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Confession by W. Gilmore Simms

W >> W. Gilmore Simms >> Confession




"Reluctant nature strives in vain."

I felt then, most truly, though I deceived myself, that I had no
power, though every disposition, to save and to spare. I conveyed
my invitation as a message from my wife.

"Edgerton, my wife has planned a little ramble for this afternoon.
She wishes to show you some of the beauties of landscape in our
new abode. She commissions me to ask you to join us."

"Ah! did SHE?" he demanded eagerly, with a slight emphasis on the
last word.

"Ay, did she! Will you come?"

"Certainly--with pleasure!"

He need not have said so much. The pleasure spoke in his bright
eyes--in the tremulous hurry of his utterance. I turned away from
him, lest I should betray the angry feeling which disturbed me.
He did not seek to arrest my departure. He had few words. It was
sufficiently evident that he shrunk from my glance and trembled
in my presence. How far otherwise, in the days of our mutual
innocence--in our days of boyhood--when his face seemed clear
like that of a pure, perfect star, shining out in the blue serene
of night, unconscious of a cloud.

Kingsley was already at my office when I reached it, and soon after
came Mr. Wharton, followed by two of our opponents. We were engaged
with them the better part of the morning. When the business hours
were consumed, our transactions remained unfinished, and another
meeting was appointed for the ensuing day. I invited Wharton as well
as Kingsley to join us in our afternoon rambles, which they both
promised to do. I went home something sooner to make preparations,
and only recollected, on seeing Julia, that I had thrown the letter
from her mother, with other papers, into my desk. When I told her
of the letter, her countenance changed to a death-like paleness
which instantly attracted my notice.

"What is the matter--are you sick, Julia!"

"No! nothing. But the letter--where is it?"

"I threw it on my table, or in my desk, with other papers, to have
them out of the way; and hurrying home sooner than usual, forgot to
bring it with me. I suppose there's nothing in it of any importance?"

"No, nothing, I suppose," she answered faintly.

I told her what I had done with respect to our guests.

"I am very sorry," she answered, "that you have done so. I do not
feel like company, and wished to have you all to myself."

"Oh, selfish; but of this I will believe moderately! As for company,
with the exception of Wharton, they are old friends; and it would
not do to take a pleasure ramble, with poor Edgerton here, and
not make him a party."

There was an earnest intensity of gaze, almost amounting to a painful
stare, in Julia's eyes, as I said these words. She really seemed
distressed.

"But really, Edward, our pleasure ramble is not such a one as would
make it a duty to invite your friends. How difficult it seems for
you to understand me. Could not we two stroll a piece into the
woods without having witnesses?"

"Why, is that all? Why then should you have made a formal appointment
for such a purpose? Could we not have gone as before--without
premeditation?"

The question puzzled her. She looked anxious. Had she answered with
sincerity--with truth--and could I have believed her to have been
sincere, how easy would it have been to have settled our difficulties.
Had she said--"I really wish to avoid Mr. Edgerton, whose presence
annoys me--who will be sure to come--when you are sure to be
gone--and whom I have particular reasons to wish not to meet--not
to see."

This, which might be the truth, she did not dare to speak. She
had her reasons for her apprehension. This, which was reasonable
enough, I could not conjecture; for the demon of the blind heart
was too busy in suggesting other conjectures. It was evident
enough that she had secret motives for her course, which she did
not venture to reveal to me; and nothing could be more natural, in
the diseased state of my mind, than that I should give the worst
colorings to these motives in the conjectures which I made upon
them. We were destined to play at cross-purposes much longer, and
with more serious issues.

Our friends came, and we set forth in the pleasant part of
the afternoon. We ascended our hill, and resting awhile upon the
summit, surveyed the prospect from that position. Then I conducted
the party through some of our woodland walks, which Julia and myself
had explored together. But I soon gave up the part of cicerone
to Wharton, who was to the "MANOR BORN." He was a native of the
neighborhood, boasted that he knew every "bosky dell of this wild
wood" and certainly conducted us to glimpses of prettiest heights,
and groves, and far vistas, where the light seemed to glide before
us in an embodied gray form, that stole away, and peeped backward
upon us from long allies of the darkest and most solemn-sighted
pines.

