"Here is something that escaped your search. Take this! this!"

Kingsley was just lifting up the cap, which he had worn that night, from the table to his brows. Instinctively he dashed it into the face of his assassin, and his simple evolution saved him. The next moment the fearless fellow had grappled with his enemy, torn the weapon from his grasp, and, seizing him around the body as if he had been an infant, moved with him to an open window looking out upon a neighboring court. The victim struggled, yelled for succor, but before any of us could interpose, the resolute and powerful man in whose hold he writhed and struggled vainly, with the gripe of a master, had thrust him through the opening, his heels, in their upward evolutions, shattering a dozen of the panes as he disappeared from sight below. We all concluded that he was killed. We were in an upper chamber, which I estimated to be twenty or thirty feet from the ground. I was too much shocked for speech, and rushed to the window, expecting to hehold the mangled and bloody corpse of the miserable criminal beneath. The laughter of Radclifle half reassured me.

"He will not suffer much hurt," said he; "there is something to break his fall."

I looked down, and there the unhappy wretch was seen squatting and clinging to the slippery shingles of an old stable, unhurt, some twelve feet below us, unable to reascend, and very unwilling to adopt the only alternative which the case presented—-that of descending softly upon the rank bed of stable-ordure which the provident care of the gardener had raised up on every hand, the recking fumes of which were potent enough to expel us very soon from our place of watch at the window. Of the further course of the elegant culprit we took no heed. The ludicrousness of his predicament had the effect of turning the whole adventure into merriment among those who remained in the establishment; and availing ourselves of the clamorous mirth of the parties, we made our escape from the place with a feeling, on my part, of indescribable relief.

Chapter XXXI

How the Game was Played

"WELL, we may breathe awhile," said Kingsley, as we found ourselves once more in the pure air, and under the blue sky of midnight. "We have got through an ugly task with tolerable success. You stood by me like a man, Clifford. I need not tell you how much I thank you."

"I heartily rejoice that you are through with it, Kingsley; but I am not so sure that we can deliberately approve of everything that we may have been required by the circumstances of the case to do."

"What! you did not relish the playing? I respect your scruples, but it does not follow that it must become a habit. You played to enable a friend to get back from a knave what he lost as a fool, and to punish the knavery that he could not well hope to reform. I do not see, considering the amount of possible good which we have done, that the evil is wholly inexcusable."

"Perhaps not; but this heap of money which I have in my bosom—should you have taken it?"

"And why not? Whose should it be, if not mine?"

"You took with you but one hundred dollars. I should say you have more than a thousand here."

"I trust I have," said he coolly. "What of that? I won it fairly, and he played fairly, until the last moment when everything was at stake. His false dice were then called in—and would you have me yield to his roguery what had been the fruits of a fair conflict? No! no! friend of mine! no! no! all these things did I consider well before I took you with me to-night. I have been meditating this business for a week, from the moment when a friendly fellow hinted to me that I was the victim of knavery."

"But that wallet of money, Kingsley? You assured me that you were pennyless."

"All! that wallet bedevilled Mr. Latour Cleveland, as it seems to have bedevilled you. There, by the starlight, look at the contents of this precious wallet, and see how much further your eyes can pierce into the mystery of my proceedings.'"

He handed me the wallet, which I opened. To my great surprise, I found it stuffed with old shreds of newspaper, bits of rag, even cotton, but not a cent of money.

"There! ara you satisfied? You shall have that wallet, with all its precious contents, as a keepsake from me. It will remind you of a strange scene. It will have a history for you when you are old, which you will tell with a chuckle to your children."

"Children!" I involuntarily murmured, while my voice trembled, and a tear started to my eye. That one word recalled me back, at once, to home, to my particular woes—to all that I could have wished banished for ever, even in the unwholesome stews and steams of a gaming-house. But Kingsley did not suffer me to muse over my own afflictions. He did not seem to hear the murmuring exclamation of my lips. He continued:—

"I have no mysteries from you, and you need, as well as deserve, an explanation. All shall be made clear to you. The reason of this wallet, and another matter which staggered you quite as much—my audacious bet of a cool hundred—your own disconsolate hundred—as a first stake! I have no doubt you thought me mad when you heard me."

I confessed as much. He laughed.

"As I tell you, I had studied my game beforehand, even in its smallest details. By this time, I knew something of the play of most gamblers, and of Mr. Latour Cleveland, in particular. These people do not risk themselves for trifles. They play fairly enough when the temptation is small. They cheat only when the issues are great. I am speaking now of gamesters on the big figure, not of the petty chapmen who pule over their pennies and watch the exit of a Mexican, with the feelings of one who sees the last wave of a friend's handkerchief going upon the high seas. My big wallet and my hundred dollar bet, were parts of the same system. The heavy stake at the beginning led to the inference that I had corresponding resources. My big wallet lying by me, conveniently and ostentatiously, confirmed this impression. The cunning gambler was willing that I should win awhile. His policy was to encourage me; to persuade me on and on, by gradual stimulants, till all was at stake. Well! I knew this. All was at stake finally, and I had then to call into requisition all the moral strength of which I was capable, so that eye and lip and temper should not fail me at those moments when I would need the address and agency of all.

"The task has been an irksome one; the trial absolutely painful. But I should have been ashamed, once commencing the undertaking, not to have succeeded. He, too, was not impregnable. I found out his particular weakness. He was a vain man; vain of his bearing, which he deemed aristocratic; his person, which he considered very fine. I played with these vanities. Failing to excite him on the subject of the game, I made HIMSELF my subject. I chattered with him freely; so as to prompt him to fancy that I was praising his style, air, appearance; anon, by some queer jibe, making him half suspicious that I was quizzing him. My frequent laughter, judiciously disposed, helped this effect; and, to a certain extent, I succeeded. He became nervous, and was excited, though you may not have seen it. I saw it in the change of his complexion, which became suddenly quite bilious. I found, too, that he could only speak with some effort, when, if you remember, before we began to play, his tongue, though deliberate, worked pat enough. I felt my power over him momently increase; and I sometimes won where he did not wish it. I do verily believe that he ceased to see the very marks which he himself had made upon the cards. Nervous agitation, on most persons, produces a degree of blindness quite as certainly as it affects the speech. Well, you saw the condition of our funds when you re-appeared. I had determined to bring the business to a close. I had marked the dice, actually before his face, while we took a spell of rest over a bottle of porter. I had scratched them quietly with a pin which I carried in my sleeve for that purpose, while he busied himself with a fidgety shuffling of the cards. My leg, thrown over one angle of the table, partly covered my operations, and I worked upon the dice in my lap. You may suppose the etching was bad enough, doing precious little credit to the art of engraving in our country. But the thing was thoroughly done, for I had worked myself into a rigorous sort of philosophic desperation which made me as cool as a cucumber. To seem to empty the contents of the wallet into my lap was my next object, and this I succeeded in, without his suspecting that my movement was a sham only. The purse thus made up, I emphatically told him was all I had—this was the truth—and then came the crisis. His trick was to be employed now or never. It was employed, but he had become so nervous, that I caught a sufficient glimpse of his proceedings. I saw the slight o'hand movement which he attempted, and—you know the rest. I regard the money as honestly mine—so far as good morals may recognise the honesty of getting money by gambling;—and thinking so, my dear Clifford, I have no scruple in begging you to share it with me. It is only fit that you, who furnished all the capital—you see I say nothing of the wallet which should, however, be priceless in our eyes—should derive at least a moiety of the profit. It is quite as much yours as mine. I beg you so to consider it."

I need not say, however, that I positively refused to accept this offer. I would take nothing but the hundred which I had lent him, and placed the handkerchief with all its contents into his hands.

"And now, Clifford, I must leave you. You have yet to learn another of my secrets. I take the rail-car at daylight in the morning. I am off for Alabama; and considering my Texan and Mexican projects, I leave you, perhaps, for ever."

"So soon?"

"Yes, everything is ready. There need be no delay. I have no wife nor children to cumber me. My trunks are already packed; my resolve made; my last business transacted I have some lands in Alabama which I mean to sell. This done, I am off for the great field of performance, south and southwest. You shall hear of me, perhaps may wish to hear FROM me. Here is my address, meanwhile, in Alabama. I shall advise you of my further progress, and shall esteem highly a friendly scrawl from you. If you write, do not fail to tell me what you may hear of Mr. Latour Cleveland, and how he got down from the muck-heap. Write me all about it, Clifford, and whatever else you can about our fools and knaves, for though I leave them without a tear, yet, d—n 'em, I keep 'em in my memory, if it's only for the sake of the old city whom they bedevil."

