CONFESSION OF EDGERTON.
When within his chamber, he carefully fastened the door and placed a
packet in my hands.
“This is addressed to you,” he said. “I found it on the table with other
papers, and seeing the address, and fearing that if the jury laid eyes
on it, they might insist on knowing its contents, I thrust it into my
pocket and said nothing about it there. Read it at your leisure, while I
smoke a cigar below.”
He left me, and I opened the seal with a sense of misgiving and
apprehension for which I could not easily account. The outer packet was
addressed to myself. But the envelope contained several other papers,
one of which was addressed to his father; another--a small billet,
unsealed--bore the name of my wife upon it.
“That,” I inly (sic) muttered, “she shall never read!”
An instant after, I trembled with a convulsive horror, as the demon who
had whispered in my ears so long, seemed to say, in mocking accents:--
“Shall not! Ha! ha! She can not! can not!” and then the fiend seemed
to chuckle, and I remembered the insuppressible anguish of Othello's
apostrophe, to make all its eloquence my own. I murmured audibly:--
“My wife! my wife! What wife?--I have no wife!
Oh, insupportable--oh, heavy hour!”
My eyes were blinded. My face sunk down upon the table, and a cold
shiver shook my frame as if I had an ague. But I recovered myself when
I remembered the wrongs I had endured--her guilt and the guilt of
Edgerton. I clutched the papers--brushed the big drops from my forehead,
and read.
“Clifford, I save you guiltless of my death. You would be less happy
were my blood upon your hands, for, though I deserve to die by them, I
know your nature too well--to believe that you would enjoy any malignant
satisfaction at the performance of so sad a duty. Still, I know that
this is no atonement. I have simply ceased from persecuting you and the
angelic woman, your wife. But how shall I atone for the tortures and
annoyances of the past, inflicted upon you both? Never! never! I perish
without hope of forgiveness, though, here, alone with God, in the
extreme of mortal humility, I pray for it!
“Perhaps, you know all. From what escaped you this morning, it would
seem so. You knew of my madness when in C----; you know that it pursued
you here. Nothing then remains for me to tell. I might simply say all is
true; but that, in the confession of my guilt and folly, each particular
act of sin demands its own avowal, as it must be followed by its own
bitter agony and groan.
“My passion for your wife began soon after your marriage. Until then I
had never known her. You will acquit me of any deliberate design to win
her affections. I strove, as well as I could, to suppress my own. But
my education did not fit me for such a struggle. The indulgence of
fond parents had gratified all my wishes, and taught me to expect
their gratification. I could not subdue my passions even when they
were unaccompanied by any hopes. Without knowing my own feelings, I
approached your wife. Our tastes were similar, and these furnished the
legitimate excuse for frequently bringing us together. The friendly
liberality of your disposition enlarged the privileges of the
acquaintance, and, without meaning it at first, I abused them. I sought
your dwelling at unsuitable periods. Unconsciously, I did so, just at
those periods when you were most likely to be absent. I first knew that
my course was wrong, by discovering the unwillingness which I felt to
encounter you. This taught me to know the true nature of my sentiments,
but without enforcing the necessity of subduing them. I did not seek
to subdue them long. I yielded myself up, with the recklessness of
insanity, to a passion whose very sweetness had the effect to madden.
“My fondness for your wife was increased by pity. You neglected her. I
was at first indignant and hated you accordingly. But I became glad of
your neglect for two reasons. It gave me the opportunities for seeing
her which I desired, and I felt persuaded with a vain folly, that
nothing could be more natural than that she would make a comparison,
favorable of course to myself, between my constant solicitude and
attention and your ungenerous abandonment. But I was mistaken. The
steady virtue of the wife revenged the wrong which, without deliberately
intending it, I practised against the husband. When my attentions became
apparent, she received me with marked coolness and reserve; and finally
ceased to frequent the atelier, which, while art alone was my object,
yielded, I think, an equal and legitimate pleasure to us both.
“I saw and felt the change, but had not the courage to discontinue my
persecutions. My passion, and the tenacity with which it enforced
its claims, seemed to increase with every difficulty and denial. The
strangeness of your habits facilitated mine. Almost nightly I visited
your house, and though I could not but see that the reserve of your wife
now rose into something like hauteur, yet my infatuation was so great
that I began to fancy this appearance to be merely such a disguise as
Prudence assumes in order to conceal its weaknesses, and discourage the
invader whom it can no longer baffle. With this impression, I hurried on
to the commission of an offence, the results of which, though they did
not quell my desires, had the effect of terrifying them, for some, time
at least, into partial submission.” Would to God, for all our sakes,
that their submission had been final!
