CROSS PURPOSES.
Weeks passed and still William Edgerton was a resident of M---, and a
constant guest at our little cottage. He had, in this time, effectually
broken up the harmony and banished the peace which had previously
prevailed there. The unhappy young man pursued the same insane course of
conduct which had been productive of so much bitterness and trouble to
us all before; and, under the influence of my evil demon, I adopted the
same blind policy which had already been so fruitful of misery to
myself and wife. I gave them constant opportunities together. I found
my associates, and pursued my pastimes--pastimes indeed--away from home.
Poetry and song were given up--we no longer wandered by the river-side,
and upon the green heights of our sacred hill. My evenings were consumed
in dreary rambles, alone with my own evil thoughts, and miserable
fancies, or consumed with yellow-eyed watching, from porch or tree, upon
those privacies of the suspected lovers, in which I had so shamefully
indulged before. I felt the baseness of this vocation, but I had not the
strength to give it up. I know there is no extenuation for it. I know
that it was base! base! base! It is a point of conscience with me, not
only to declare the truth, but to call things by the truest and most
characteristic names. Let me do my understanding the justice to say
that, even when I practised the meanness, I was not ignorant--not
insensible of its character. It was the strength only--the courage to
do right, and to forbear the wrong--in which I was deficient. It was the
blind heart, not the unknowing head to which the shame was attributable,
though the pang fell not unequally upon heart and head.
Meanwhile, Kingsley returned from Texas. He became my principal
companion. We strolled together in my leisure hours by day. We sat
and smoked together in his chamber by night. My blind fortitude may be
estimated, when the reader is told that Kingsley professed to find me a
very agreeable companion. He complimented me on my liveliness, my
wit, my humor, and what not--and this, too, when I was all the while
meditating, with the acutest feeling of apprehension, upon the very
last wrong which the spirit of man is found willing to endure;--when I
believed that the ruin of my house was at hand; when I believed that the
ruin of my heart and hope had already taken place;--and when, hungering
only for the necessary degree of proof which justice required before
conviction, I was laying my gins and snares with the view to detecting
the offenders, and consummating the last terrible but necessary work
of vengeance! But Kingsley did not confine himself altogether to the
language of compliment.
“Good fellow and good companion as you are, Clifford--and loath as I
should be to give up these pleasant evenings, still I think you very
wrong in one respect. You neglect your wife.”
“Ha! ha! what an idea! You are not serious?”
“As a judge.”
“Psha! She does not miss me.”
“Perhaps not,” he answered gravely--“but for your own sake if not for
hers, it seems to me you should pursue a more domestic course.”
“What mean you?”
“You leave your wife too much to herself!--nay--let me be frank--not too
much to herself, for there would be little danger in that, but too much
with that fellow Edgerton.”
“What? You would not have me jealous, Kingsley?”
“No! Only prudent.”
“You dislike Edgerton, Kingsley.”
“I do! I frankly confess it. I think he wants manliness of character,
and such a man always lacks sincerity. But I do not speak of him. I
should utter the same opinion with respect to any other man, in similar
circumstances. A wife is a dependent creature--apt to be weak!--If
young, she is susceptible--equally susceptible to the attentions of
another and to the neglect of her husband. I do not say that such is
the case--with your wife. Far from it. I esteem her very much as a
remarkable woman. But women were intended to be dependents. Most of them
are governed by sensibilities rather than by principles. Impulse leads
them and misleads. The wife finds herself neglected by the very man who,
in particular, owes her duty. She finds herself entertained, served,
watched, tended with sleepless solicitude, by another; one, not wanting
either in personal charms and accomplishments, and having similar tastes
and talents. What should be the result of this? Will she not become
indifferent where she finds indifference--devoted where she
finds devotion? A cunning fellow, like Edgerton, may, under these
circumstances, rob a man of his wife's affections. Mark me, I do not
say that he will do anything positively dishonorable, at least in
the world's acceptation of the term. I do not intimate--I would not
willingly believe--that she would submit to anything of the sort. I
speak of the affections, not of the virtues. There is shame to the man
in his wife's dishonor; but the misfortune of losing her affections is
neither more nor less than the suffering without the shame. Look to it.
I do not wish to prejudice your mind against Edgerton. Far from it.
I have forborne to speak hitherto because I knew that my own mind was
prejudiced against him. Even now I say nothing against HIM. What I say
has reference to your conduct only.--I do not think Edgerton a bad man.