Enough of our dialogue that night. Kingsley was a fellow of every excellent and some very noble qualities. We did not sympathize in sundry respects, but I parted from him with regret; not altogether satisfied, however, that there were not some defects in that reasoning by which he justified our proceedings with the gamblers. I turned from him with a sad, sick heart. In his absence the whole feeling of my domestic doubts and difficulties rushed back upon me freshly and with redoubled force.

"Children!" I murmured mournfully, as I recalled one of his remarks; "children! children! these, indeed, were blessings; but if we only had love, truth, peace. If that damning doubt were not there!—that wild fear, that fatal, soul-petrifying suspicion!"

I groaned audibly as I traversed the streets, and it seemed as if the pavements groaned hollowly in answer beneath my hurrying footsteps. In a moment more I had absolutely forgotten the recent strife, the strange scene, the accents of my friend; for but that one.

"Children! children! These might bind her to me; might secure her erring affections; might win her to love the father, when he himself might possess no other power to tempt her to love. Ah! why has Providence denied me the blessing of a child?"

Alas! it was not probable that Julia should ever have children. This was the conviction of our physician. Her health and constitution seemed to forbid the hope; and the gloomy despair under which I suffered was increased by this reflection. Yet, even at that moment, while thus I mused and murmured, my poor wife had been unexpectedly and prematurely delivered of an infant son—a tiny creature, in whom life was but a passing gleam, as of the imperfect moonlight, and of whom death took possession in the very instant of its birth.



CHAPTER XXXII.

SUDDEN LESSON AND NEW SUSPICIONS.



While I had been wasting the precious hours of midnight in a gaming-house, my poor Julia had undergone the peculiar pangs of a mother! While I had been reproaching her in my secret soul for a want of ardency and attachment, she had been giving me the highest proof that she possessed the warmest. These revelations, however, were to reach me slowly; and then, like those of Cassandra, they were destined to encounter disbelief.

Leaving Kingsley, I turned into the street where my wife's mother lived. But the house was shut up—the company gone. I had not been heedful of the progress of the hours. I looked up at the tall, white, and graceful steeple of our ancient church, which towered in serene majesty above us; but, in the imperfect light I failed to read the letters upon the dial-plate. At that moment its solemn chimes pealed forth the hour, as if especially in answer to my quest. How such sounds speak to the very soul at midnight! They seem the voice from Time himself, informing, not man alone, but Eternity, of his progress to that lone night, in which his minutes, hours, days, and years, are equally to be swallowed up and forgotten.

Sweet had been those bells to me in boyhood. Sad were they to me now. I had heard them ring forth merry peals on the holydays of the nation; and peals on the day of national mourning; startling and terrifying peals in the hour of midnight danger and alarm; but never till then had they spoken with such deep and searching earnestness to the most hidden places of my soul. That 'one, two, three, four,' which they then struck, as they severally pronounced the thrilling monotones, seemed to convey the burden of four impressive acts in a yet unfinished tragedy. My heart beat with a feeling of anxiety, such as overcomes us, when we look for the curtain to rise which is to unfold the mysterious progress of the catastrophe.

That fifth act of mine! what was it to be? Involuntarily my lips uttered the name of William Edgerton! I started as if I had trodden upon a viper. The denouement of the drama at once grew up before my eyes. I felt the dagger in my grasp; I actually drew it from my bosom. I saw the victim before me—a smile upon his lips—a fire in his glance—an ardor, an intelligence, that looked like exulting passion; and my own eyes grew dim. I was blinded; but, even in the darkness, I struck with fatal precision. I felt the resistance, I heard the groan and the falling body; and my hair rose, with a cold, moist life of its own, upon my clammy and shrinking temples.

I recovered from the delusion. My dagger had been piercing the empty air; but the feeling and the horror in my soul were not less real because the deed had been one of fancy only. The foregone conclusion was in tny mind, and I well knew that fate would yet bring the victim to the altar.

I know not how I reached my dwelling, but when there I was soon brought to a sober condition of the senses. I found everything in commotion. Mrs. Delaney, late Clifford, was there, busy in my wife's chamber, while her husband, surly with such an interruption to his domestic felicity, even at the threshold, was below, kicking his heels in solemn disquietude in the parlor. The servants had been despatched to bring her and to seek me, in the first moments of my wife's danger. She had consciousness enough for that, and Mrs. Delaney had summoned the physician. He too—the excellent old man, who had assisted us in our clandestine marriage—he too was there; sad, troubled, and regarding me with looks of apprehension and rebuke which seemed to ask why I was abroad at that late hour, leaving my wife under such circumstances. I could not meet his glance with a manly eye. They brought me the dead infant—poor atom of mortality—no longer mortal; but I turned away from the spectacle. I dared not look upon it. It was the form of a perished hope, ended in a dream! And such a dream! The physician gave me a brief explanation of the condition of things.

"Your wife is very ill. It is difficult to say what will happen. Make up your mind for the worst. She has fever—has been delirious. But she sleeps now under the effect of some medicine I have given her. She will not sleep long; and everything will depend upon her wakening. She must be kept very quiet."

I asked if he could conjecture what should bring about such an event. "Though delicate, Julia was not out of health. She had been well during the evening when I left her."

"You have left her long. This is a late hour, Mr. Clifford, for a young husband to be out. Nothing but matter of necessity could excuse—"

I interrupted him with some gravity:—

"Suppose then it was a matter of necessity—of seeming necessity, at least."

He observed my emotion.

"Do not be angry with me. I assisted your dear wife into the world, Clifford. I would not see her hurried out of it. She is like a child of my own; I feel for her as such."

I said something apologetic, I know not what, and renewed my question.

"She has been alarmed or excited, perhaps; possibly has fallen while ascending the stair. A very slight accident will sometimes suffice to produce such a result with a constitution such as hers. She needs great watchfulness, Clifford; close attention, much solicitude. She needs and deserves it, Clifford."

I saw that the old man suspected me of indifference and neglect. Alas! whatever might be my faults in reference to my wife, indifference was not among them. What he had said, however, smote me to the heart. I felt like a culprit. I dared not meet his eye when, at daylight, he took his departure, promising to return in a few hours.

My excellent mother-in-law was more capable and copious in her details. From her I learned that Julia, though anxious to depart for some time before, had waited for my return until the last of her guests were about to retire. Among these happened to be Mr. William Edgerton!"

"He offered his carriage, but Julia put off accepting for a long time, saying you would soon return. But at last he pressed her so, and seeing everybody else gone, she concluded to go, and Mr. Delaney helped her into the carriage, and Mr. Edgerton got in too, to see her home; and off they drove, and it was not an hour after, when Becky (the servant-girl) came to rout us up, saying that her mistress was dying. I hurried on my clothes, and Delaney—dear good man—he was just as quick; and off we came, and sure enough, we found her in a bad way, and nobody with her but the servants; and I sent off after you, and after the doctor; and he just came in time to help her; but she went on wofully; was very lightheaded; talked a great deal about you; and about Mr. Edgerton; I suppose because he had just been seeing her home; but didn't seem to know and doesn't know to this moment what has happened to her."

I have shortened very considerably the long story which Mrs. Delaney made of it. Rambling as it was—full of nonsense—with constant references to her "dear good man," and her party, the company, herself, her fashion, and frivolities—there was yet something to sting and trouble me at the core of her narration. Edgerton and my wife linger to the last—Edgerton rides home with her—he and she in the carriage, alone, at midnight;—and then this catastrophe, which the doctor thought was a natural consequence of some excitement or alarm.

These facts wrought like madness in my brain. Then, too, in her delirium she raves of HIM! Is not that significant? True, it comes from the lips of that malicious old woman! she, who had already hinted to me that my wife—her daughter—was likely to be as faithless to me as she had been to herself. Still, it is significant, even if it be only the invention of this old woman. It showed what she conjectured—what she thought to be a natural result of these practices which had prompted her suspicions as well as my own.

How hot was the iron-pressure upon my brain—how keen and scorching was that fiery arrow in my soul, when I took my place of watch beside the unconscious form of my wife, God alone can know. If I am criminal—if I have erred with wildest error—surely I have struggled with deepest misery. I have been misled by wo, not temptation! Sore has been my struggle, sore my suffering, even in the moment of my greatest fault and folly. Sore!—-how sore!



CHAPTER XXXIII.

STILL THE CLOUD.



