REVELATION--THE LETTER OF JULIA.
It must be remembered, that, in all this time--amidst all my agonies--my
feelings of destitution and despair--I had few or no doubts of the
guilt of Julia Clifford. My sufferings arose from the love which I
had felt--the defeat of my hopes and fortune--the long struggle of
conflicting feelings, mortified pride, and disappointed enjoyment.
Excited by the melancholy spectacle before me--beholding the form of
her, once so beautiful--still so beautiful--whom I had loved with such
an absorbing passion--whom I could not cease to love--suddenly cut
off from life--her voice, which was so musical, suddenly hushed for
ever--the tides of her heart suddenly stopped--and all the sweet waters
of hope dried up in her bosom, and turned into bitterness and blight in
mine--the force of my feelings got the better of my reason, and cruel
and oppressive doubts of the justness of her doom overpowered my soul.
But, with the subsiding of my emotions, under the stern feeling of
resolve which came to my relief, and which my course of education
enabled me to maintain, my persuasions of her guilt were resumed, and I
naturally recurred to the conclusions which had originally justified me
to myself, in inflicting the awful punishment of death upon her. But I
was soon to be deprived of this justification--to be subjected to
the terrible recoil of all my feelings of justice, love, honor and
manliness, in the new and overwhelming conviction, not only that I had
been premature, but that she was innocent!--innocent, equally of thought
and deed, which could incur tire reproach of impurity, or the punishment
of guilt.
Three days had elapsed after her burial, when I re-opened and
re-appeared in my office. I did not re-open it with any intention to
resume my business. That was impossible in a place, where, at every
movement, the grave of my victim rose, always green, in my sight. My
purpose was to put my papers in order transfer them to other parties,
dispose of my effects, and depart with Kingsley to the new countries, of
which he had succeeded in impressing upon me some of his own opinions.
Not that these furnished for me any attractions. I was not persuaded by
any customary arguments held out to the ambitious and the enterprising.
It was a matter of small moment to me where I went, so that I left the
present scene of my misery and over-throw. In determining to accompany
him to Texas, no part of my resolve was influenced by the richness of
its soil, or the greatness of its probable destinies. These, though
important in the eyes of my friend, were as nothing in mine. In taking
that route my object was simply, TO GO WITH HIM. He had sympathized with
me, after a rough fashion of his own, the sincerity of which was
more dear to me than the roughness was repulsive. He had witnessed my
cares--he knew my guilt and my griefs--this knowledge endeared him to
me more strongly than ever, and made him now more necessary to my
affections than any other living object.
I re-opened my office and resumed my customary seat at the table. But I
sat only to ruminate upon things and thoughts which, following the
track of memory, diverted my sight as well as my mind, from all present
objects. I saw nothing before me, except vaguely, and in a sort of
shadow. I had a hazy outline of books against the wall; and a glimmering
show of papers and bundles upon the table. I sat thus for some time,
lost in painful and humiliating revery. Suddenly I caught a glimpse of
a packet on the table, which I did not recollect to have seen before. It
bore my name. I shuddered to behold it, for it was in the handwriting
of my wife. This, then, was the writing upon which she had been secretly
engaged, for so many days, and of which Mrs. Porterfield had given me
the first intimation. I remembered the words of Julia when she assured
me that it was intended for me--when she playfully challenged my
curiosity, and implored me to acknowledge an anxiety to knew the
contents. The pleading tenderness of her speech and manner now rose
vividly to my recollection. It touched me more now--now that the
irrevocable step had been taken--far more than it ever could have
affected me then. Then, indeed, I remained unaffected save by the
caprice of my evil genius. The demon of the blind heart was then
uppermost. In vain now did I summon him to my relief. Where was he? Why
did he not come?
I took up the packet with trembling fingers. My nerves almost failed
me. My heart shrank and sank with painful presentiments. What could this
writing mean? Of what had Julia Clifford to write? Her whole world's
experience was contained, and acquired, in my household. The only
portion of this experience which she might suppose unknown to me was her
intercourse with Edgerton. The conclusion, then, was natural that
this writing related to this matter; but, if natural, why had I not
conjectured it before? Why, when I first heard of it, had the conclusion
not forced itself upon me as directly as it did now? Alas! it was clear
to me now that I was then blind; and, with this clearness of sight, my
doubts increased; but they were doubts of myself, rather than doubts of
her.
