery which other persons have made? Suppose she finds out that Edgerton loves her?”
“Well—what then?”
“She can not remain uninfluenced by it. It will affect her feelings sensibly in some way. No creature in the world can remain insensible to the attachment of another.”
“Indeed! Why, agreeable to that doctrine, there could be no security from principle. There could be no virtue certain—nay, not even love.”
“Do not mistake me. When I say SHE would be influenced—I do not mean to say that she would be so influenced as to requite the illicit sentiment. Far from it. But she must pity or she must scorn. She may despise or she may deplore. In either case her feelings would be aroused, and in either case would produce uneasiness if not unhappiness. I KNOW, Clifford, that your wife perceives the passion of Edgerton—I am confident, also, that it has influenced her feelings. What may be the sentiment produced by this influence I do not pretend to say. I would not insinuate that it is more than would be natural to the breast of any virtuous woman. She may pity or she may scorn—she may despise or she may deplore. I know not. But, in either case, I regard your bringing Edgerton into the house and conferring upon him so many opportunities, as being calculated either to make yourself or your wife miserable. In either event you have done wrong. Look to it—remedy it as soon as you can.”
My face burned like fire. My eyes were fixed upon the table. I dared not look upon my companion. When I spoke, I felt a choking difficulty in my utterance which compelled me to speak loud to be understood, and which yet left my speech thick, husky, and unnatural.
“Say no more, Kingsley. What you have said disturbs me Nay, I acknowledge, I have been disturbed before. Perhaps, indeed, I know more than yourself. Time will show. At all events, be sure of one thing. These opportunities, if what you say be true, afford an ordeal through which it is necessary that the parties should now go—if it be only to afford the necessary degree of relief to my mind. Enough has been seen to excite suspicion—enough has been done, you yourself think, to awaken the feelings of my wife. Those feelings must now be tried. Opportunity will do this. She must go through the trial. I am not blind as you suppose. Nay, I am watchful, and I tell you, Kingsley, that the time approaches when all my doubts must cease one way or the other.”
“But I still think, Clifford—” he began.
“No more, Kingsley. I tell you, matters must go on. Edgerton can now only be driven from my house by my wife. If she expels him, I shall be too happy not to forgive him. But if she makes it necessary that the expulsion shall be effected by my hands, and with violence—God have mercy upon both of them for I shall not. Good night!”
“But why will you go? Stay awhile longer. Be not rash—do nothing precipitately, Clifford.”
I smiled bitterly in replying:—
“You need not fear me. Have I not proved myself patient—patient until you pronounced me cold and indifferent? Why should you suppose that, having waited and forborne so long I should be guilty of rashness now? No, Kingsley! My wife is very dear to me—how dear I will not say; I will be deliberate for her sake—for my own. I will be sure, very sure—quite sure;—but, once sure!—Good night.”
Kingsley followed me to the door. His last injunctions exhorted me to forbearance and deliberation. I silenced them by a significant repetition of the single words, “Good night—good night!” and hurried, with every feeling of anxiety and jealousy awakened, in the direction of my cottage.