For three days and nights did I watch beside the sick bed of my wife. In all this time her fate continued doubtful. I doubt if any anxiety or attention could have exceeded mine; as it was clear to myself that, in spite of jealousy and suspicion, my love for her remained without diminution. Yet this watch was not maintained without some trials far more severe and searching than those which it produced upon the body. Her mind, wandering and purposeless, yet spoke to mine, and renewed all its racking doubts, and exaggerated all its nameless fears. Her veins burned with fever. She was fitfully delirious. Words fell from her at spasmodic moments—strange, incoherent words, but all full of meaning in my ears. I sat beside the bed on one hand, while, on one occasion, her mother occupied a seat upon that opposite. The eyes of my wife opened upon both of us—turned from me, convulsively, with an expression, as I thought, of disgust, then closed—while her lips, taking up their language, poured forth a torrent of threats and reproaches.

I can not repeat her words. They rang in my ears, understood, indeed, but so wildly and thrillingly, that I should find it a vain task to endeavor to remember them. She spoke of persecution, annoyance, beyond propriety, beyond her powers of endurance. She threatened me—for I assumed myself to be the object of her denunciation—with the wrath of some one capable to punish—nay, to rescue her, if need be, by violence, from the clutches of her tyrant. Then followed another change in her course of speech. She no longer threatened or denounced. She derided. Words of bitter scorn and loathing contempt issued from those bright, red, burning, and always beautiful lips, which I had never supposed could have given forth such utterance, even if her spirit could have been supposed capable of conceiving it. Keen was the irony which she expressed—irony, which so well applied to my demerits in one great respect, that I could not help making the personal application.

"How manly and generous," she proceeded, "was this sort of persecution of one so unprotected, so dependent, so placed, that she must even be silent, and endure without speech or complaint, in the dread of dangers which, however, would not light upon her head. Oh, brave as generous!" she exclaimed, with a burst of tremendous delirium, terminating in a shriek; "oh, brave as generous!—scarcely lion-like, however, for the noble beast rushes upon his victim. He does not prowl, and skulk, and sneak, watching, cat-like; crouching and base, in stealth and darkness. Very noble, but mousing spirit! Beware! Do I not know you now! Fear you not that I will show your baseness, and declare the truth, and guide other eyes to your stealthy practice? Beware! Do not drive me into madness!"

Thus she raved. My conscience applied these stinging words of scorn, which seemed particularly fitted to the mean suspicious watch which I had kept upon her. I could have no thought that they were meant for any other ears than my own, and the crimson flush upon my cheeks was the involuntary acknowledgment which my soul made of the demerits of my unmanly conduct. I fancied that Julia had detected my espionage, and that her language had this object in reference only. But there were other words; and, passing with unexpected transition from the language of dislike and scorn, she now indulged in that of love—language timidly suggestive of love, as if its utterance were restrained by bashfulness, as if it dreaded to be heard. Then a deep sigh followed, as if from the bottom of her heart, succeeded by convulsive sobs, at last ending in a gushing flood of tears.

For the space of half an hour I had been an attentive but suffering listener to this wild raving. My pangs followed every sentence from her lips, believing, as I did, that they were reproachful of myself, and associated with a now unrestrained expression of passion for another. Gradually I had ceased, in the deep interest which I felt, to be conscious that Mrs. Delaney was present. I leaned across the couch; I bent my ear down toward the lips of the speaker, eager to drink up every feeble sound which might help to elucidate my doubts, and subdue or confirm my suspicions. Then, as the accumulating conviction formed itself, embodied and sharp, like a knife, into my soul, I groaned aloud, and my teeth were gnashed together in the bitterness of my emotion! In that moment I caught the keen gray eyes of my mother-in-law fixed upon me, with a jibing expression, which spoke volumes of mockery. They seemed to say, "Ah! you have it now! The truth is forced upon you at last! You can parry it no longer. I see the iron in your soul. I behold and enjoy your contortions!"

Fiend language! She was something of a fiend! I started from the bedside, and just then a flood of tears came to the relief of my wife, and lessened the excitement of her brain. The tears relieved her. The paroxysm passed away. She turned her eyes upon me, and closed them involuntarily, while a deep crimson tint passed over her cheek, a blush, which seemed to me to confirm substantially the tenor of that language in which, while delirious, she had so constantly indulged. It did not lessen the seeming shame and dislike which her countenance appeared at once to embody, that a soft sweet smile was upon her lips at the same moment, and she extended to me her hand with an air of confidence which staggered and surprised me.

"What is the matter, dear husband? And you here, mother? Have I been sick? Can it be?"

"Hush!" said the mother. "You have been sick ever since the night of my marriage."

"Ah!" she exclaimed with an air of anxiety and pain, while pressing her hand upon her eyes, "Ah! that night!"

A shudder shook her frame as she uttered this simple and short sentence. Simple and short as it was, it seemed to possess a strange signification. That it was associated in her mind with some circumstances of peculiar import, was sufficiently obvious. What were these circumstances? Ah! that question! I ran over in my thought, in a single instant, all that array of events, on that fatal night, which could by any possibility distress me, and confirm my suspicions. That waltz with Edgerton—that long conference between them—that lonely ride together from the home of Mrs. Delaney, in a close carriage—and the subsequent disaster—her unconscious ravings, and the strong, strange language which she employed, clearly full of meaning as it was, but in which I could discover one meaning only! all these topics of doubt and agitation passed through my brain in consecutive order, and with a compact arrangement which seemed as conclusive as any final issue. I said nothing; but what I might have said, was written in my face. Julia regarded me with a gaze of painful anxiety. What she read in my looks must have been troublously impressive. Her cheeks grew paler as she looked. Her eyes wandered from me vacantly, and I could see her thin soft lips quivering faintly like rose-leaves which an envious breeze has half separated from the parent-flower. Mrs. Delaney watched our mutual faces, and I left the room to avoid her scrutiny. I only re-entered it with the physician. He administered medicine to my wife.

"She will do very well now, I think," he said to me when leaving the house; "but she requires to be treated very tenderly. All causes of excitement must be kept from her. She needs soothing, great care, watchful anxiety. Clifford, above all, you should leave her as little as possible. This old woman, her mother, is no fit companion for her—scarcely a pleasant one. I do not mean to reproach you; ascribe what I say to a real desire to serve and make you happy; but let me tell you that Mrs. Delaney has intimated to me that you neglect your wife, that you leave her very much at night; and she further intimates, what I feel assured can not well be the case, that you have fallen into other and much more evil habits."

"The hag!"

"She is all that, and loves you no better now than before. Still, it is well to deprive such people of their scandal-mongering, of the meat for it at least. I trust, Clifford, for your own sake, that you were absent of necessity on Wednesday night."

"It will be enough for me to think so, sir," was my reply.

"Surely, if you DO think so; but I am too old a man, and too old a friend of your own and wife's family, to justify you in taking exception to what I say. I hope you do not neglect this dear child, for she is one too sweet, too good, too gentle, Clifford, to be subjected to hard usage and neglect. I think her one of earth's angels—a meek creature, who would never think or do wrong, but would rather suffer than complain. I sincerely hope, for your own sake, as well as hers, that you truly estimate her worth."

I could not answer the good old man, though I was angry with him. My conscience deprived me of the just power to give utterance to my anger. I was silent, and he forbore any further reference to the subject. Shortly after he took his leave, and I re-ascended the stairs. Wearing slippers, I made little noise, and at the door of my wife's chamber I caught a sentence from the lips of Mrs. Delaney, which made me forget everything that the doctor had been saying.

"But Julia, there must have been some accident—something must have happened. Did your foot slip? perhaps, in getting out of the carriage, or in going up stairs, or—. There must have been something to frighten you, or hurt you. What was it?"

I paused; my heart rose like a swelling, struggling mass in the gorge of my throat. I listened for the reply. A deep sigh followed; and then I heard a reluctant, faint utterance of the single word, "Nothing!"

"Nothing?" repeated the old lady. "Surely, Julia, there was something. Recollect yourself. You know you rode home with Mr. Edgerton. It was past one o'clock—"

"No more—no more, mother. There was nothing—nothing that I recollect. I know nothing of what happened. Hardly know where I am now."

I felt a momentary pang that I had lingered at the entrance. Besides, there was no possibility that she would have revealed anything to the inquisitive old woman. Perhaps, had this been probable, I should not have felt the scruple and the pang. The very questions of Mrs. Delaney were as fully productive of evil in my mind, as if Julia had answered decisively on every topic. I entered the room, and Mrs. Delaney, after some little lingering, took her departure, with a promise to return again soon. I paced the chamber with eyes bent upon the floor.

"Come to me, Edward-come sit beside me." Such were the gentle words of entreaty which my wife addressed to me. Gentle words, and so spoken—so sweetly, so frankly, as if from the very sacredest chamber of her heart. Could it be that guilt also harbored in that very heart—that it was the language of cunning on her lips—the cunning of the serpent? Ah! how can we think that with serpent-like cunning, there should be dove-like guilelessness? My soul revolted at the idea. The sounds of the poor girl's voice sounded like hissing in my ears. I sat beside her as she requested, and almost started, as I felt her fingers playing with the hair upon my temples.

