Confession; Or, The Blind Heart Part 26

"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 ma.s.s 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 pa.s.sion--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 a.s.sumed. 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 cheeks 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-a.s.sume 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 pa.s.sed 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?"