“You remember the ball at Mrs. Delaney's marriage? I waltzed once
with your wife that evening. She refused to waltz a second time. The
privileges of this intoxicating dance are such as could be afforded by
no other practice in social communion--the lady still preserving the
reputation of virtue. I need not say with what delight I employed these
privileges. The pressure of her arm and waist maddened me; and when the
hour grew late, and you did not appear, Mrs. Delaney counselled me to
tender my carriage for the purpose of conveying her home. I did so;--it
was refused: but, through the urgent suggestions of her mother, it was
finally accepted. I assisted her to the carriage, immediately followed,
and took my place beside her. She was evidently annoyed, and drew
herself up with a degree of lofty reserve, which, under other
circumstances, and had I been less excited than I was, by the events
of the evening, would have discouraged my presumption. It did not. I
proceeded to renew those liberties which I had taken during the dance.
I passed my arm about her waist. She repulsed me with indignation, and
insisted upon my setting her down where we were, in the unfrequented
street, at midnight. This I refused. She threatened me with your anger;
and when, still deceiving myself on the subject of her real feelings, I
proceeded to other liberties, she dashed her hand through the windows of
the coach, and cried aloud for succor. This alarmed me. I promised
her forbearance, and finally set her down, very much agitated, at the
entrance of your dwelling. She refused my assistance to the house,
but fell to the ground before reaching it. That night her miscarriage
ensued, and my passions for a season were awed into inactivity, if not
silence.
“Still I could not account for her forbearance to reveal everything to
you. You were still kind and affectionate to me as ever. I very well
knew that had she disclosed the secret, you were not the man to submit
to such an indignity as that of which I had been guilty. It seems--so I
infer from what you said this morning--that you knew it all. If you did,
your forbearance was equally unexpected and merciful. Believing that
she had kept my secret, my next conclusion was inevitable. 'She is not
altogether insensible to the passion she inspires. Her strength is in
her virtues alone. Her sympathies are clearly mine!' These conclusions
emboldened me. I haunted your house nightly with music. Sheltered
beneath your trees, I poured forth the most plaintive strains which
I could extort from my flute. Passion increased the effect of art. I
strove at no regular tunes; I played as the mood prompted; and felt
myself, not unfrequently, weeping over my own strange irregular
melodies.
“Your sudden determination to remove prevented the renewal of my
persecutions. I need not say how miserable I was made, and how much
I was confounded by such a determination. Explained by yourself
this morning, it is now easily understood; but, ignorant then of the
discoveries you had made--ignorant of your merciful forbearance toward
my unhappy parents--for I can regard your forbearance with respect
to myself as arising only from your consideration of them--it was
unaccountable that you should give up the prospect of fortune and
honors, which success, in every department of your business, seemed
certainly to secure you.
“The last night--the eve of your departure from C---, I resumed my place
among the trees before your dwelling. Here I played and wandered with an
eye ever fixed upon your windows. While I gazed, I caught the glimpse of
a figure that buried itself hurriedly behind the folds of a curtain. I
could suppose it to be one person only. I never thought of you. Urged
by a feeling of desperation, which took little heed of consequences,
I clambered up into the branches of a pride of India, which brought
me within twenty feet of the window. I distinctly beheld the curtain
ruffled by the sudden motion of some one behind it. I was about to
speak--to say--no matter what. The act would have been madness, and
such, doubtless, would have been the language. I fortunately did not
speak. A few moments only had elapsed after this, when I heard a few
brief words, spoken in HER voice, from the same window. The words
were few, and spoken in tones which denoted the great agitation of the
speaker. These apprized me of my danger.
“'Fly, madman, for your life! My husband is on the stairs.'
“Her person was apparent. Her words could not be mistaken though spoken
in faint, feeble accents. At the same moment I heard the lower door
of the dwelling unclose, and without knowing what I did or designed,
I dropped from the tree to the ground. To my great relief, you did not
perceive me. I was fortunately close to the fence, and in the deepest
shadow of the tree. You hurried by, within five steps of me, and
jumped the fence, evidently thinking to find me in the next enclosure.
Breathing freely and thankfully after this escape, I fled immediately to
the little boat in which I usually made my approaches to your habitation
on such occasions; and was in the middle of the lake, and out of sight,
long before you had given over your fruitless pursuit. The next day you
left the city and I remained, the wasted and wasting monument of pas
sions which had been as profitlessly as they were criminally exercised.