It required an effort before I could recover myself sufficiently to
break the seal of the packet. First, however, I rose and reclosed the
office. Whatever might be the contents of the paper, to me it was the
language of a voice from the grave. It contained the last words of one
I never more should hear. The words of one whom I had loved as I could
never love again. It was due to her, and to my own heart, that she
should be heard in secret;--that her words--whether in reproach or
repentance--whether in love or scorn--should fall upon mine ear without
witness, in a silence as solemn as was that desolate feeling which now
sat, like a spectre, brooding among the ruins of my heart.
My pulses almost ceased to beat--my respiration was impeded--my eyes
swam--my senses reeled in dismay and confusion--as I read the following
epistle. Too late! too late! Blind, blind heart! And still I was not
mad!--No! no!--that would have been a mercy which I did not merit!--that
would have been forgetfulness--utter oblivion of the woe which I can
never cease to feel.
The Last Letter of Julia.
“Husband, Dear Husband!
“I write to you in fear and trembling. I have striven to speak to you,
more than once, but my tongue and strength have failed me. What I
have to tell you is so strange and offensive, and will be to you so
startling, that you will find it hard to believe me; and yet, dear
husband, there is not a syllable of it which is not true! If I knew that
I were to die to-morrow I could with perfect safety and confidence make
the same confession which I make now. But I do not wish you to take what
I say on trust; look into the matter yourself--not precipitately--above
all, not angrily--and you will see that I say nothing here which the
circumstances will not prove. Indeed, my wonder is that so much of it
has remained unknown to you already.
“Husband, Mr. Egerton deceives you--he has all along deceived you--he is
neither your friend nor mine. I would call him rather the most dangerous
enemy; for he comes by stealth, and abuses confidence, and, like the
snake in the fable, seeks to sting the very hand that has warmed him.
I know how much this will startle you, for I know how much you think of
him, and love him, and how many are the obligations which you owe to
his father. But hear me to the end, and you will be convinced, as I
have been, that, so far from your seeking his society and permitting
his intimacy in our household, you would be justified in the adoption
of very harsh measures for his expulsion--at least, it would become your
duty to inform him that you can no longer suffer his visits.
“To begin, then, dear husband. Mr. Egerton has been bold enough to speak
to me in such language, as was insulting in him to utter, and equally
painful and humiliating for me to hear. He has done this, not once, nor
twice, nor thrice, but many times. You will ask why I have not informed
you of this before; but I had several reasons for forbearing to do
so, which I will relate in the proper places. I fancied that I could
effectually repel insult of this sort without making you a party to
it, for I feared the violence of your temper, and dreaded that the
consequences might be bloodshed. I am only prompted to take a different
course now, as I find that I was mistaken in this impression--and
perceive that there is no hope of a remedy against the impertinence but
by appealing to you for protection.
“It was not long after our marriage before the attentions of Mr.
Edgerton became so particular as to annoy me; and I consulted my mother
on the subject, but she assured me that such were customary, and so long
as you were satisfied I had no reason to be otherwise. I was not quite
content with this assurance, but did not know what other course to take,
and there was nothing in the conduct of Mr. Edgerton so very marked
and offensive as to justify me in making any communication to you. What
offended me in his bearing was his fixed and continued watchfulness--the
great earnestness of his looks--the subdued tones of his voice when he
spoke to me, almost falling to a whisper, and the unusual style of his
language, which seemed to address itself to such feelings only as do not
belong to the common topics of discourse. The frequency of his visits to
the studio afforded him opportunities for indulging in these practices;
and your strange indifference to his approaches, and your equally
strange and most unkind abandonment of my society for that of others,
increased these opportunities, of which he scrupled not to take constant
advantage. I soon perceived that he sought the house only at the periods
when you were absent. He seemed always to know when this was the case;
and I noted the fact, particularly, that, if, on such occasions, you
happened to arrive unexpectedly he never remained long afterward, but
took his departure with an abruptness that, it seemed wonderful to me
you should not have perceived. Conduct so strange as this annoyed
rather than alarmed me; and it made me feel wretched, perhaps beyond any
necessity for it, when I found myself delivered up, as it were, to such
persecution, by the very person whose duty it was to preserve me, and
whose own presence, which would have been an effectual protection,
was so dear to me always. Do not suppose, dear Edward, that I mean to
reproach you. I do not know what may have been your duties abroad, and
the trials which drew you so much from home, and from the eyes of a
wife who knows no dearer object of contemplation than the form of her
husband. Men in business, I know, have a thousand troubles out of doors,
which a generous sensibility makes them studious never to bring home
with them; and, knowing this, I determined to think lovingly of you
always--to believe anything rather than that you would willingly neglect
me;--and, by the careful exercise of my thoughts and affections, as
they should properly be exercised, so to protect my own dignity and your
honor, as to spare you any trouble or risk in asserting them, and, at
the same time, to save both from reproach.