I think him a weak one. Weak as a woman--governed, like her, by impulse
rather than by principle--easily led away--incapable of resisting where
his affections are concerned--repenting soon, and sinning, in the same
way, as fast as he repents. He is weak, very weak--washy-weak--he wants
stamina, and, wanting that, wants principle!”
“Strange enough, if you should be right! How do you reconcile this
opinion with his refusal to lend you money to game upon? He was governed
in that by principle.”
“Not a bit of it! He was governed by habit. He knew nothing of
gambling--had heard his father always preaching against it--it was not
a temptation with him. His tastes were of another sort. He could not be
tried in that way. The very fact that he was susceptible, in particular,
to the charms of female society, saved him from the passion for gaming,
as it would save him from the passion for drink. But the very tastes
that saved him from one passion make him particularly susceptible to
another. He can stand the temptation of play, but not that of women.
Let him be tried THERE, and he falls! his principle would not save
him--would not be worth a straw to a drowning man.”
“You underrate--undervalue Edgerton. He has always been a true, generous
friend of mine.”
“Be it so! with that I have nothing to do. But friendship has its limits
which it can not pass. Were Edgerton truly your friend, he would advise
you as I have done. Nay, a proper sense of friendship and of delicacy
would have kept him from paying that degree of attention to the wife
which must be an hourly commentary on the neglect of her husband. I
confess to you it was this very fact that made me resolve to speak to
you.”
“I thank you, my dear fellow, but I have nothing to fear. Poor Edgerton
is dying--music and painting are his solace--they minister to his most
active tastes. As for Julia, she is immaculate.”
“I distrust neither; but you should not throw away your pearl, because
you think it can not suffer stain.”
“I do not throw it away.”
“You do not sufficiently cherish it.”
“What would you have me do--wear it constantly in my bosom?”
“No! not exactly that; but at least wear nothing else there so
frequently or so closely as that.”
“I do not. I fancy I am a very good husband. You shall not put me out
of humor, Kingsley, either with my wife or myself. You shall not make me
jealous. I am no Othello--I have no visitations of the moon.”
And I laughed--laughed while speaking thus--though the keen pang was
writhing at that moment like a burning arrow through my brain.
“I have no wish to make you jealous, Clifford, and I very much admire
your superiority and strength. I congratulate you on your singular
freedom from this unhappy passion. But you may become too confident. You
may lose your wife's affections by your neglect, when you might not lose
them by treachery.”
“You are grown a croaker, Kingsley, and I will leave you. I will go
home. I will show you what a good husband I am, or can become.”
“That's right; but smoke another cigar before you go.”
“There it is!” I exclaimed, laughingly. “You blow hot and cold. You
would have me go and stay.”
“Take the cigar, at least, and smoke it as you go. My advice is good,
and that it is honest you may infer from my reluctance to part with
you. I will see you at the office at nine in the morning. There is some
prospect of a compromise with Jeffords about the tract in Dallas, and
he is to meet Wharton and myself at your law-shop to-morrow. It is
important to make an arrangement with Jeffords--his example will be felt
by Brownsell and Gibbon. We may escape a long-winded lawsuit, after all,
to your great discomfiture and my gain. But you do not hear me!”
“Yes, yes, every word--you spoke of Jeffords, and Wharton, and
Gibbon--yes, I heard you.”
“Now I know that you did not hear me--not understandingly, at least. I
should not be surprised if I have made you jealous. You look wild, mon
ami!”
“Jealous, indeed! what nonsense!” and I prepared to depart when I had
thus spoken.
“Well, at nine you must meet us at the office. My business must not
suffer because you are jealous.”
“Come, no more of that, Kingsley!”
“By heavens, you are touched.”
He laughed merrily. I laughed also, but with a choking effort which
almost cost me a convulsion as I left the tavern. The sport of Kingsley
was my death. What he had said previously sunk deep into my soul. Not
rightly--not as it should have sunk--showing me the folly of my own
course without assuming, as I did, the inevitable wilfulness of the
course of others; but actually confirming me in my fears--nay, making
them grow hideous as THINGS and substantive convictions. It seemed to
me, from what Kingsley said that I was already dishonored--that the
world already knew my shame; and that he, as my friend, had only
employed an ambiguous language to soften the sting and the shock which
his revelations must necessarily occasion. With this new notion, which
occurred to me after leaving the house, I instantly returned to it. It
required a strong effort to seem deliberate in what I spoke.
