RENEWED AGONIES.
In that same moment my pangs were all renewed; my repose of mind
departed; once more my heart was on fire, my spirit filled with vague
doubts, grief, and commotion. The soft, sweet, preluding note of the
player had touched a chord in my soul as utterly different from that
which it expressed, as could by any possibility be conceived. Heart and
hope were instantly paralyzed. Fear and its train, its haunting spectres
of suspicion, took possession of the undefended citadel, and established
guard upon its deserted outposts. I tottered to the window which I had
left--I shrouded myself in the folds of the curtain, and as the strains
rose, renewed and regular, I struggled to keep in my breath, listening
eagerly, as if the complaining instrument could actually give utterance
to the cruel mystery which I equally dreaded and desired to hear.
The air which was played was such as I had never heard before. Indeed,
it could scarcely be called an air. It was the most capricious burden of
mournfulness that had ever had its utterance from wo. Fancy a
mute--one bereft of the divine faculty of speech, by human, not divine
ministration. Fancy such a being endowed with the loftiest desires,
moved by the acutest sensibilities, having already felt the pleasures
of life, yet doomed to a denial of utterance, denied the language of
complaint, and striving, struggling through the imperfect organs of his
voice to give a name to the agony which works within him. That flute
seemed to me to moan, and sob, and shiver, with some such painful mode
of expression as would be permitted to the “half made-up” mortal of whom
I have spoken. Its broken tones, striving and struggling, almost rising
at times into a shriek, seemed of all things to complain of its own
voicelessness.
And yet it had its melody--melody, to me, of the most vexing power. I
should have called the strain a soliloquizing one. It certainly did not
seem addressed to any ears. It wanted the continuance of apostrophe. It
was capricious. Sometimes the burden fell off suddenly--broken--wholly
interrupted--as if the vents had been all simultaneously and suddenly
stopped. Anon, it rose again--soul-piercing if not loud--so abruptly,
and with an utterance so utterly gone with wo, that you felt sure the
poor heart must break with the next breath that came from the laboring
and inefficient lungs. A “dying fall” succeeding, seemed to afford
temporary relief. It seemed as if tears must have fallen upon the
instrument, Its language grew more methodical, more subdued, but not
less touching. I fancied, I felt, that, entering into the soul of
the musician, I could give the very words to the sentiment which his
instrument vainly strove to speak. What else but despair and
utter self-abandonment was in that broken language? The full heart
over-burdened, breaking, to find a vent for the feelings which it had
no longer power to contain. And yet; content to break, breaking with a
melancholy sort of triumph which seemed to say--
“Such a death has its own sweetness; love sanctifies the pang to its
victim. It is a sort of martyrdom. He who loves truly, though he loves
hopelessly, has not utterly loved in vain. The devoted heart finds a
joy in the offering, though the Deity withholds his acceptance--though
a sudden gust from heaven scatters abroad the rich fruits which the
devotee has placed upon the despised and dishonored altar.”
Such, I fancied, was the proud language of that melancholy music. Had
I been other than I was--nay, had I listened to the burden under other
circumstances and in another place--I should most probably have felt
nothing but sympathy for the musician. As it was, I can not describe
my feelings. All my racking doubts and miseries returned. The tone of
triumph which the strain conveyed wrought upon me like an indignity. It
seemed to denote that “foregone conclusion” which had been my cause of
apprehension so long. Could it be then that Julia was really guilty?
Could she have given William Edgerton so much encouragement that triumph
and exultation should still mingle with his farewell accents of despair?
Ah! what fantasies preyed upon my soul; haunted the smallest movements
of my mind; conjured up its spectres, and gave bitterness to its every
beverage! When I thought thus of Julia, I rose cautiously from my seat,
approached the bed where she was lying, and gazed steadily, though with
the wildest thrill of emotion, into her face. I verily believe had she
not been sleeping at that moment--sleeping beyond question--she would
have shared the fate of
“The gentle lady wedded to the Moor.”
I was in the mood for desperate things.
But she slept--her cheek upon her arm--pale, but oh! how beautiful! and
looking, oh! how pure! Her breathing was as tranquil and regular as that
of an infant. I felt, while I gazed, that hers must be the purity of an
infant also. I turned from beholding her, as the renewed notes of the
musician once more ascended to the chamber. I again took my seat at
the window and concealed myself behind the curtain. Here I had been
concealed but a few moments, when I heard a rustling in the branches of
the tree. Meanwhile, the music again ceased. I peered cautiously from
behind the drapery, and fancied I beheld a dark object in the tree. It
might be one of its branches, but I had not been struck by it before. I
waited in breathless watchfulness. I saw it move. Its shape was that
of a man. An exulting feeling of violence filled my breast. I rose
stealthily, went into the dressing-room, and took up one of my pistols
which lay on the toilet, and which I had that afternoon prepared with a
travelling charge.