“But, though I think I maintained the most rigid reserve, as well of
looks as of language, this unhappy young man continued his persecutions.
In order to avoid him, I abandoned my usual labors in the studio. From
the moment when I saw that he was disposed to abuse the privileges of
friendship, I yielded that apartment entirely to him, and invariably
declined seeing him when he visited the house in the mornings. But I
could not do this at evening; and this became finally a most severe
trial, for it so happened, that you now adopted a habit which left him
entirely unrestrained, unless in the manner of his reception by myself.
You now seldom remained at home of an evening, and thus deprived me of
that natural protector whose presence would have spared me much pain
with which I will not distress you. Ah! dearest husband, why did you
leave me on such occasions? Why did you abandon me to the two-fold
affliction of combating the approaches of impertinence, at the very
moment when I was suffering from the dreadful apprehension that I no
longer possessed those charms which had won me the affections of a
husband. Forgive me! My purpose is not to reproach, but to entreat you.
“I need not pass over the long period through which this persecution
continued. Your indifference seemed to me to give stimulus to the
perseverance of this young man. Numberless little circumstances combined
to make me think that, from this cause, indeed, he drew something like
encouragement for his audacious hopes. The strength of your friendship
for him blinded you to attentions which, it seemed to me, every eye must
have seen but yours. I grew more and more alarmed; and a second time
consulted with my mother. Her written answer you will find, marked No.
1, with the rest of the enclosures in this envelope. She laughed at
my apprehensions, insisted that Mr. Edgerton had not transcended the
customary privileges, and intimated, very plainly as you will see,
that a wife can suffer nothing from the admiration of a person, not
her husband, however undisguised this admiration may be--provided she
herself shows none in return;--an opinion with which I could not concur,
for the conclusive reason that, whatever the world may think on such a
subject, the object of admiration, if she has any true sensibilities,
must herself suffer annoyance, as I did, from the special designation
which attends such peculiar and marked attention as that to which I was
subjected. My mother took much pains, verbally and in writing, as the
within letters will show you, to relieve me from the feeling of disquiet
under which I suffered, but without effect; and I was further painfully
afflicted by the impression which her general tone of thought forced
upon me, that her sense of propriety was so loose and uncertain that I
could place no future reliance upon her councils in relation to this or
any other kindred subject. Ah, Edward! little can you guess how lonely
and desolate I felt, when, unable any longer to refer to her, I still
did not dare to look to you.
