TOO LATE!
Edgerton announced himself to be in readiness, and, at the same time,
declared his intention to withdraw at once from our hospitality and
return to his old lodging-house. He had already given instructions to
his servant for the removal of his things.
“What!” I said with a feeling of irony, which did not make itself
apparent in my speech--“you are tired of our hospitality, Edgerton? We
have not treated you well, I am afraid.”
“Yes,” he muttered faintly, “too well. I have every reason to be
gratified and grateful. No reason to complain.”
He forced himself to say something more by way of acknowledgment; but to
this I gave little heed. We drove first to Kingsley's, and took him up;
then, to my office, where I got out, and, entering the office, wrapped
up my pistol-case carefully in a newspaper, so that the contents might
not be conjectured, and bringing it forth, thrust it into the boot of
the carriage.
“What have you got there?” demanded Kingsley. “Something for digestion,”
was my reply. “We may be kept late.”
“You are wise enough to be a traveller,” said Kingsley; and without
further words we drove on. I fancied that when I put the case into the
vehicle, Edgerton looked somewhat suspicious. That he was uneasy was
evident enough. He could not well be otherwise. The consciousness of
guilt was enough to make him so; and then there was but little present
sympathy between himself and Kingsley.
I had already given the driver instructions. He carried us into the
loneliest spot of woods some four miles from M----, and in a direction
very far from the beaten track.
“What brings you into this quarter?” demanded Kingsley. “What business
have you here?”
“We stop here,” I said as the carriage drove up. “I have some land to
choose and measure here. Shall we alight, gentlemen?”
I took the pistol-case in my hands and led the way. They followed me.
The carriage remained. We went on together several hundred yards until
I fancied we should be quite safe from interruption. We were in a dense
forest. At a little distance was a small stretch of tolerably open
pine land, which seemed to answer the usual purposes. Here I paused and
confronted them.
“Mr. Kingsley,” I said without further preliminaries, “I have taken the
liberty of bringing you here, as the most honorable man I know, in order
that you should witness the adjustment of an affair of honor between Mr.
Edgerton and myself.”
As I spoke I unrolled the pistol-case. Edgerton grew pale as death, but
remained silent. Kingsley was evidently astonished, but not so much so
as to forbear the obvious answer.
“How! an affair of honor? Is this inevitable--necessary, Clifford?”
“Absolutely!”
“In no way to be adjusted?”
“In but one! This man has dishonored me in the dearest relations of my
household.”
“Ha! can it be?”
“Too true! There is no help for it now. I am dealing with him still as
a man of honor. I should have been justified in shooting him down like
a dog--as one shoots down the reptile that crawls to the cradle of his
children. I give him an equal chance for life.”
“It is only what I feared!” said Kingsley, looking at Edgerton as he
spoke.
The latter had staggered back against a tree. Big drops of sweat stood
upon his brows. His head hung down. Still he was silent. I gave the
weapons to Kingsley, who proceeded to charge them.
“I will not fight you, Clifford!” exclaimed the criminal with husky
accents.
“You must!”
“I can not--I dare not--I will not! You may shoot me down where I stand.
I have wronged you. I dare not lift weapon at your breast.”
“Wretch! say not this!” I answered. “You must make the atonement.”
“Be it so! Shoot me! You are right! I am ready to die.”
“No, William Edgerton, no! You must not refuse me the only atonement you
can make. You must not couple that atonement with a sting. Hear me!
You have violated the rites of hospitality, the laws of honor and of
manhood, and grossly abused all the obligations of friendship. These
offences would amply justify me in taking your life without scruple, and
without exposing my own to any hazard. But my soul revolts at this. I
remember the past--our boyhood together--and the parental kindness of
your venerated parent. These deprive me of a portion of that bitterness
which would otherwise have moved me to destroy you. Take the pistol.
If life is nothing to you, it is as little to me now. Use the privilege
which I give you, and I shall be satisfied with the event.”
He shook his head while he repeated:--
“No! I can not. Say no more, Clifford. I deserve death!”
I clapped the pistol to his head. He folded his arms, lifted his eyes,
and regarded me more steadily than he had done for months before.
Kingsley struck up nay arm, as I was cocking the weapon.
“He must die!” I exclaimed fiercely.
“Yes, that is certain!” replied the other. “But I am not willing that I
should be brought here as the witness to a murder. If he will fight you,
I will see you through. If he will not fight you, there needs no witness
to your shooting him. You have no right, Clifford, to require this of
me.”
“You are not a coward, William Edgerton?”
“Coward!” he exclaimed, and his form rose to its fullest height, and his
eye flashed out the fires of a manhood, which of late he had not often
shown.
“Coward! No! Do I not tell you shoot? I do not fear death. Nay, let me
say to you, Clifford, I long for it. Life has been a long torture to
me--is still a torture. It can not now be otherwise. Take it--you will
see me smile in the death agony.”