“You were gone;--you had borne with you the object of my devotion; but
the passion remained and burnt with no less frenzy than before. You were
not blind to the effect of this frenzy upon my health and constitution.
You saw that I was consuming with a nameless disease. Perhaps you knew
the cause and the name, and your departure may have been prompted by a
sentiment of pity for myself, in addition to that which you felt for my
unhappy parents. If this be so--and it seems probable--it adds something
to the agony of life--it will assist me in the work of atonement--it
will better reconcile me to the momentary struggle of death.
“My ill health increased with the absence of the only object for whom
health was now desirable. To see her again--to the last--for I now knew
that that last could not be very remote--was the great desire of my
mind. Besides, strange to say, a latent hope was continually rising
and trembling in my soul. I still fancied that I had a place in the
affections of your wife. You will naturally ask on what this hope was
founded. I answer, on the supposition that she had concealed from you
the truth on the subject of my presumptuous assault upon her; and on
those words of warning by which she had counselled me to fly from your
pursuit on that last night before you left the city. These may not be
very good reasons for such a hope, but the faith of the devotee needs
but slight supply of aliment; and the fanaticism of a flame like mine
needs even less. A whisper, a look, a smile--nay, even a frown--has
many a time prompted stronger convictions than this, in wiser heads, and
firmer hearts than mine.
“My father counselled me to travel, and I was only too glad to obey his
suggestions. He prescribed the route, but I deceived him. Once on the
road, I knew but one route that could do me good, or at least afford me
pleasure. I pursued the object of my long devotion. Here your conduct
again led me astray. I found you still neglectful of your wife. Still,
you received me as if I had been a brother, and thus convinced me that
Julia had kept my secret. In keeping it thus long I now fancied it
had become hers. I renewed my devotions, but with as little profit as
before. She maintained the most rigid distance, and I grew nervous and
feeble in consequence of the protracted homage which I paid, and the
excitement which followed from this homage. You had a proof of this
nervousness and excitement in the incident which occurred while crossing
the stream let. I extended her my hand to assist her over, and scarcely
had her fingers touched mine, when I felt a convulsion, and sunk,
fainting and hopelessly into the stream. [Footnote: An incident somewhat
similar to this occurs in the Life of Petrarch, as given by Mrs. Dobson,
but the precise facts are not remembered, and I have not the volume by
me] Conscious of nothing besides, I was yet conscious of her screams.
This tender interest in my fate increased my madness. It led to a
subsequent exhibition of it which at length fully opened my eyes to the
enormity of my offence.
“You blindly as I then thought, took me to your dwelling as if I had
been a brother. Ah! why? If I was mad, Clifford, your madness was
not less than mine. It was the blindest madness if not the worst. The
progress of my insanity was now more rapid than ever. I fancied that
I perceived signs of something more than coldness between yourself
and wife. I fancied that you frowned upon her; and in the grave, sad,
speaking looks which she addressed to you, I thought I read the language
of dislike and defiance. My own attentions to her were redoubled
whenever an opportunity was afforded me; but this was not often. I saw
as little of her while living in your cottage as I had seen before, and,
but for the good old lady, Mrs. Porterfield, I should probably have been
even less blessed by her presence. She perceived my dullness, and feeble
health, and dreaming no ill, insisted that your wife should assist in
beguiling me of my weariness. She set us down frequently at chess, and
loved to look on and watch the progress of the game.
“She did not always watch, and last night, while we played together, in
a paroxysm of madness, I proceeded to those liberties which I suppose
provoked her to make the revelation which she had so long forborne. My
impious hands put aside the board, my arms encircled her waist; while,
kneeling beside her, I endeavored to drag her into my embrace. She
repulsed me; smote me to her feet with her open palm; and spurning
me where I lay grovelling, retired to her chamber. I know not what I
said--I know not what she answered--yet the tones of her voice, sharp
with Horror and indignation, are even now ringing in my ears!
“Clifford, I have finished this painful narration. I have cursed your
home with bitterness, yet I pray you not to curse me! Let me implore
you to ask for merciful forbearance from her, to whom I feel I have been
such a sore annoyance--too happy if I have not been also a curse to her.
What I have written is the truth--sadly felt--solemnly spoken--God alone
being present while I write, while death lingers upon the threshold
impatient till I shall end. I leave a brief sentence, which you may or
may not, deliver to your wife. You will send the letter to my father.
You will see me buried in some holy inclosure; and if you can, you will
bury with my unconscious form, the long strifes of feeling which I have
made you endure, and the just anger which I have awakened in your bosom.
Farewell!--and may the presiding spirit of your home hereafter, be peace
and love!”