"You are cold to me, dear husband; ah! be not cold. I have narrowly escaped from death. So they tell me—so I feel! Be not cold to me. Let me not think that I am burdensome to you."

"Why should you think so, Julia?"

"Ah! your words answer your question, and speak for me. They are so few—they have no warmth in them; and then, you leave me so much, dear husband—why, why do you leave me?"

"You do not miss me much, Julia."

"Do I not! ah! you do me wrong. I miss nothing else but you. I have all that I had when we were first married—all but my husband!"

"Do not deceive yourself, Julia; these fine speeches do not deceive me. I am afraid that the love of woman is a very light thing. It yields readily to the wind. It does not keep in one direction long, any more than the vane on the house-top."

"You do NOT think so, Edward. Such is not MY love. Alas! I know not how to make it known to you, husband, if it be not already known; and yet it seems to me that you do not know it, or, if you do, that you do not care much about it. You seem to care very little whether I love you or not."

I exclaimed bitterly, and with the energy of deep feeling.

"Care little! I care little whether you love me or no! Psha! Julia, you must think me a fool!"

It did seem to me a sort of mockery, knowing my feelings as I did—knowing that all my folly and suffering came from the very intensity of my passion—that I should be reproached, by its object, with indifference! I forgot, that, as a cover for my suspicion, I had been striving with all the industry of art to put on the appearance of indifference. I did not give myself sufficient credit for the degree of success with which I had labored, or I might have suddenly arrived at the gratifying conclusion, that, while I was impressed and suffering with the pangs of jealousy, my wife was trembling with fear that she had for ever lost my affections. My language, the natural utterance of my real feelings, was not true to the character I had assumed. It filled the countenance of the suffering woman with consternation. She shrunk from me in terror. Her hand was withdrawn from my neck, as she tremulously replied:—

"Oh, do not speak to me in such tones. Do not look so harshly upon me. What have I done?"

"Ay! ay!" I muttered, turning away.

She caught my hand.

"Do not go—do not leave me, and with such a look! Oh! husband, I may not live long. I feel that I have had a very narrow escape within these few days past. Do not kill me with cruel looks; with words, that, if cruel from you, would sooner kill than the knife in savage hands. Oh! tell me in what have I offended? What is it you think? For what am I to blame? What do you doubt—suspect?"

These questions were asked hurriedly, apprehensively, with a look of vague terror, her cheoks whitening as she spoke, her eyes darting wildly into mine, and her lips remaining parted after she had spoken.

"Ah!" I exclaimed, keenly watching her. Her glance sank beneath my gaze. I put my hand upon her own.

"What do I suspect I What should I suspect? Ha!"—Here I arrested myself. My ardent anxiety to know the truth led me to forget my caution; to exhibit a degree of eagerness, which might have proved that I did suspect and seriously. To exhibit the possession of jealousy was to place her upon her guard—such was the suggestion of that miserable policy by which I had been governed—and defeat the impression of that feeling of perfect security and indifference, which I had been so long striving to awaken. I recovered myself, with this thought, in season to re-assume this appearance.

"Your mind still wanders, Julia. What should I suspect? and whom? You do not suppose me to be of a suspicious nature, do you?"

"Not altogether—not always—no! But, of course, there is nothing to suspect. I do not know what I say. I believe I do wander."

This reply was also spoken hurriedly, but with an obvious effort at composure. The eagerness with which she seized upon my words, insisting upon the absence of any cause of suspicion, and ascribing to her late delirium, the tacit admissions which her look and language had made, I need not say, contributed to strengthen my suspicions, and to confirm all the previous conjectures of my jealous spirit.

"Be quiet," I said with an air of sang froid. "Do not worry yourself in this manner. You need sleep. Try for it, while I leave you."

"Do not leave me; sit beside me, dear Edward. I will sleep so much better when you are beside me."

"Indeed!"

"Yes, believe me. Ah! that I could always keep you beside me!"

"What! you are for a new honeymoon?" I said this in a TONE of merriment, which Heaven knows, I little felt.

"Do not speak of it so lightly, Edward. It is too serious a matter. Ah! that you would always remain with me; that you would never leave me."

"Pshaw! What sickly tenderness is this! Why, how could I earn my bread or yours?"

"I do not mean that you should neglect your business, but that when business is over, you should give me all your time as you used to. Remember, how pleasantly we passed the evenings after our marriage. Ah! how could you forget?"

"I do not, Julia."

"But you do not care for them. We spend no such evenings now!"

"No! but it is no fault of mine!" I said gloomily; then, interrupting her answer, as if dreading that she might utter some simple but true remark, which might refute the interpretation which my words conveyed, that the fault was hers, I enjoined silence upon her.

"You scarcely speak in your right mind yet, Julia. Be quiet, therefore, and try to sleep."

"Well, if you will sit beside me."

"I will do so, since you wish for it; but where's the need?"

"Ah! do not ask the need, if you still love me," was all she said, and looked at me with such eyes—so tearful, bright, so sad, soliciting—that, though I did not less doubt, I could no longer deny. I resumed the seat beside her. She again placed her fingers in my hair, and in a little while sunk into a profound slumber, only broken by an occasional sob, which subsided into a sigh.

Were she guilty—such was the momentary suggestion of the good angel—could she sleep thus?—thus quietly, confidingly, beside the man she had wronged—her fingers still paddling in his hair—her sleeping eyes still turning in the direction of his face?

To the clear, open mind, the suggestion would have had the force of a conclusive argument; but mine was no longer a clear, open mind. I had the disease of the blind heart upon me, and all things came out upon my vision as through a glass, darkly. The evil one at my elbow jeered when the good angel spoke.

"Fool! does she not see that she can blind you still!" Then, in the vanity and vexation of my spirit, I mused upon it further, and said to myself:—"Ay, but she will find, ere many days, that I am no longer to be blinded!" The scales were never thicker upon my sight than when I boasted in this foolish wise.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

A FATHER'S GRIBFS.



She continued to improve, but slowly. Her organization was always very delicate. Her frame was becoming thin, almost to meagreness; and this last disaster, whatever might be its cause, had contributed still more to weaken a constitution which education and nature had never prepared for much hard encounter. But, though I saw these proofs of feebleness—of a feebleness that might have occasioned reasonable apprehensions of premature decay, and possibly very rapid decline—there were little circumstances constantly occurring—looks shown, words spoken—which kept up the irritation of my soul, and prevented me from doing justice to her enfeebled condition. My sympathies were absorbed in my suspicions. My heart was the debateable land of self. The blind passion which enslaved it, I need scarce say, was of a nature so potent, that it could easily impregnate, with its own color, all the objects of its survey. Seen through the eyes of suspicion, there is no truth, no virtue; the smile is that of the snake; the tear, that of the crocodile; the assurance, that of the traitor. There is no act, look, word, of the suspected object, however innocent, which, to the diseased mind of jealousy, does not suggest conjectures and arguments, all conclusive or confirmatory of its doubts and fears. It is not necessary to say that I shrunk from Julia's endearment, requited her smiles with indifference; and, though I did not avoid her presence—I could not, in the few days when her case was doubtful—yet exhibited, in all respects, the conduct of one who was in a sort of Coventry.

But one fact may be stated—one of many—which seemed to give a sanction to my suspicions, will help to justify my course, and which, at the time, was terribly conclusive, to my reason, of the things which I feared. She spoke audibly the name of Edgerton, twice, thrice, while she slept beside me, in tones very faint, it is true, but still distinct enough. The faintness of her utterance, gave the tones an emphasis of tenderness which perhaps was unintended. Twice, thrice, that fatal name; and then, what a sigh from the full volume of a surcharged heart. Let any one conceive my situation—with my feelings, intense on all subjects—my suspicions already so thoroughly awakened; and then fancy what they must have been on hearing that utterance; from the unguarded lips of slumber; from the wife lying beside him; and of the name of him on whom suspicion already rested. I hung over the sleeper, breathless, almost gasping, finally, in the effort to contain my breath—in the hope to hear something, however slight, which was to confirm finally, or finally end my doubts. I heard no more; but did more seem to be necessary? What jealous heart had not found this sufficiently conclusive? And that deep-drawn sigh, sobbing, as of a heart breaking with the deferred hope, and the dream of youth baffled at one sweeping, severing blow.