“One opinion of hers, however, had very much alarmed me. You will find
it expressed in the letter marked No. 8, in this collection. When I
complained to her of the approaches of Mr. Edgerton, and declared my
purpose of appealing to you if they were continued, she earnestly and
expressly exhorted me against any such proceeding. She assured me that
such a step would only lend to violence and bloodshed--reminded me of
your sudden anger--your previous duel--and insisted that nothing
more was necessary to check the impertinence than my own firmness and
dignity. Perhaps this would have been enough, were it always practicable
to maintain the reserve and coldness which was proper to effect this
object, and, indeed, I could not but perceive that the effect was
produced in considerable degree by this course. Mr. Edgerton visited the
house less frequently; grew less impressive in his manner, and much
more humble, until that painful and humiliating night of my mother's
marriage. That night he asked me to dance with him. I declined; but
afterward he came to me accompanied by my mother. She whispered in my
ears that I was harsh in my refusal, and called my attention to his
wretched appearance. Had I reflected upon it then, as I did afterward,
this very allusion would have been sufficient to have determined me not
to consent;--but I was led away by her suggestions of pity, and stood
up with him for a cotillion. But the music changed, the set was altered,
and the Spanish dance was substituted in its place. In the course of
this dance, I could not deceive myself as to the degree of presumption
which my partner displayed; and, but for the appearance of the thing,
and because I did not wish to throw the room into disorder, I would have
stopped and taken my seat long before it was over. When I did take my
seat, I found myself still attended by him, and it was with difficulty
that I succeeded finally in defeating his perseverance, by throwing
myself into the midst of a set of elderly ladies, where he could no
longer distinguish me with his attentions. In the meantime you had left
the room. You had deserted me. Ah! Clifford, to what annoyance did your
absence expose me that night! To that absence, do we owe that I lost the
only dear pledge of love that God had ever vouchsafed us--and you know
how greatly my own life was perilled. Think not, dearest, that I speak
this to reproach you; and yet--could you have remained!--could you have
loved, and longed to be and remain with me, as most surely did I long
for your presence only and always--ah! how much sweeter had been our
joys--how more pure our happiness--our faith--with now--perhaps, even
now--the dear angel whom we then lost, living and smiling beneath our
eyes, and linking our mutual hearts more and more firmly together than
before!
“That night, when it became impossible to remain longer without
trespassing--when all the other guests had gone--I consented to be taken
home in Mr. Edgerton's carriage. Had I dreamed that Mr. Edgerton was to
have been my companion, I should have remained all night before I would
have gone with him, knowing what I knew, and feeling the mortification
which I felt. But my mother assured me that I was to have the carriage
to myself--it was she who had procured it;--and it was not until I was
seated, and beheld him enter, that I had the least apprehension of such
an intrusion. Edward! it is with a feeling almost amounting to horror,
that I am constrained to think that my mother not only knew of his
intention to accompany me, but that she herself suggested it. This, I
say to YOU! You will find the reasons for my suspicions in the letters
which I enclose. It is a dreadful suspicion--at the expense of one's
own mother! I dare not believe in the dark malice which it implies.--I
strive to think that she meant and fancied only some pleasant mischief.
“I shudder to declare the rest! This man, your friend--he whom you
sheltered in your bosom, and trusted beyond all others--whom you have
now taken into your house with a blindness that looks more like a
delusion of witchcraft than of friendship--this impious man, I say,
dared to wrap me in his embrace--dared to press his lips upon mine!
“My cheek even now burns as I write, and I must lay down the pen because
of my trembling. I struggled from his grasp--I broke the window by my
side, and cried for help from the wayfarers. I cried for you! But, you
did not answer! Oh, husband! where were you? Why, why did you expose me
to such indignities?
“He was alarmed. He promised me forbearance; and, convulsed with fright
and fear, I found myself within our enclosure, I knew not how; but
before I reached the cottage I became insensible, and knew nothing more
until the pangs of labor subdued the more lasting pains of thought and
recollection.
“You resolved to leave our home--to go abroad among strangers, and Oh!
how I rejoiced at your resolution. It seemed to promise me happiness; at
least it promised me rescue and relief. I should at all events be free
from the persecution of this man. I dreaded the consequences, either to
you or to him-self, of the exposure of his insolence. I had resolved on
making it; and only hesitated, day by day, as my mother dwelt upon
the dangers which would follow. And when you determined on removal, it
seemed to me the most fortunate providence, it promised to spare me the
necessity of making this painful revelation at all. Surely, I
thought, and my mother said, as this will put an effectual stop to his
presumption, there will be no need to narrate what is already past. The
only motive in telling it at all would be to prevent, not to punish:
if the previous one is effected by other means, it is charity only to
forbear the relation of matters which would breed hatred, and probably
provoke strife. This made me silent; and, full of new hope--the hope
that having discarded all your old associates and removed from all your
old haunts, you would become mine entirely--I felt a new strength in my
frame, a new life in my breast, and a glow upon my cheeks as within my
soul, which seemed a guaranty for a long and happy term of that love
which had begun in my bosom with the first moments of its childish
consciousness and confidence.