"But there is a finer spot just below us," he said--"a creek that
is like no other that I have ever met with in the neighborhood. It
is formed by the Alabama--is as deep in some places, and so narrow,
at times, that a spry lad can easily leap across it."

"Is it far?"

"No--a mile only."

"But your wife may be fatigued, Clifford?" was the suggestion of
Kingsley. She certainly looked so; but I answered for her, and
insisted otherwise. I met her glance as I spoke, but, though she
looked dissatisfaction, her lips expressed none. I could easily
conjecture that she felt none. She was walking with Edgerton--and
while all eyes watched the scenery, he watched her alone. I hurried
forward with Kingsley, but he immediately fell behind, loitered
on very slowly, and left Wharton and myself to proceed together.
I could comprehend the meaning of this. My demon made his suggestion.

"Kingsley suspects them--he sees what you are unwilling to see--he
is not so willing to leave them together."

We reached the stream, and wandered along its banks. It had some
unusual characteristics. It was sometimes a creek, deep and narrow,
but clear; a few steps farther and it became what, in the speech
of the country, is called a branch; shallow, purling soft over a
sand-bed, limpid yellow, and with a playful prattle that put one
in mind of the songs of thoughtless children, humming idly as they
go. The shrubbery along its (sic) seemed to follow its changes.
Where the bluffs were high, the foliage was dense and the trees
large. The places where its waters shallowed, were only dotted
with shrub trees and wild vines, which sometimes clambered across
the stream and wedded the opposing branches, in bonds as hard to
break as those of matrimony. The waters were sinuous, and therefore
slow. They seemed only to glide along, like some glittering
serpent, who trails at leisure his silvery garments through the
woods quietly and slow, as if he had no sort of apprehension.

When we had reached a higher spot of bluff than the rest, Wharton,
who was an active rather than an athletic man, challenged me to
follow him. He made the leap having little space to spare. I had
not done such a thing for some years. But my boyhood had been one
of daring. The school in which I had grown up had given me bodily
hardihood and elasticity; at all events I could not brook defiance
in such a matter, and, with moderate effort, succeeded in making
a longer stride. I looked back at this moment and saw Julia, still
closely attended by Edgerton, just about emerging into view from a
thick copse that skirted the foot of a small hill over which our
course had brought us. I could not distinguish their features.
They were, however, close together. Kingsley was on their right,
a little in advance of them, but still walking slowly. I pointed
my finger toward a shallow and narrow part of the stream as that
which they would find it most easy to cross. A tree had been felled
at the designated point, and just below it, in consequence of the
obstructions which its limbs presented to the easy passage of the
water, several sand bars had been made, by which, stepping from
one to the other, one might cross dryshod even without the aid of
the tree. Kingsley repeated my signal to those behind him, and
led the way. I went on with Wharton, without again looking behind
me.

But few minutes had elapsed after this, when I heard Julia scream
in sudden terror. I looked round, but the foliage had thickened
behind me, and I could no longer see the parties. I bounded backward,
with no enviable feelings. My apprehensions for my wife's safety
made me forgetful of my suspicions. I reached the spot in time to
discover the cause of her alarm.

She was in the midst of the stream, standing upon one of the
sandflats, steadying herself with difficulty, while she supported
the whole form of William Edgerton, who lay, seemingly lifeless,
and half buried in one of the sluices of water which ran between
the sandrifts. I had just time to see this, and to feel all the
pangs of my jealousy renewed, when Kingsley rushed into the water
to his rescue. He lifted him out to the banks as if he had been an
infant, and laid him on the shore. I went to the relief of Julia,
who, trembling like a leaf, fainted in my arms the moment she felt
herself in safety.