I rose. I could no longer subdue my emotions to the necessary degree of watchfulness. I trod the chamber till daylight. Then, I dressed myself and went out into the street. I had no distinct object. A vague persuasion only, that I must do something—that something must be done—that, in short, it was necessary to force this exhausting drama to its fit conclusion. Of course William Edgerton was my object. As yet, how to bring about the issue, was a problem which my mind was not prepared to solve. Whether I was to stab or shoot him; whether we were to go through the tedious processes of the duel; to undergo the fatigue of preliminaries, or to shorten them by sudden rencounter; these were topics which filled my thoughts confusedly; upon which I had no clear conviction; not because I did not attempt to fix upon a course, but from a sheer inability to think at all. My whole brain was on fire; a chaotic mass, such as rushes up from the unstopped vents of the volcano—fire, stones, and lava—but dense smoke enveloping the whole.

In this frame of mind I hurried through the streets. The shops were yet unopened. The sun was just about to rise. There was a humming sound, like that of distant waters murmuring along the shore, which filled my ears; but otherwise everything was silent. Sleep had not withdrawn with night from his stealthy watch upon the household. It seemed to me that I alone could not sleep. Even guilt—if my wife were really guilty—even guilt could sleep. I left her sleeping, and how sweetly! as if the dream which had made her sob and sigh, had been succeeded by others, that made all smiles again. I could not sleep, and yet, who, but a few months before, had been possessed of such fair prospects of peace and prosperity? Fortune held forth sufficient promise; fame—so far as fame can be accorded by a small community—had done something toward giving me an honorable repute; and love—had not love been seemingly as liberal and prompt as ever young passions could have desired? I was making money; I was getting reputation; the only woman whom I had ever loved or sought, was mine; and mine, too, in spite of opposition and discouragements which would have chilled the ardor of half the lovers in the world. And yet I was not happy. It takes so small an amount of annoyance to produce misery in the heart of selfesteem, when united with suspicion, that it was scarcely possible that I should be happy. Such a man has a taste for self-torture; as one troubled with an irritating humor, is never at rest, unless he is tearing the flesh into a sore; he may then rest as he may.

I took the way to my office. It was not often that I went thither before breakfast. But William Edgerton had been in the habit of doing so. He lived in the neighborhood, and his father had taught him this habit during the period when he was employed in studying the profession. It might be that I should find him there on the present occasion. Such was my notion. What farther thought I had I know not; but a vague suggestion that, in that quiet hour—there—without eye to see, or hand to interpose, I might drag from his heart the fearful secret—I might compel confession, take my vengeance, and rid myself finally of that cruel agony which was making me its miserable puppet. Crude, wild notions these, but very natural.

I turned the corner of the street. The window of my office was open. "He is then there," I muttered to myself; and my teeth clutched each other closely. I buttoned my coat. My heart was swelling. I looked around me, and up to the windows. The street was very silent—the grave not more so. I strode rapidly across, threw open the door of the office which stood ajar, and beheld, not the person whom I sought, but his venerable father.

The sight of that white-headed old man filled me with a sense of shame and degradation. What had he not done for me? How great his assistance, how kind his regards, how liberal his offices. He had rescued me from the bondage of poverty. He had put forth the hand of help, with a manly grasp of succor at the very moment when it was most needed; had helped to make me what I was; and, for all these, I had come to put to death his only son. A revulsion of feeling took place within my bosom. These thoughts were instantaneous—a sort of lightning-flash from the moral world of thought. I stood abashed; brought to my senses in an instant, and was scarcely able to conceal my discomfiture and confusion. I stood before him with the feeling, and must have worn the look, of a culprit. Fortunately, he did not perceive my confusion. Poor old man! Cares of his own—cares of a father, too completely occupied his mind, to suffer his senses to discharge their duties with freedom.

"I am glad to see you, Clifford, though I did not expect it. Young men of the present day are not apt to rise so early."

"I must confess, sir, it is not my habit."

"Better if it were. The present generation, it seems to me, may be considered more fortunate, in some respects, than the past, though they are scarcely wiser. They seem to me exempt from such necessities as encountered their fathers. Their tasks are fewer—their labor is lighter—"

"Are their cares the lighter in consequence?" I demanded.

"That is the question," he replied. "For myself, I think not. They grow gray the sooner. They have fewer tasks, but heavier troubles. They live better in some respects. They have luxuries which, in my day, youth were scarcely permitted to enjoy; and which, indeed, were not often enjoyed by age. But they have little peace:-and, look at the bankruptcies of our city. They are without number—they produce no shame—do not seem to affect the credit of the parties; and, certainly, in no respect diminish their expenditures. They live as if the present day were the last they had to live; and living thus, they must live dishonestly. It is inevitable. The moral sense is certainly in a much lower condition in our country, than I have ever known it. What can be the reason?"

"The facility of procuring money, perhaps. Money is the most dangerous of human possessions."

"There can be none other. Clifford!"

"Sir."

"I change the subject abruptly. Have you seen my son lately, Clifford?"

The question was solemnly, suddenly spoken. It staggered me. What could it mean? That there was a meaning in it—a deep meaning—was unquestionable. But of what nature? Did the venerable man suspect my secret—could he by any chance conjecture my purpose? It is one quality of a mind not exactly satisfied of the propriety of its proceedings, to be suspicious of all things and persons—to fancy that the consciousness which distresses itself, is also the consciousness of its neighbors. Hence the blush upon the cheek—the faltering accents—the tremulousncss of limb, and feebleness of movement. For a moment after the old man spoke—troubled with this consciousness, I could not answer. But my self-esteem came to my relief—nay, it had sufficed to conceal my disquiet. My looks were subdued to a seeming calm—my voice was un-broken, while I answered:—

"I have seen him within a few days, sir—a few nights ago we were at Mrs. Delaney's party. But why the question, sir?—what troubles you?"

"Strange that you have not seen! Did you not remark the alteration in his appearance?"

"I must confess, sir, I did not; but, perhaps, I did not remark him closely among the crowd."

"He is altered—terribly altered, Clifford. It is very strange that you have not seen it. It is visible to myself—his mother—all the family, and some of its friends We tremble for his life. He is a mere skeleton—moves without life or animation, feebly—his cheeks are pale and thin, his lips white, and his eyes have an appearance which, beyond anything besides, distresses me—either lifelessly dull, or suddenly flushed up with an expression of wildness, which occurs so suddenly as to distress us with the worst apprehensions of his sanity."

"Indeed, sir!" I exclaimed with natural surprise.

"So it appears to us, his mother and myself, though, as it has escaped your eyes, I trust that we have exaggerated it. That we have not imagined all of it, however, we have other proofs to show. His manner is changed of late, and most of his habits. The change is only within the last six months; so suddenly made that it has been forced upon our sight. Once so frank, he is now reserved and shrinking to the last degree; speaks little; is reluctant to converse; and, I am compelled to believe, not only avoids my glance, but fears it."

"It is very strange that he should do so, sir. I can think of no reason why he should avoid YOUR glance. Can you sir? Have you any suspicions?"

"I have."

"Ha! have you indeed?"

The old man drew his chair closer to me, and, putting his hand on mine, with eyes in which the tears, big, slow-gathering, began to fill—trickling at length, one by one, through the venerable furrows of his cheeks—he replied in faltering accents:—

"A terrible suspicion, Clifford. I am afraid he drinks; that he frequents gambling-houses; that, in short, he is about to be lost to us, body and soul, for ever."

Deep and touching was the groan that followed from that old man's bosom. I hastened to relieve him.

"I am sure, sir, that you do your son great injustice. I cannot conceive it possible that he should have fallen into these habits"

"He is out nightly—late—till near daylight. But two hours ago he returned home. Let me confess to you, Clifford, what I should be loath to confess to anybody else. I followed him last night. He took the path to the suburbs, and I kept him in sight almost till he reached your dwelling. Then I lost him. He moved too rapidly then for my old limbs, and disappeared among those groves of wild orange that fill your neighborhood. I searched them as closely as I could in the imperfect starlight, but could see nothing of him. I am told that there are gambling-houses, notorious enough, in the suburbs just beyond you. I fear that he found shelter in these—that he finds shelter in them nightly."

I scarcely breathed while listening to the unhappy father's, narrative. There was one portion of it to which I need not refer the reader, as calculated to confirm my own previous convictions. I struggled with my feelings, however, in respect for his. I kept them down and spoke.

"In this one fact, Mr. Edgerton, I see nothing to alarm you. Your son may have been engaged far more innocently than you imagine. He is young—you know too well the practices of young men. As for the drinking he is perhaps the very last person whom I should suspect of excess. I have always thought his temperance unquestionable."

