Confession; Or, The Blind Heart Part 27

"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 gla.s.s, 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 x.x.xIV.

A FATHER'S GRIEFS.

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 const.i.tution 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 circ.u.mstances 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 pa.s.sion 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 a.s.surance, 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 reencounter; 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 ma.s.s, 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 pa.s.sions 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 b.u.t.toned 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 a.s.sistance, 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 tremulousness 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 const.i.tution, 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 a.s.sure 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--"