The whole affair was at that time unaccountable to me. It necessarily
served to increase my pangs. Had I not seen her with my own eyes
tenderly supporting the fainting frame of the man whom I believed
to be my rival--whom I believed she loved? Had I not heard her scream
of terror announcing her interest in his fate--her apprehensions for
his safety? His danger had made her forgetful of her caution--such
was the assurance of my demon--and in the fullness of her
heart her voice found utterance. Besides, how was I to know what
endearments--what fond pressure of palms--had been passing between
them, making them heedless of their course, and consequently,
making them liable to the accident which had occurred. For, it
must be remembered, that the general impression was that Edgerton's
foot had slipped, and, falling into the stream while endeavoring to
assist Julia, he had nearly pulled her in after him. His fainting
afterward we ascribed to the same nervous weakness which had
induced that of Julia. On this head, however, Kingsley was better
informed. He told me, in a subsequent conversation, that he had
narrowly observed the parties--that, until the moment before he
fell, the hands of the two had not met--that then, Edgerton offered
his to assist my wife over the stream, and scarcely had their
fingers touched, when Edgerton sank down, like a stone, seemingly
lifeless, and falling into the water only after he had become
insensible.

All was confusion. Mine, however, was not confusion. It was
commotion--commotion which I yet suppressed--a volcano smothered,
but smothered only for a time, and ready to break forth with
superior fury in consequence of the restraint put upon it. This one
event, with the impressive spectacle of the parties in such close
juxtaposition, seemed almost to render every previous suspicion
conclusive.

Julia was soon recovered; but the swoon of Edgerton was of much
longer duration. We sprinkled him with water, subjected him to
fanning and friction, and at length aroused him. His mind seemed
to wander at his first consciousness--he murmured incoherently.
One or two broken sentences, however, which he spoke, were not
without significance in my ears.

"Closer! closer! leave me not now--not yet."

I bent over him to catch the words. Kingsley, as if he feared the
utterance of anything more, pushed me away, and addressing Edgerton
sternly, asked him if he felt pain.

"What hurts you, Mr. Edgerton? Where is your pain?"

The harsh and very loud tones which he employed, had the effect
which I have no doubt he intended. The other came to complete
consciousness in a moment.

"Pain!" said he--"no! I feel no pain. I feel feeble only."

And he strove to rise from the ground as he spoke.

"Do not attempt it," said Kingsley--"you are not able. Wharton,
my good fellow, will you run back to town, and bring a carriage?"

"It will not need," said Edgerton, striving again to rise, and
staggering up with difficulty.

"It will need. You must not overtask yourself. The walk is a long
one before us."

Meantime, Wharton was already on his way. It was a tedious interval
which followed before his return with the carriage, which found
considerable difficulty in picking a track through the woods.
Julia, after recovery, had wandered off about a hundred yards from
the party. She betrayed no concern--no uneasiness--made no inquiries
after Edgerton, of whose condition she knew nothing--and, by this
very course, convinced me that she was conscious of too deep an
interest in his fate to trust her lips in referring to it. All that
she said to me was, that "she had been so terrified on seeing him
fall, that she did not even know that she had screamed."

"Natural enough!" said my demon. "Had she been able to have
controlled her utterance, she would have taken precious good care
to havo maintained the silence of the grave. But her feelings were
too strong for her policy."

And I took this reasoning for gospel.

The carriage came. Edgerton was put into it, but Julia positively
refused to ride. She insisted that she was perfectly equal to the
walk and walk she would. I was pleased with this determination,
but not willing to appear pleased. I expostulated with her even
angrily, but found her incorrigible. Chagrin and disappointment
were obvious enough on the face of William Edgerton.

I took my seat beside him, and left Kingsley and Wharton to
escort my wife home. We had scarcely got in motion before a rash
determination seized my mind.

"You must go home with me, Edgerton. It will not do, while you are
in this feeble state, to remain at a public tavern."

He said something very faintly about crowding and inconveniencing
us.

"Pshaw--room enough--and Julia can be your nurse."

His eyes closed, he sunk back in the carriage, and a deep sigh
escaped him. I fancied that he had a second time fainted; but I
soon discovered that his faintness was simply the sudden sense of
an overcoming pleasure. I knit my teeth spasmodically together;
I cursed him in the bitterness of my heart, but said nothing. It
was a feeling of desperation that had prompted the rash resolution
which I had taken.

"At least," I muttered to myself, "it will bring these damning doubts
to a final trial. If they have been fools heretofore, opportunity
will serve to madden them. We shall see--we shall know all very
soon;--and then!--"

Ay, then!