"Until recently, I should have had no fears myself. But connecting one fact with another—his absence all night, nightly—the stealthiness with which he departs from home after the family has retired—the stealthiness with which he returns just before day—his visible agitation when addressed—and, oh Clifford! worst of all signs, the shrinking of his eye beneath mine and his mother's—the fear to meet, and the effort to avoid us—these are the signs which most pain me, and excite my apprehensions But look at his face and figure also. The haggard misery of the one, sign of sleeplessness and late watching—the attenuated feebleness of the other, showing the effects of some practices, no matter of what particular sort, which are undermining his constitution, and rapidly tending to destroy him. If you but look in his eye as I have done, marking its wildness, its wandering, its sensible expression of shame—you can hardly fail to think with me that something is morally wrong. He is guilty—"

"He is guilty!"

I echoed the words of the father, involuntarily. They struck the chord of conviction in my own soul, and seemed to me the language of a judgment.

"Ha! You know it, then?" cried the old man. "Speak! Tell me, Clifford—what is his folly? What is the particular guilt and shame into which he has fallen?"

I knew not that I had spoken until I heard these words. The agitation of the father was greatly increased. Truly, his sorrows were sad to look upon. I answered him:—

"I simply echoed your words, sir—I am ignorant, as I said before; and, indeed, I may venture, I think, with perfect safety, to assure you that gaming and drink have nothing to do with his appearance and deportment. I should rather suspect him of some improper—SOME GUILTY CONNECTION—"

I felt that, in the utterance of these words, I too had become excited. My voice did not rise, but I knew that it had acquired an intenseness which I as quickly endeavored to suppress. But the father had already beheld the expression in my face, and perhaps the sudden change in my tones grated harshly upon his ear. I could see that his looks became more eager and inquiring. I could note a greater degree of apprehension and anxiety in his eyes. I subdued myself, though not without some effort.

"William Edgerton may be erring, sir—that I do not deny, for I have seen too little of him of late to say anything of his proceedings; but I am very confident when I say that excess in liquor can not be a vice of his; and as for gaming, I should fancy that he was the last person in the world likely to be tempted to the indulgence of such a practice."

The father shook his head mournfully.

"Why this shame?—this fear? Besides, Clifford, what we know of our son makes us equally sure that women have nothing to do with his excesses. But these conjectures help us nothing. Clifford, I must look to you."

"What can I do for you, sir?"

"He is my son, my only son—the care of many sad, sleepless hours. It was his mother's hope that he would be our solace in the weary and the sad ones. You can not understand yet how much the parent lives in the child—how many of his hopes settle there. William has already disappointed us in our ambition. He will be nothing that we hoped him to be; but of this I complain not. But that he should become base, Clifford; a night-prowler in the streets; a hanger-on of stews and gaming-houses; a brawler at an alehouse bar; a man to skulk through life and society; down-looking in his father's sight; despised in that of the community—oh! these are the cruel, the dreadful apprehensions!"

"But you know not that he is any of these."

"True; but there is something grievously wrong when the son dares not meet the eye of a parent with manly fearlessness; when he looks without joyance at the face of a mother, and shrinks from her endearments as if he felt that he deserved them not. William Edgerton is miserable; that is evident enough. Now, misery does not always imply guilt; but, in his case, what else should it imply! He has had no misfortunes. He is independent; he is beloved by his parents, and by his friends; he has had no denial of the affections; in short, there is no way of accounting for his conduct or appearance, but by the supposition that he has fallen into vicious habits. Whatever these habits are, they are killing him. He is a mere skeleton; his whole appearance is that of a man running a rapid course of dissipation which can only advance in shame, and terminate in death. Clifford, if I have ever served you in the hour of your need, serve me in this of mine. Save my son for me. Bring him back from his folly; restore him, if you can, to peace and purity. See him, will you not? Seek him out; see him; probe his secret; and tell me what can be done to rescue him before it be too late."

"Really, Mr. Edgerton, you confound me. What can I do?"

"I know not. Every thing, perhaps! I confess I can not counsel you. I can not even suggest how you should begin. You must judge for yourself. You must think and make your approaches according to your own judgment. Remember, that it is not in his behalf only. Think of the father, the mother! our hope, our all is at stake. I speak to you in the language of a child, Clifford. I am a child in this. This boy has been the apple of our eyes. It is our sight for which I seek your help. I know your good sense and sagacity. I know that you can trace out his secret when I should fail. My feelings would blind me to the truth. They might lead me to use language which would drive him from me. I leave it all to you. I know not who else can do for me half so well in a matter of this sort. Will you undertake it?"

Could I refuse? This question was discussed in all its bearings, in a few lightning-like progresses of thought. I felt all its difficulties—anticipated the annoyances to which it would subject me, and the degree of self-forbearance which it would necessarily require; yet, when I looked on the noble old gentleman who sat beside me—his gray hairs, his pleading looks, the recollection of the deep debt of gratitude which I owed him—I put my hand in his; I could resist no longer.

"I will try!" was the brief answer which I made him.

"God bless, God speed you!" he exclaimed, squeezing my hand with a pressure that said everything, and we separated; he for his family, and I for that new task which I had undertaken. How different from my previous purpose! I was now to seek to save the person whom I had set forth that morning with the purpose (if I had any purpose) to destroy. What a volume made up of contradictions and inconsistencies, strangely bound together, is the moral world of man!



CHAPTER XXXV.

APPLICATON OF "THE QUESTION."



But how to save him? How to approach him? How to keep down my own sense of wrong, my own feeling of misery, while representing the wishes and the feelings of that good old man—that venerable father? These were questions to afflict, to confound me! Still, I was committed; I must do what I had promised; undertake it at least; and the conviction that such a task was to be the severest trial of my manliness, was a conviction that necessarily helped to strengthen me to go through with it like a man,

What I had heard from Mr. Edgerton in relation to his son, though new, and somewhat surprising to myself, had not altered, in any respect, my impressions on the subject of his conduct toward, or with, my wife. Indeed, it rather served to confirm them. I could have told the old man, that, in losing all traces of his son in the neighborhood of my dwelling the night when he pursued him, he had the most conclusive proofs that he had gone to no gaming-houses. But where did he go? That was a question for myself. Had he entered my premises, and hidden himself amidst the foliage where I had myself so often harbored, while my object had been the secret inspection of my household? Could it be that he had loitered there during the last few nights of my wife's illness, in the vain hope of seeing me take my departure? This was the conclusion which I reached, and with it came the next thought that he would revisit the spot again that night. Ha! that thought! "Let him come!" I muttered to myself. "I will endeavor to be in readiness!"

But, surely, the father was grievously in error; his parental fear, alone, had certainly drawn the picture of his son's reduced and miserable condition. I had seen nothing of this. I had observed that he was shy, incommunicative—seeking to avoid me, as, according to their showing, he had striven to avoid his parents. So far our experience had been the same. But I had totally failed to perceive the marks of suffering or of sin which the vivid feelings of the father on this subject had insisted were so apparent. I had seen in Edgerton only the false friend, the traitor, stealing like a serpent to my bower, to beguile from my side the only object which made it dear to me. I could see in him only the exulting seducer, confident in his ability, artful in his endeavors, winning in his accomplishments, and striving with practised industry of libertinism, in the prosecution of his cruel schemes. I could see the grace of his bearing, the ease of his manner, the symmetry of his person, the neatness of his costume, the superiority of his dancing, the insinuation of his address. I could see these only! That he looked miserable—that he was thin to meagreness, I had not seen.

Yet, even were it so, what could this prove, as the father had conclusively shown, but guilt. Poverty could not trouble him—he had never been an unrequited lover. He had gone along the stream of society, indifferent to the lures of beauty, and with a bark that had always appeared studiously to keep aloof from the shores or shoals of matrimony. If he was miserable, his misery could only come from misconduct, not from misfortune. It was a misery engendered by guilt, and what was that guilt? I KNEW that he did not drink; and was not his course in regard to Kingsley, as narrated by that person on the night when we went to the gaming-house together—was not that sufficient to show that he was no gamester, unless he happened to be one of the most bare faced of all canting hypocrites, which I could not believe him to be. What remained, but that my calculations were right? It was guilt that was sinking him, body and soul, so that his eye no longer dared to look upward—so that his ear shrunk from the sounds of those voices which, even in the language of kindness, were still speaking to him in the severest language of rebuke. And whom did that guilt concern more completely than myself? Say that the father was to lose his son, his only son—what was my loss, what was my shame! and upon whom should the curse most fully and finally fall, if not upon the wrong-doer, though it so happened that the ruin of the guilty brought with it overthrow to the innocent scarcely less complete!

The extent of that guilt of Edgerton?