“But one painful scene and hour I was yet compelled to endure the night
before our departure. Mr. Edgerton came to play his flute under our
window. I say Mr. Edgerton, but it was only by a sort of instinct that
I fixed upon him as the musician. Perhaps it was because I knew not what
other person to suspect. Frequently, before this night, had I heard this
music; but on this occasion he seemed to have approached more nearly
to the dwelling; and, indeed, I finally discovered that he was actually
beneath the China-tree that stood on the south front of the cottage. I
was asleep when the music began. He must have been playing for some
time before I awakened. How I was awakened I know not; but something
disturbed me, and I then saw you about to leave the room stealthily. I
heard your feet upon the stairs, and in the next moment I discovered one
of your pistols lying upon the window-sill, just beneath my eyes. This
alarmed me; a thousand apprehensions rushed into my brain; all the
suggestions of strife and bloodshed which my mother had ever told me,
filled my mind; and without knowing exactly what I did or said, I called
out to the musician to fly with all possible speed. He did so; and after
a delay which was to me one of the most cruel apprehension, you returned
in safety. Whether you suspected, and what, I could not conjecture; but
if you had any suspicions of me, you did not seem to entertain any
of him, for you spoke of him afterward with the same warm tone of
friendship as before.
“That something in my conduct had not pleased you, I could see from
your deportment as we travelled the next morning. You were sad, and very
silent and abstracted. This disappeared, however, and, day by day, my
happiness, my hope, my confidence in you, in myself, in all things,
increased--and I felt assured of realizing that perfect idea of felicity
which I proposed to myself from the moment when you declared your
purpose to emigrate. Were we not happy, husband--so happy at M----,
for weeks, for months--always, morning, noon, and night--until the
reappearance of this false friend of yours? Then, it seemed to me as
if everything changed. Then, that other friend of yours--who, though
he never treated me with aught but respect, I yet can call no friend of
mine--Mr. Kingsley, drew you away again from your home--carried you with
him to his haunts--detained you late and long, by night and day--and I
was left once more exposed to the free and frequent familiarity of Mr.
Edgerton. He renewed his former habits; his looks were more presuming,
and his attentions more direct and loathsome than ever. More than once
I strove to speak with you on this hateful subject; but it was so
shocking, and you were so fond of him, and I still had my fears! At
length, moved by compassion, you brought him to our house. Blind and
devoted to him--with a blindness and devotion beyond that which the
noblest friendship would deserve, but which renders tenfold more hateful
the dishonest and treacherous person upon whom it is thrown away--you
command me to meet him with kindness--to tend his bed of sickness--to
soothe his moments of sadness and despondency--to expose myself to his
insolence!
“Husband, my soul revolts at this charge! I have disobeyed it and you;
and I must justify myself in this my disobedience. I must at length
declare the truth. I have striven to do so in the preceding narrative.
This narrative I began when you brought this false friend into our
dwelling. He must leave it. You must command his departure. Do not
think me moved by any unhappy or unbecoming prejudices against him. My
antipathies have arisen solely from his presumption and misconduct. I
esteemed him--nay, I even liked him--before. I liked his taste for the
arts, his amiable manners, his love of music and poetry, and all those
graces of the superior mind and education, which dignify humanity, and
indicate its probable destinies. But when he showed me how false he was
to a friendship so free and confiding as was yours--when he abused my
eyes and ears with expressions unbecoming in him, and insulting and
ungenerous to me--I loathed and spurned him. While he is in your house
I will strive and treat him civilly, but do not tax me further. For your
sake I have borne much; for the sake of peace, and to avoid strife
and crime, I have been silent--perhaps too long. The strange, improper
letters of my mother, which I enclose, almost make me tremble to think
that I have paid but too much deference to her opinion. But, in the
expulsion of this miserable man from your dwelling, there needs no
violence, there needs no crime! A word will overwhelm him with shame.
