Instantly, a barrier seemed to rise up between Julia Clifford ind
myself. She had her consciousness, evidently, no less than I. What
was THAT consciousness? Ah! could I have guessed THAT, there would
have been no barrier--all might have been peace again. But a destiny
was at work which forbade it all; and we strove ignorantly with
one another and against ourselves. There was a barrier between
us, which our mutual blindness of heart made daily thicker, and
higher, and less liable to overthrow. A coldness overspread my
manner. I made it a sort of shelter. The guise of indifference is
one of the most convenient for hiding other and darker feelings.
Already we ceased to ramble by river and through wood. Already the
pencil was discarded. We could no longer enjoy the things which
so lately made us happy, because we no longer entertained the same
confidence in one another. Without this confidence there is no
communion sweet. And all this had been the work of that letter. The
name of William Edgarton had done it all--his name and threatened
visit!
But--and I read, the letter again and again--it would be some
time before he might be expected. The route, as laid down for him
by his father, was a protracted one. "Through Georgia, Tennessee,
Mississippi, then homeward, by way of Alabama." "He can not be
here in less than six weeks. He must travel slowly. He must make
frequent rests."
And there was a further thought--a hope--which, though it filled
my mind, I did not venture to express in words. "He may perish on
his route: if he be so feeble, it is by no means improbable!"
At all events, I had six weeks' respite--perhaps more. Such was
my small consolation then. But even this was false. In less than
a week from that time, William Edgerton stood at the door of our
cottage!
Instead of going into Tennessee, he had shot straight forward,
through Georgia, into Alabama.
Though surprised, I was not confounded by his presence. Under the
policy which I had resolved upon, I received him with the usual
professions of kindness, and a manner as nearly warm and natural
as the exercise of habitual art could make it. He certainly did
look very miserable. His features wore an expression of uniform
despair. They brightened up, when he beheld my wife, as the cloud
brightens suddenly beneath the moonlight. His eyes were riveted
upon her. He was almost speechless, but he advanced and took her
hand, which I observed was scarcely extended to him. He sat the
evening with us, and a chilly, dull evening it was. He himself
spoke little--my wife less; and the conversation, such as it was,
was carried on chiefly between old Mrs. Porterfield and myself.
But I could see that Edgerton employed his eyes in a manner which
fully compensated for the silence of his tongue. They were seldom
withdrawn from the quarter of the apartment in which my wife sat.
When withdrawn, it was but for an instant, and they soon again
reverted to the spot. He had certainly acquired a degree of
boldness, which, in this respect, he had not before possessed. I
keenly analyzed his looks without provoking his attention. It was
not possible for me to mistake the unreserved admiration that his
glance expressed. There was a strange spiritual expression in his
eyes, which was painful to the spectator. It was that fearful
sign which the soul invariably makes when it begins to exert itself
at the expense of the shell which contains it. It was the sign of
death already written. But he might linger for months. His cough
did not seem to me oppressive. The flush was not so obvious upon
his cheek. Perhaps, looking through the medium of my peculiar
feelings, his condition was not half so apparent as his designs.
At least, I felt my sympathies in his behalf--small as they were
before--become feebler with every moment of his stay that night.