On this point all was a wilderness, vague, inconclusive, confused and crowded within my understanding. I believed that he had approached my wife with evil designs—I believed, without a doubt, that he had passed the boundaries of propriety in his intercourse with her; but I believed not that she had fallen! No! I had an instinctive confidence in her purity, that rendered it apparently impossible that she should lapse into the grossness of illicit love. What, then, was my fear? That she did love him, though, struggling with the tendency of her heart, she had not yielded in the struggle. I believed that his grace, beauty, and accomplishments—his persevering attention—his similar tastes—had succeeded in making an impression upon her soul which had effectually eradicated mine. I believed that his attentions were sweet to her—that she had not the strength to reject them; and, though she may have proved herself too virtuous to yield, she had not been sufficiently strong to repulse him with virtuous resentment.

That Edgerton had not succeeded, did not lessen HIS offence. The attempt was an indignity that demanded atonement—that justified punishment equally severe with that which should have followed a successful prosecution of his purpose. Women are by nature weak. They are not to be tempted. He who, knowing their weakness, attempts their overthrow by that medium, is equally cowardly and criminal. I could not doubt that he had made this attempt; but now it seemed necessary that I should suspend my indignation, in obedience with what appeared to be a paramount duty. A selfish reasoning now suggested compliance with this duty as a mean for procuring better intelligence than I already possessed. I need not say that the doubt was the pain in my bosom. I felt, in the words of the cold devil Iago, those "damned minutes" of him "who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves."

The shapeless character of my fears and suspicions did not by any means lessen their force and volume. On the contrary it caused them to loom out through the hazy atmosphere of the imagination, assuming aspects more huge and terrible, in consequence of their very indistinctness; as the phantom shapes along the mountains of the Brocken, gathering and scowling in the morning or the evening twilight. To obtain more precise knowledge—to be able to subject to grasp and measure the uncertain phantoms which I feared—was, if not to reduce their proportions, at least to rid me of that excruciating suspense, in determining what to do, which was the natural result of my present ignorance.

With some painstaking, I was enabled to find and force an interview with Edgerton that very day. He made an effort to elude me—such an effort as he could make without allowing his object to be seen. But I was not to be baffled. Having once determined upon my course, I was a puritan in the inveteracy with which I persevered in it. But it required no small struggle to approach the criminal, and so utterly to subdue my own sense of wrong, my suspicions and my hostility, as to keep in sight no more than the wishes and fears of the father. I have already boasted of my strength in some respects, even while exposing my weaknesses in others. That I could persuade Edgerton and my wife, equally, of my indifference, even at the moment when I was most agonized by my doubts of their purity, is a sufficient proof that I possessed a certain sort of strength. It was a moral strength, too, which could conceal the pangs inflicted by the vulture, even when it was preying upon the vitals of the best affections and the dearest hopes of the heart. It was necessary that I should put all this strength in requisition, as well to do what was required by the father, as to pierce, with keen eye, and considerate question, to the secret soul of the witness. I must assume the blandest manner of our youthful friendship; I must say kind things, and say them with a certain frank unconsciousness. I must use the language of a good fellow—a sworn companion—who is anxious to do justice to my friend's father, and yet had no notion that my friend himself was doing the smallest thing to justify the unmeasured fears of the fond old man. Such was my cue at first. I am not so sure that I pursued it to the end; but of this hereafter.

My attention having been specially drawn to the personal appearance of William Edgerton, I was surprised, if not absolutely shocked, to see that the father had scarcely exaggerated the misery of his condition. He was the mere shadow of his former self. His limbs, only a year before, had been rounded even to plumpness. They were now sharp and angular. His skin was pale, his looks haggard; and that apprehensive shrinking of the eye, which had called forth the most keen expressions of fear and suspicion from the father's lips, was the prominent characteristic which commanded my attention during our brief interview. His eye, after the first encounter, no longer rose to mine. Keenly did I watch his face, though for an instant only. A sudden hectic flush mantled its paleness. I could perceive a nervous muscular movement about his mouth, and he slightly started when I spoke.

"Edgerton," I said, with tones of good-humored reproach, "there's no finding you now-a-days. You have the invisible cap. What do you do with yourself? As for law, that seems destined to be a mourner so far as you are concerned. She sits like a widow in her weeds. You have abandoned her: do you mean to abandon your friends also?"

He answered, with a faint attempt to smile:—

"No; I have been to see you often, but you are never at home."

"Ah! I did not hear of it. But if you really wished to see a husband who has survived the honeymoon, I suspect that home is about the last place where you should seek for him. Julia did the honors, I trust?"

His eye stole upward, met mine, and sunk once more upon the floor. He answered faintly:—

"Yes, but I have not seen her for some days."

"Not since Mother Delaney's party, I believe?"

The color came again into his cheeks, but instantly after was succeeded by a deadly paleness.

"What a bore these parties are! and such parties as those of Mrs. Delaney are particularly annoying to me. Why the d—l couldn't the old tabby halter her hobby without calling in her neighbors to witness the painful spectacle? You were there, I think?"

"Yes."

"I left early. I got heartily sick. You know I never like such places; and, as soon as they began dancing, I took advantage of the fuss and fiddle to steal off. It was unfortunate I did so, for Julia was taken sick, and has had a narrow chance for it. I thought I should have lost her."

All this was spoken in tones of the coolest imaginable indifference. Edgerton was evidently surprised. He looked up with some curiosity in his glance, and more confidence; and, with accents that slightly faltered, he asked:—

"Is she well again? I trust she is better now."

"Yes!" I answered, with the same sang-froid. "But I've had a serious business of watching through the last three nights. Her peril was extreme. She lost her little one."

A visible shudder went through his frame.

"Tired to death of the walls of the house, which seems a dungeon to me, I dashed out this morning, at daylight, as soon as I found I could safely leave her; and, strolling down to the office, who should I find there but your father, perched at the desk, and seemingly inclined to resume all his former practice?"

"Indeed! my father—so early? What could be the matter? Did he tell you?

"Yes, i'faith, he is in tribulation about you. He fancies you are in a fair way to destruction. You can't conceive what he fancies. It seems, according to his account, that you are a night-stalker. He dwells at large upon your nightly absences from home, and then about your appearance, which, to say truth, is very wretched. You scarcely look like the same man. Edgerton. Have you been sick? What's the matter with you?"

"I am NOT altogether well," he said, evasively.

"Yes, but mere indisposition would never produce such a change, in so short a period, in any man! Your father is disposed to ascribe it to other causes."

"Ah! what does he think?"

I fancied there was mingled curiosity and trepidation in this inquiry.

"He suspects you of gaming and drinking; but I assured him, very confidently, that such was not the case. On one of these heads I could speak confidently, for I met Kingsley the other night—the night of Mother Delaney's party—who was hot and heavy against you because you refused to lend him money for such purposes. I was more indulgent, lent him the money, went with him to the house, and returned home with a pocket full of specie, sufficient to set up a small banking-operation of my own."

"You! can it be possible!"

"True; and no such dull way of spending an evening either. I got home in the small hours, and found Julia delirious. I haven't had such a fright for a stolen pleasure, Heaven knows when. There was the doctor, and there my eternal mother-in-law, and my poor little wife as near the grave as could be! But the circumstance of refusing the money to Kingsley, knowing his object, made me confident that gaming was not the cause of your night-stalking, and so I told the old gentleman."

"And what did he say?"

"Shook his head mournfully, and reasoned in this manner: 'He has no pecuniary necessities, has no oppressive toils, and has never had any disappointment of heart. There is nothing to make him behave so, and look so, but guilt—GUILT!'"

I repeated the last word with an entire change in the tone of my voice. Light, lively, and playful before, I spoke that single word with a stern solemnity, and, bending toward him, my eye keenly traversed the mazes of his countenance.

"HE HAS IT!" I thought to myself, as his head drooped forward, and his whole frame shuddered momentarily.

"But"—here my tones again became lively and playful—I even laughed—"I told the old man that I fancied I could hit the nail more certainly on the head. In short, I said I could pretty positively say what was the cause of your conduct and condition."

"Ah!" and, as he uttered this monosyllable, he made a feeble effort to rise from his seat, but sunk back, and again fixed his eye upon the floor in visible emotion.

"Yes! I told him—was I not right?—that a woman was at the bottom of it all!"

He started to his feet. His face was averted from me.

"Ha! was I not right? I knew it! I saw through it from the first; and, though I did not tell the old man THAT, I was pretty sure that you were trespassing upon your neighbor's grounds. Ha! what say you? Was I not right? Were yon not stealing to forbidden places—playing the snake, on a small scale, in some blind man's Eden? Ha! ha! what say you to that? I am right, am I not? eh?"

I clapped him on the shoulder as I spoke. His face had been half averted from me while I was speaking; but now it turned upon me, and his glance met mine, teeming with inquisitive horror.

"No! no! you are not right!" he faltered out; "it is not so. Nothing is the matter with me! I am quite well—quite! I will see my father, and set him right."