Remember, dear husband, that he is feeble and sick; it is probable he
has not long to live. Perform your painful duty privily, and with all
the forbearance which is consistent with a proper firmness. In truth, he
has done us no real harm. Let us remember THAT! If anything, he has only
made me love you the more, by showing so strongly how generous is the
nature which he has so infamously abused. Once more, dear husband, do no
violence. Let not our future days be embittered by any recollections
of the present. Command, compel his departure, and come home to me, and
keep with me always.
“Your own true wife,
“Julia Clifford.”
“Postscript.--I had closed this letter yesterday, thinking to send it
to your office in the afternoon. I had hoped that there would be nothing
more;--but last night, this madman--for such I must believe him to
be--committed another outrage upon my person! He has a second time
seized me in his arms and endeavored to grasp me in his embrace. O
husband!--why, why do you thus expose me? Do you indeed love me? I
sometimes tremble with a fear lest you do not. But I dare not think so.
Yet, if you do, why am I thus exposed--thus deserted--thus left to a
companionship which is equally loathsome to me and dishonoring to you?
I implore you to open your eyes--to believe me, and discard this false
friend from your dwelling and your confidence. But, oh, be merciful,
dear husband! Strike no sudden blow! Send him forth with scorn but
remember his feebleness, his family, and spare his life. I send this by
Emma. Let no one see the letters of my mother but burn them instantly.
“Your own Julia.”
And this was the writing which had employed her time for days before the
sad catastrophe! And it was for this reason that she asked, with so much
earnestness, if I had been to my office on the day when I drove Edgerton
out into the woods for the adjustment of our issue? No wonder that
she was anxious at that moment. How much depended upon that simple
and ordinary proceeding. Had I but gone that day to my office as
usual!......
There were no longer doubts. There could be none. There was now no
mystery. It was all clear. The most ambiguous portions of her conduct
had been as easily and simply explained as the rest. But it availed
nothing! The blow had fallen. I was an accursed man--truly accursed, and
miserably desolate.
I still sat, stolid, seemingly, as the insensible chair which sustained
me, when Kingsley came in. He took the papers from my unresisting hands.
He read them in silence. I heard but one sentence from his lips, and it
came from them unconsciously:--
“Poor, poor girl!”
I looked round and started to my feet. The tears were on on manly
checks. I hatched none. My eyes were dry! The fountains of tears seemed
shut up, arid and dusty.
“I must make atonement!” I exclaimed. “I must deliver myself up to
justice!”
“This is madness,” said he, seizing my arm as I was about to leave the
room.
“No: retribution only! I have destroyed her. I must make the only
atonement which is in my power. I must die!”
“What you design is none,” he said solemnly. “Your death will atone
nothing. It is by living only that you can atone!”
“How?”
“By repentance! This is the grand--the only sovereign atonement which
the spirit of man can ever make. There is no other mode provided in
nature. The laws, which would take your life, would deprive you of the
means of atonement. This is due to God; it can be performed only by
living and suffering. Life is a duty because it is an ordeal. You must
preserve life, as a sacred trust, for this reason. Even if you were a
felon--one wilfully resolving and coldly executing crime--you were yet
bound to preserve life! Throw it away, and though you comply with the
demand of social laws, you forfeit the only chance of making atonement
to those which are far superior. Rather pray that life may be spared
you. It was with this merciful purpose that God not only permitted Cain
to live, but commanded that none should slay him. You must live for
this!”
“Yet I slew HER!”
He did with me as he pleased. Three days after beheld us on our way
to the rich empire of Texas--its plains, rich but barren--unstocked,
wild-running to waste with its tangled weeds--needing, imploring the
vigorous hand of cultivation. Even such, at that moment, was my heart!
Rich in fertile affections, yet gone to waste; waiting, craving, praying
for the hand of the cultivator!--Yet who now was that cultivator?
To this question the words of Kingsley, which were those of truth and
wisdom, were a sufficient answer; and evermore an echo arose as from the
bottom of my soul; and my lips repeated it to my own ears only; and but
one word was spoken; and that word was--“ATONEMENT!”
THE END