TRIAL--THE WOMAN GROWS STRONG.
Thus, then, I was once more at sea, rudderless--not yet
companionless--perhaps, soon to be so. My relapse was as sudden as my
thought. It seemed as if every past misery of doubt and suspicion were
at once revived within me. All my day-dreams vanished in an instant.
William Edgerton would again behold--would again seek--my wife. They
must meet; I owed that to the father; and, whatever the condition of the
son might be, it was evident that his feelings toward her must be
the same as ever; else, why should he seek her out?--why pursue our
footsteps and haunt my peace? I must receive him and treat him kindly
for the father's sake; but that one bitter thought, that he was pursuing
us, the deadly enemy to my peace--and now, evidently, a wilful one--gave
venom to the bitter feeling with which I had so long regarded his
attentions.
It was evident, too, whatever may have been its occasion, that the
knowledge of his coming awakened strange emotions in the bosom of my
wife. That blush--that sudden paleness of the cheek--what was their
language? I fain would have struggled against the conviction, that it
denoted a guilty consciousness of the past--a guilty feeling of the
future. But the mocking demon of the blind heart forced the assurance
upon me. What was to be done? Ah! what? This was the question, and there
was no variation in the reply which my jealous spirit made. There was
but one refuge. I must pursue the same insidious policy as before. I
must resort to the same subterfuge, meet them with the same smiles,
disguise once more the true features of my soul; seem to shut my eyes,
and afford them the same opportunities as before, in the torturing hope
(fear?) that I should finally detect them in some guilty folly which
would be sufficient to justify the final punishment. I must put on the
aspect of indifference, the better to pursue the vocation of the spy.
Base necessity, but still, as I then fancied, a necessity not the less.
Ah I was I not a thing to be pitied? Was ever any case more pitiable
than mine? I ask not this question with any hope that an answer may be
found to justify my conduct. It is not the less pitiable--nay, it is
more--that no such answer can be found. My folly is not the less a thing
of pity, because it is also a thing of scorn. That was the pity--and
yet, I was most severely tried. Deep were my sufferings! Strong was that
demon within me--I care not how engendered, whether by the fault
and folly of others, or by my own--still it was strong. If I was
guilty--base, blind--was I not also suffering? Never did I inflict on
the bosom of Julia Clifford, so deep a pang as I daily--nay, hourly,
inflicted upon my own. She was a victim, true--but was I less so! But
she was innocently a victim, therefore, less a sufferer, whatever her
sufferings, than me! Let none condemn or curse me, till they have asked
what curse I have already undergone. I live!--they will say. Ah! me!
They must ask what is the value of life, not to themselves, but to a
crushed, a blasted heart, like mine! But I hurry forward with my pangs
rather than my story.
Instantly, a barrier seemed to rise up between Julia Clifford ind
myself. She had her consciousness, evidently, no less than I. What was
THAT consciousness? Ah! could I have guessed THAT, there would have been
no barrier--all might have been peace again. But a destiny was at work
which forbade it all; and we strove ignorantly with one another and
against ourselves. There was a barrier between us, which our mutual
blindness of heart made daily thicker, and higher, and less liable to
overthrow. A coldness overspread my manner. I made it a sort of shelter.
The guise of indifference is one of the most convenient for hiding other
and darker feelings. Already we ceased to ramble by river and through
wood. Already the pencil was discarded. We could no longer enjoy the
things which so lately made us happy, because we no longer entertained
the same confidence in one another. Without this confidence there is no
communion sweet. And all this had been the work of that letter. The name
of William Edgarton had done it all--his name and threatened visit!
But--and I read, the letter again and again--it would be some time
before he might be expected. The route, as laid down for him by his
father, was a protracted one. “Through Georgia, Tennessee, Mississippi,
then homeward, by way of Alabama.” “He can not be here in less than six
weeks. He must travel slowly. He must make frequent rests.”
And there was a further thought--a hope--which, though it filled my
mind, I did not venture to express in words. “He may perish on his
route: if he be so feeble, it is by no means improbable!”
At all events, I had six weeks' respite--perhaps more. Such was my small
consolation then. But even this was false. In less than a week from that
time, William Edgerton stood at the door of our cottage!
Instead of going into Tennessee, he had shot straight forward, through
Georgia, into Alabama.
Though surprised, I was not confounded by his presence. Under the policy
which I had resolved upon, I received him with the usual professions
of kindness, and a manner as nearly warm and natural as the exercise of
habitual art could make it. He certainly did look very miserable. His
features wore an expression of uniform despair. They brightened up,
when he beheld my wife, as the cloud brightens suddenly beneath the
moonlight. His eyes were riveted upon her. He was almost speechless, but
he advanced and took her hand, which I observed was scarcely extended to
him. He sat the evening with us, and a chilly, dull evening it was. He
himself spoke little--my wife less; and the conversation, such as it
was, was carried on chiefly between old Mrs. Porterfield and myself.
But I could see that Edgerton employed his eyes in a manner which fully
compensated for the silence of his tongue. They were seldom withdrawn
from the quarter of the apartment in which my wife sat. When withdrawn,
it was but for an instant, and they soon again reverted to the spot. He
had certainly acquired a degree of boldness, which, in this respect, he
had not before possessed. I keenly analyzed his looks without provoking
his attention. It was not possible for me to mistake the unreserved
admiration that his glance expressed. There was a strange spiritual
expression in his eyes, which was painful to the spectator. It was that
fearful sign which the soul invariably makes when it begins to exert
itself at the expense of the shell which contains it. It was the sign of
death already written. But he might linger for months. His cough did
not seem to me oppressive. The flush was not so obvious upon his
cheek. Perhaps, looking through the medium of my peculiar feelings, his
condition was not half so apparent as his designs. At least, I felt my
sympathies in his behalf--small as they were before--become feebler with
every moment of his stay that night.
