ACCIDENT AND MORE AGONIES.
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
“Reluctant nature strives in vain.”
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!