"You blindly as I then thought, took me to your dwelling as if I
had been a brother. Ah! why? If I was mad, Clifford, your madness
was not less than mine. It was the blindest madness if not the
worst. The progress of my insanity was now more rapid than ever.
I fancied that I perceived signs of something more than coldness
between yourself and wife. I fancied that you frowned upon her;
and in the grave, sad, speaking looks which she addressed to you,
I thought I read the language of dislike and defiance. My own attentions
to her were redoubled whenever an opportunity was afforded me; but
this was not often. I saw as little of her while living in your
cottage as I had seen before, and, but for the good old lady, Mrs.
Porterfield, I should probably have been even less blessed by her
presence. She perceived my dullness, and feeble health, and dreaming
no ill, insisted that your wife should assist in beguiling me of my
weariness. She set us down frequently at chess, and loved to look
on and watch the progress of the game.
"She did not always watch, and last night, while we played together,
in a paroxysm of madness, I proceeded to those liberties which I
suppose provoked her to make the revelation which she had so long
forborne. My impious hands put aside the board, my arms encircled
her waist; while, kneeling beside her, I endeavored to drag her
into my embrace. She repulsed me; smote me to her feet with her
open palm; and spurning me where I lay grovelling, retired to her
chamber. I know not what I said--I know not what she answered--yet
the tones of her voice, sharp with Horror and indignation, are even
now ringing in my ears!
"Clifford, I have finished this painful narration. I have cursed
your home with bitterness, yet I pray you not to curse me! Let
me implore you to ask for merciful forbearance from her, to whom
I feel I have been such a sore annoyance--too happy if I have not
been also a curse to her. What I have written is the truth--sadly
felt--solemly spoken--God alone being present while I write, while
death lingers upon the threshold impatient till. I shall end. I leave
a brief sentence, which you may or may not, deliver to your wife.
You will send the letter to my father. You will see me buried in some
holy inclosure; and if you can, you will bury with my unconscious
form, the long strifes of feeling which I have made you endure, and
the just anger which I have awakened in your bosom. Farewell!--and
may the presiding spirit of your home hereafter, be peace and love!"