“Edgerton does not appear to me to look so badly,” I said to Julia,
after his departure for the evening.
“I don't know,” she answered; “he looks very pale and miserable.”
“Quite interesting!” I added, with a smile which might have been a
sneer.
“Painfully so. He can not last very long--his cough is very
troublesome.”
“Indeed! I scarcely heard it. He is certainly a very fine-looking fellow
still, consumption or no consumption.”
She was silent.
“A very graceful fellow: very generous and with accomplishments such
as are possessed by few. I have often envied him his person and
accomplishments.”
“You!” she exclaimed, with something like an expression of incredulity.
“Yes!--that is to say, when I was a youth, and when I thought more of
commending myself to your eyes, than of anything besides.”
“Ah!” she replied with an assuring smile, “you never needed qualities
other than your own to commend yourself to me.”
“Pleasant hypocrite! And yet, Julia, would you not be better pleased if
I could draw and color, and talk landscape with you by the hour?”
“No! I have never thought of your doing anything of the kind.”
“Like begets liking.”
“It may be, but I do not think so. I do not think we love people so much
for what they can do, as for what they are.”
“Ah, Julia, that is a great mistake. It is a law in morals, that the
qualities of men should depend upon their performances. What a man is,
results from what he does, and so we judge of persons. Edgerton is a
noble fellow; his tastes are very fine. I suspect he can form as correct
an opinion of a fine picture as any one--perhaps, paint it as finely.”
She was silent.
“Do you not think so, Julia?”
“I think he paints very well for an amateur.”
“He is certainly a man of exquisite taste in most matters of taste
and elegance. I have always thought his manners particularly easy
and dignified. His carriage is at once manly and graceful; and his
dancing--do you not think he dances with admirable flexibility?”
“Really, Edward, I can scarcely regard dancing as a manly
accomplishment. It is necessary that a gentleman should dance,
perhaps, but it appears to me that he should do so simply because it
is necessary; and to pass through the measure without ostentation or
offence should be his simple object.”
“These are not usually the opinions of ladies, Julia.”
“They are mine, however.”
“You are not sure. You will think otherwise to-morrow. At all events, I
think there can be little doubt that Edgerton is one of the best dancers
in the circle we have left; he has the happiest taste in painting
and poetry; and a more noble gentleman and true friend does not exist
anywhere. I know not to whom I could more freely confide life, wealth,
and honor, than to him.”
She was silent. I fancied there was something like distress apparent in
her countenance. I continued:--
“There is one thing, Julia, about which I am not altogether satisfied.”
“Ah!” with much anxiety; “what is that?”
“I owe so much to his father, that, in his present condition, I fancy
we ought to receive him in our house. We should not let him go among
strangers, exposed to the noise and neglect of a hotel.”
There was some abruptness in her answer:--
“I do not see how you can bring him here. You forget that we are mere
lodgers ourselves; indebted for our accommodation to the kindness of a
lady upon whom we should have no right to press other lodgers. Such an
arrangement would crowd the house, and make all parties uncomfortable.
Besides, I suppose Mr. Edgerton will scarcely remain long enough in
M---to make it of much importance where he lodges, and when he finds the
tavern uncomfortable he will take his departure.”
“But should he get sick at the tavern?”
“Such a chance would follow him wherever he went. That is the risk which
every man incurs when he goes abroad. He has a servant with him--no
doubt a favorite servant.”
“Should he get sick, Julia, even a favorite servant will not be enough.
It will be our duty to make other provision for him. I owe his father
much; the old man evidently expects much from me by his last letter. I
owe the son much. He has been a true friend to me. I must do for him
as if he were a brother, and should he get sick, Julia, you must be his
nurse.”
“Impossible, Mr. Clifford!” she replied, with unwonted energy, while a
deep, dark flush settled over her otherwise placid features, which were
now not merely discomposed but ruffled. “It is impossible that I should
be what you require. Suffer me, in this case, to determine my duties
for myself. Do for YOUR FRIEND what you think proper. You can provide
a nurse, and secure by money, the best attendance in the town. I do not
think that I can do better service than a hundred others whom you may
procure; and you will permit me to say, without seeking to displease
you, that I will not attempt it.”
I was not displeased at what she said, but it was not my policy to admit
this. With an air almost of indignation, I replied:
“And you would leave my friend to perish?”
“I trust he will not perish--I sincerely trust he will continue in
health while he remains here. I implore you, dear husband, to make no
requisition such as this. I can not serve your friend in this capacity.
I pray that he may not need it.”
“But should he?”
“I can not serve him.”
“Julia, you are a cold-hearted woman--you do not love me.”
“Cold-hearted, Edward, cold-hearted? Not love you, Edward?--Oh, surely,
you can not mean it. No! no! you can not!”
She threw herself into my arms, clasped me fondly in hers, and the warm
tears from her eyes gushed into my bosom.
“Love me, love my dog--at least my friend!” I exclaimed, in austere
accents, but without repulsing her. I could not repulse her. I had not
strength to put her from me. The embrace was too dear; and the energy
with which she rejected a suggestion in which I proposed only to try and
test her, made her doubly dear at that moment to my bosom. Alas! how, in
the attempt to torture others, do we torture ourselves! If I afflicted
Julia in this scene, I am very sure that my own sufferings were more
intense. One thing alone would have made them so. The ONE quality of
evil, of the bad spirit which mingled in with MY feelings, and did not
trouble HERS. But, just then I did not think her innocent altogether. I
still had my doubts that her resistance to my wishes was simply meant
to conceal that tendency in her own, the exposure of which she had
naturally every reason to dread. The demon of the blind heart, though
baffled for awhile, was still busy. Alas! he was not always to be
baffled.