"Do so," I said, coolly and indifferently—"do so; tell him what you please: but you can't change my conviction that you're after some pretty woman, and probably poaching on some neighbor's territory. Come, make me your confidante, Edgerton. Let us know the history of your misfortune. Is the lady pliant? I should judge so, since you continue to spend so many nights away from home. Come, make a clean breast of it. Out with your secret! I have always been your friend. WE COULD NOT BETRAY EACH OTHER, I THINK!"

"You are quite mistaken," he said, with the effort of one who is half strangled. "There is nothing in it; I assure you, you were never more mistaken."

"Pshaw, Edgerton! you may blind papa, but you can not blind me. Keep your secret, if you please, but, if you provoke me, I will trace it out; I will unkennel you. If I do not show the sitting hare in a fortnight, by the course of the hunter, tell me I am none myself."

His consternation increased, but I did not allow it to disarm me. I probed him keenly, and in such a manner as to make him wince with apprehension at every word which I uttered. Morally, William Edgerton was a brave man. Guilt alone made him a coward. It actually gave me pain, after a while, to behold his wretched imbecility. He hung upon my utterance with the trembling suspense of one whose eye has become enchained with the fascinating gaze of the serpent. I put my questions and comments home to him, on the assumption that he was playing the traitor with another's wife; though taking care, all the while, that my manner should be that of one who has no sort of apprehensions on his own score. My deportment and tone tallied well with the practised indifference which had distinguished my previous overt conduct. It deceived him on that head; but the truth, like a sharp knife, was no less keen in penetrating to his soul; and, preserving my coolness and directness, with that singular tenacity of purpose which I could maintain in spite of my own sufferings—and keep them still unsuspected—I did not scruple to impel the sharp iron into every sensitive place within his bosom.

He writhed visibly before me. His struggles did not please me, but I sought to produce them simply because they seemed so many proofs confirming the truth of my conjectures. The fiend in my own soul kept whispering, "He has it!"—and a fatal spell, not unlike that which riveted his attention to the language which tore and vexed him, urged me to continue it until at length the sting became too keen for his endurance. In very desperation, he broke away from the fetters of that fascination of terror which had held him for one mortal hour to the spot.

"No more! no more!" he exclaimed, with an uncontrollable burst of emotion. "You torture me! I can stand it no longer! There is nothing in your conjecture! There is no reason for your suspicions! She is—"

"She? Ah!"

I could not suppress the involuntary exclamation. The truth seemed to be at hand. I was premature. My utterance brought him to his senses. He stopped, looked at me wildly for an instant, his eyes dilated almost to bursting. He seemed suddenly to be conscious that the secrets of his soul—its dark, uncommissioned secrets—were about to force themselves into sight and speech; and unable, perhaps, to arrest them in any other way he darted headlong from my presence.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

MEDITATED EXILE.



With his departure sunk the spirit which had sustained me. I had not gone through that scene willingly; I had suffered quite as many pangs as himself. I had made my own misery, though disguised under the supposed condition of another, the subject of my own mockery; and if I succeeded in driving the iron into HIS soul, the other end of the shaft was all the while working in mine! His flight was an equal relief to both of us. The stern spirit left me from that moment. My agony found relief, momentary though it was, in a sudden gush of tears. My hot, heavy head sank upon my palms, and I groaned in unreserved homage to the never-slumbering genius of pain—that genius which alone is universal—which adopts us from the cradle—which distinguishes our birth by our tears, hallows the sentiment of grief to us from the beginning, and maintains the fountains which supply its sorrows to the end. The lamb skips, the calf leaps, the fawn bounds, the bird chirps, the young colt frisks; all things but man enjoy life from its very dawn. He alone is feeble, suffering. His superior pangs and sorrows are the first proofs of his singular and superior destiny.

Bitter was the gush of tears that rolled from the surcharged fountains of my heart; bitter, but free-flowing to my relief, at the moment when my head seemed likely to burst with a volcanic volume within it, and when a blistering arrow seemed slowly to traverse, to and fro, the most sore and shrineing passages of my soul. Had not Edgerton fled, I could not have sustained it much longer. My passions would have hurled aside my judgment, and mocked that small policy under which I acted. I felt that they were about to speak, and rejoiced that he fled. Had he remained, I should most probably have poured forth all my suspicion, all my hate; dragged by violence from his lips the confession of his wrong, and from his heart the last atonement for it.

At first I reproached myself that I had not done so. I accused myself of tameness—the dishonorable tameness of submitting to indignity—the last of all indignities—and of conferring calmly, even good-humoredly, with the wrong-doer. But cooler moments came. A brief interval sufficed—helped by the flood of tears which rushed, hot and scalding, from my eyes—to subdue the angry spirit. I remembered my pledges to the father; my unspeakable obligations to him; and when I again recollected that my convictions had not assailed the purity of my wife, and, at most, had questioned her affections only, my forbearance seemed justified.

But could the matter rest where it was? Impossible! What was to be done? It was clear enough that the only thing that could be done, for the relief of all parties, was to be done by myself. Edgerton was suffering from a guilty pursuit. That pursuit, if still urged, might be successful, if not so at present. The constant drip of the water will wear away the stone; and if my wife could submit to impertinent advances without declaring them to her husband, the work of seduction was already half done. To listen is, in half the number of cases, to fall. I must save her; I had not the courage to put her from me. Believing that she was still safe, I resolved, through the excess of that love which was yet the predominant passion in my soul, in spite of all its contradictions, to keep her so, if human wit could avail, and human energy carry its desires into successful completion.

To do this, there was but one process. That was flight. I must leave this city—this country. By doing so, I remove my wife from temptation, remove the temptation from the unhappy young man whom it is destroying; and thus, though by a sacrifice of my own comforts and interests, repay the debt of gratitude to my benefactor in the only effective manner. It called for no small exercise of moral courage and forbearance—no small benevolence—to come to this conclusion. It must be understood that my professional business was becoming particularly profitable. I was rising in my profession. My clients daily increased in number; my acquaintance daily increased in value. Besides, I loved my birthplace—thrice-hallowed—the only region in my eyes—

"The spot most worthy loving Of all beneath the sky."

But the sacrifice was to be made; and my imagination immediately grew active for my compensation, by describing a woodland home—a spot, remote from the crowd, where I should carry my household gods, and set them up for my exclusive and uninvaded worship. The whole world-wide West was open to me. A virgin land, rich in natural wealth and splendor, it held forth the prospect of a fair field and no favor to every newcomer. There it is not possible to keep in thraldom the fear less heart and the active intellect. There, no petty circle of society can fetter the energies or enfeeble the endeavors. No mocking, stale conventionalities can usurp the place of natural laws, and put genius and talent into the accursed strait-jacket of routine! Thither will I go. I remembered the late conference with my friend Kingsley, and the whole course of my reasoning on the subject of my removal was despatched in half an hour. "I will go to Alabama."

Such was my resolution. I was the man to make sudden resolutions. This, however, reasoned upon with the utmost circumspection, seemed the very best that I could make. My wife, yet pure, was rescued from the danger that threatened her; I was saved the necessity of taking a life so dear to my benefactor; and the unhappy young man himself—the victim to a blind passion—having no longer in his sight the temptation which misled him, would be left free to return to better thoughts, and the accustomed habits of business and society. I had concluded upon my course in the brief interval which followed my interview with William Edgerton and my return home.

The next day I saw his father. I communicated the assurance of the son, and renewed my own, that neither drunkenness nor gaming was a vice. What it was that afflicted him I did not pretend to know, but I ascribed it to want of employment; a morbid, unenergetic temperament; the fact that he was independent, and had no rough necessities to make him estimate the true nature and the objects of life; and, at the close, quietly suggested that possibly there was some affair of the heart which contributed also to his suffering. I did not deny that his looks were wretched, but I stoutly assured the old man that his parental fears exaggerated their wretchedness. We had much other talk on the subject. When we were about to separate for the day, I declared my own determination in this manner:—

"I have just decided on a step, Mr. Edgerton, which perhaps will somewhat contribute to the improvement of your son, by imposing some additional tasks upon him. I am about to emigrate for the southwest."

"You, Clifford? Impossible! What puts that into your head?"

It was something difficult to furnish any good reason for such a movement. The only obvious reason spoke loudly for iny remaining where I was.

"This is unaccountable," said he. "You are doing here as few young men have done before you. Your business increasing—your income already good—surely, Clifford, you have not thought upon the matter—you are not resolved."

I could plead little other than a truant disposition for my proceeding, but I soon convinced him that I was resolved. He seemed very much troubled; betrayed the most flattering concern in my interests; and, renewing his argument for my stay, renewed also his warmest professions of service.