“A brace of bullets,” I muttered to myself, “will bring out another sort
of music from this rare bird.”
With this murderous purpose I concealed myself once more behind the
curtain. The figure was sufficiently distinct for aim. The window was
not more than twelve or fourteen paces from the tree. My nerves were now
as steady as if I had been about to perform the most ordinary action.
What then prevented me? What stayed my arm? A single thought--a
momentary recollection of an event which had taken place in my boyhood.
What a providence that it should have occurred to me at that particular
moment. The circumstance was this.
When first sent to school I had been frequently taken at advantage by
a bigger boy. He had twice my strength--he took a strong dislike for
me--perhaps, because I was unwilling to pay him that deference, which,
as school-bully, he extorted from all others;--and he drubbed me
accordingly, whenever an opportunity occurred. My resistance was vain,
and only stimulated him to increased brutality. One day he was lying
upon the grass, beneath an oak which stood in the centre of a common on
which we usually played. It happened that I drew near him unperceived.
In approaching him I had no purpose of assault or violence. But the
circumstance of my nearing him without being seen, suggested to my
mind a sudden thought of revenging all my previous injuries. I felt
bitterness and hate enough, had I possessed the strength, to have slain
a dozen. I do not know that I had any design to slay him--to revenge
myself was certainly my wish. Of death probably I had no idea. I looked
about me for the agent of my vengeance. A pile of old brick which had
formed the foundations of a dwelling which had stood on the spot,
and which had been burned, conveniently presented itself to my eye. I
possessed myself of as large a fragment as my little hand could grasp;
I secured a second as a dernier resort. Slowly and slily--I may add,
basely--I approached him from behind, levelled the brick at his head,
and saw the blood fly an instant after the contact. He was stunned by
the blow, staggered up, however, with his eyes blinded by blood,
and moved after me like a drunken man. I receded slowly, lifting the
remaining fragment which I held, intending, if he approached me, to
repeat the blow.
On a sudden he fell forward sprawling. Then I thought him dead, and
for the first time the dreadful consciousness of my crime in its true
character, came to my mind. I can not describe the agony of fear and
horror which filled my soul. He did not die, but he was severely hurt.
The recollection of that event--of what I then suffered--came to me
involuntarily, as I was about to perform a second similar crime. I
shuddered with the recollection of the past, and shrunk, under the equal
force of shame and conscience, from the performance of a deed which,
otherwise, I should probably have committed in the brief time which
I employed for reflection. With a feeling of nervous horror I put the
weapon aside, and sinking once more into the chair beside the window
I bore with what fortitude I might, the renewal of the accursed but
touching strains that vexed me.
William Edgerton was a master of the flute. Often before, when we were
the best friends, had I listened with delight, while he compelled it
into discourse of music wild and somewhat incoherent still: his present
performance had now attained more continuousness and character. It was
still mournful, but its sorrows rose and fell naturally, in compliance
with the laws of art. I listened till I could listen no longer. Human
patience must have its limits. My wife still slept. I descended the
stairs, opened the door with as much cautiousness as possible, and
prepared to grapple the musician and haul him into the light.
It might be Edgerton or not. I was morally sure it was. By grappling
with him, in such a situation, I should bring the affair to a final
issue, though it might not be a murderous one. But of that I did not
think; I went forward to do something; what that something was to be,
it was left for time and chance to determine. But, suddenly, as I opened
the door, the music ceased. Stepping into the yard, I heard the sound as
of a falling body. I naturally concluded that he had heard the opening
of the door, and had suffered himself to drop down to the ground. I took
for granted that he had descended on the opposite side of the yard and
within the enclosure of a neighbor. I leaped the fence, hurried to the
tree, traversed the grounds, and found nobody. I returned, reached my
own premises, and found the gate open which opened upon the street. He
had gone then in that direction. I turned into this street, posted
with all speed to the corner of the square and met only the watchman.
I asked, but he had seen nobody. The street was perfectly quiet, I
returned, reascended to my chamber, found Julia now awake, and evidently
much agitated. She had arisen in my absence, and was only about to
re-enter the bed when I rushed up stairs.
What was I to think? What fear? I was too conscious of the suspicious
nature of my thoughts and fears to suffer myself to ask any
questions--and she, unhappily for both of us--she said nothing. Had she
but spoken--had she but uttered the natural inquiry--“Did you hear that
strange music, husband?”--how much easier had been her extrication. But
she was silent, and I was again let loose upon a wide sea of fears and
doubts and damnable apprehensions. Once more, and now with a feeling
which would not have made me forbear the use of any weapon, however
deadly, I re-examined my own enclosure, but in vain. The horrible
thought which possessed me was that he had even penetrated the dwelling
while I was seeking him in the street; that they had met; and how was
I to know the degree of tenderness which had marked their meeting and
sweetness to their adieus!