“Kingsley,” I said, “perhaps I did not pay sufficient heed to your
observations. Do you mean to convey to my mind the idea that people
think Edgerton too familiar with my wife? Do you mean to say that such a
notion is abroad? That there is anything wrong?”
“By no means.”
“Ah! then there is nothing in it. I see no reason for suspicion. I am
not a jealous man; but it becomes necessary when one's neighbors find
occasion to look into one's business, to look a little into it one's
self.”
“One must not wait for that,” said Kingsley; “but where is your cigar?”
The question confused me. I had dropped it in the agitation of my
feelings, without being conscious of its loss.
“Take another,” said he, with a smile, “and let your cares end in smoke
as you wend homeward. My most profound thoughts come from my cigar.
To that I look for my philosophy, my friendship, my love--almost my
religion. A cigar is a brain-comforter, verily. You should smoke more,
Clifford. You will grow better, wiser--COOLER.”
“I take your cigar and counsel together,” was my reply. “The one shall
reconcile me to the other. Bon repos!” And so I left him.
I was not likely to have bon repos myself. I was troubled. Kingsley
suspects me of being jealous. Such an idea was very mortifying. This is
another weakness of the suspicious nature. It loathes above all things
to be suspected of jealousy. I hurried home, vexed with my want of
coolness--doubly vexed at the belief that other eyes than my own were
witnesses of the attentions of Edgerton to my wife.
I stopped at the entrance of our cottage. HE was there as usual. Mrs.
Porterfield was not present. The candle was burning dimly. He sat upon
the sofa. Julia was seated upon chair at a little distance. Her features
wore an expression of exceeding gravity. His were pale and sad, but his
eyes burnt with an eager intensity that betrayed the passionate feeling
in his heart. Thus they sat--she looking partly upon the floor--he
looking at her. I observed them for more than ten minutes; and in all
that time I do not believe they exchanged two sentences.
“Surely,” I thought, “this must be a singularly sufficing passion which
can enjoy itself in this manner without the help of language.”
Of course, this reflection increased the strength of my suspicions. I
became impatient, and entered the cottage. The eyes of Julia seemed to
brighten at my appearance, but they were also full of sadness. Edgerton
soon after rose and took his departure. I believe, if I had stayed
away till midnight, he would have lingered until that time; but I also
believe that if I had returned two hours before, he would have gone as
soon. His passion for the wife seemed to produce an antipathy to the
husband, quite as naturally as that which grew up in my bosom in regard
to him. When he was gone, my wife approached me, almost vehemently
exclaiming--
“Why, why do you leave me thus, Clifford? Surely you can not love me.”
“Indeed I do; but I was with Kingsley. I had business, and did not
suppose you would miss me.”
“Why suppose otherwise, Edward? I do miss you. I beg that you will not
leave me thus again.”
“What do you mean? You are singularly earnest, Julia. What has happened?
What has offended you? Was not Edgerton with you all the evening?”
My questions, coupled with my manner, which has been somewhat excited,
seemed to alarm her. She replied hurriedly:--
“Nothing has happened! nothing has offended me! But I feel that you
should not leave me thus. It does not look well. It looks as if you did
not love me.”
“Ah! but when you KNOW that I do!”
“I do not know it. Oh, show me that you do, Edward. Stay with me as you
did at first--when we first came here--when we were first married. Then
we were so--so happy!”
“You would not say that you are not happy now?”
“I am not! I do not see you as I wish--when I wish! You leave me so
often--leave me to strangers, and seem so indifferent. Oh! Edward, do
not let me think that you care for me no longer.”
“Strangers! Why, how you talk!--Good old Mrs. Porterfield seems to me
like my own grandmother, and Edgerton has been my friend---”
Did I really hear her say the single word, “Friend!” and with such
an accent! The sound was a very slight one--it may have been my fancy
only;--and she turned away a moment after. What could it mean? I was
bewildered. I followed her to the chamber. I endeavored to renew the
subject in such a manner as not to offend her suspicions, but she seemed
to have taken the alarm. She answered me in monosyllables only, and
without satisfying the curiosity which that single word, doubtfully
uttered, had so singularly awakened.
“Only love me--love me, Edward, and keep with me, and I will not
complain. But if you leave me--if you neglect me--I am desolate!”