“Hear me William Edgerton, and submit to my will. You know not half your
wrong. You drove me from my home--my birthplace. When I was about to
sacrifice you for your previous invasion of my peace in C--, I looked
on your old father, I heard the story of his disappointment--his
sorrows--and you were the cause. I determined to spare you--to banish
myself rather, in order to avoid the necessity of taking your life. You
were not satisfied with having wrought this result. You have pursued
me to the woods, where my cottage once more began to blossom with the
fruits of peace and love. You trample upon its peace--you renew your
indignities and perfidies here. You drive me to desperation and fill
my habitation with disgrace. Will you deny me then what I ask? Will you
refuse me the atonement--any atonement--which I may demand?”
“No, Clifford!” he replied, after a pause in which he seemed subdued
with shame and remorse. “You shall have it as you wish. I will fight
you. I am all that you declare. I am guilty of the wrong you urge
against me. I knew not, till now, that I had been the cause of your
flight from C--. Had I known that!”
Kingsley offered him the pistol.
“No!” he said, putting it aside. “Not now! I will give you this
atonement this afternoon. At this moment I can not. I must write. I
must make another atonement. Your claim for justice, Clifford, must not
preclude my settlement of the claims of others.”
“Mine must have preference!”
“It shall! The atonement which I propose to make shall be, one of
repentance. You would not deny me the melancholy privilege of saying a
few last words to my wretched parents?”
“No! no! no!”
“I thank you, Clifford. Come for me at four to my lodgings--bring Mr.
Kingsley with you. You will find me ready to atone, and to save you
every unnecessary pang in doing so.”
This ended our conference. Kingsley rode home with him, while, throwing
myself upon the ground, I surrendered myself to such meditations as
were natural to the moods which governed me. They were dark and dismal
enough. Edgerton had avowed his guilt. Could there be any doubt on the
subject of my wife's? He had made no sort of qualification in his avowal
of guilt, which might acquit her. He had evidently made his confession
with the belief that I was already in possession of the whole truth. One
hope alone remained--that my wife's voluntary declaration would still be
forthcoming. To that I clung as the drowning man to his last plank. When
Kingsley and Edgerton first left me, I had resolved to waste the hours
in the woods and not to return home until after my final meeting in the
afternoon with the latter. It might be that I should not return home
then, and in such an event I was not unwilling that my wife should still
live, the miserable thing which she had made herself. But, with the
still fond hope that she might speak, and speak in season, I now
resolved to return at the usual dinner hour; and, timing myself
accordingly, I prolonged my wanderings through the woods until noon.
I then set forward, and reached the cottage a little sooner than I had
expected.
I found Julia in bed. She complained of headache and fever. She
had already taken medicine--I sat beside her. I spoke to her in the
tenderest language. I felt, at the moment when I feared to lose her for
ever, that I could love nothing half so well. I spoke to her with
as much freedom as fondness; and, momently expecting her to make the
necessary revelation, I hung upon her slightest words, and hung upon
them only to be disappointed.
The dinner hour came. The meal was finished. I returned to the chamber,
and once more resumed my place beside her on the couch. I strove to
inspire her with confidence--to awaken her sensibilities--to beguile her
to the desired utterance, but in vain. Of course I could give no hint
whatsoever of the knowledge which I had obtained. After that, her
confession would have been no longer voluntary, and could no longer have
been credited.
Time sped--too rapidly as I thought. Though anxious for vengeance, I
loved her too fondly not to desire to delay the minutes in the earnest
expectation that she would speak at last. She did not. The hour
approached of my meeting with Edgerton; and then I felt that Edgerton
was not the only criminal.
Mrs. Porterfield just then brought in some warm tea and placed it on
the table at the bed head. After a few moments delay, she left us alone
together. The eyes of my wife were averted. The vial of prussic acid
stood on the same table with the tea. I rose from the couch, interposed
my person between it and the table--and, taking up the poison,
deliberately poured three drops into the beverage. I never did anything
more firmly. Yet I was not the less miserable, because I was most firm.
My nerve was that of the executioner who carries out a just judgment.
This done, I put the vial into my pocket. Julia then spoke to me. I
turned to her with eagerness. I was prepared to cast the vessel of tea
from the window. It was my hope that she was about to speak, though
late, the necessary truths. But she only called to me to know if I had
been to my office during the morning.
“Not since nine o'clock,” was my answer. “Why?”
“Nothing. But are you going to your office now, dear husband?”
“Not directly. I shall possibly be there in the course of the afternoon.
What do you wish? Why do you ask?”
“Oh, nothing,” she replied; “but I will tell you to-morrow why I ask.”
“To-morrow!--tell me now, if it be anything of moment. Now! now is the
appointed time!” The serious language of Scripture, became natural to me
in the agonizing situation in which I stood.
“No! no! to-morrow will do. I will not gratify your curiosity. You are
too curious, husband” and she turned from me, smiling, upon the couch.
I felt that what she might tell me to-morrow could have nothing to do
with the affair between herself and Edgerton. THAT could be no object
for jest and merriment. I turned from her slowly, with a feeling at
my heart which was not exactly madness--for I knew then what I was
doing--but it was just the feeling to make me doubtful how long I
should be secure from madness.
“To-morrow will not do” I muttered to myself as I descended the stairs.
“Too late!--too late!”