CHAPTER XLIV.

THE DAMNING LETTER.





Mrs Porterfield, good old lady, half blind, half deaf, infirm and
gouty, but very good natured, easily complied with my request to
accommodate my friend. My friend!--She soon put one of her bed-rooms in
order, and Edgerton was in quiet possession of it sometime before
the pedestrians came home. When my wife was told of what I had
done, she was perfectly aghast. Her air of chagrin was well put on
and excellently worn. But she said nothing. Kingsley wore a face
of unusual gravity.

"You are either the most wilful or the most indifferent husband
in the world," was his whispered remark to me as he bade me good
night, refusing to remain for supper.

I said something to my wife about tending Edgerton--seeing to his
wants--nursing him if he remained unwell, and so forth She looked
at me with a face of intense sadness, but made no reply.

"She is too happy for speech," said my demon; "and such faces are
easily made for such an occasion."

I went in to Edgerton after a brief space; I found him feeble,
complaining of chill. His hands felt feverish. I advised quiet and
sent off for a physician. I sat with him until the physician came,
but I observed that my presence seemed irksome to him. He answered
me in monosyllables only; his eyes, meanwhile, being averted, his
countenance that of one excessively weary and impatient for release.
The physician prescribed and left him, as I did myself. I thought
he needed repose and desired to be alone. To my great surprise he
followed me in less than half an hour into the supper-room, where
he stubbornly sat out the evening. He refused to take the physic
prescribed for him and really did not now appear to need it. His
eyes were lighted up with unusual animation, his cheeks had an
improved color, and without engaging very actively in the conversation,
what he said was said with a degree of spirit quite uncommon with
him during the latter days of our intimacy.

Mr. Wharton spent the evening with us, and the ball of talk was
chiefly sustained by him and myself. My wife said little, nothing
save when spoken to, and wore a countenance of greater gravity
than ever. It seemed that Edgerton made some effort to avoid any
particularity in his manner, yet seldom did I turn my eyes without
detecting his in keen examination of my wife's countenance. At
such times, his glance usually fell to the ground, but toward the
close of evening, he almost seemed to despise observation, or--which
was more probable--was not conscious of it--for his gaze became
fixed with a religious earnestness, which no look of mine could
possibly divert or unfix. He solicited my wife to play on the
guitar, but she declined, until requested by Mrs. Porterfield,
when she took up the instrument passively, and sung to it one of
those ordinary negro-songs which are now so shockingly popular. I
was surprised at this, for I well knew that she heartily detested
the taste and spirit in which such things were conceived. Under
the tuition of my demon, I immediately assumed this to be another
proof of the decline of her delicacy. And yet, though I did not think
of this at the time, she might have employed the coarse effusion
simply as an antidote against the predominance of a morbid
sentimentalism. There is a moment in the history of the heart's
suffering, when the smallest utterance of the lips, or movement of
the form, or expression of the eye, is prompted by some prevailing
policy--some motive which the excited sensibilities deem of importance
to their desires.

She retired soon. Her departure was followed by that of Edgerton
first, and next of Wharton. Mrs. Porterfield had already gone. I
was alone at the entrance of our cottage. Not alone! My demon was
with me--suggestive of his pangs as ever--full of subtlety, and
filling me with the darkest imaginings. The destroyer of my peace
was in my dwelling. My wife may or may not be innocent. Happy for
her if she is, but how can that be known? It mattered little to
me in the excited mood which possessed me. Let any man fancy, as I
did, that one, partaking of his hospitality, lying in the chamber
which adjoined his own, yet meditated the last injury in the power
of man to inflict against the peace and honor of his protector. Let
him fancy this, and then ask what would be his own feelings--what
his course?

Still, there is a sentiment of justice which is natural to every
bosom with whom education has not been utter perversion. I believed
much against Edgerton; I suspected my wife; I had seen much to offend
my affections; much to alarm my fears; yet I KNEW nothing which
was conclusive. That last event, the occurrence of the afternoon,
seemed to prove not that the two were guilty, but that my wife
loved the man who meditated guilt. This belief, doubtful so long,
and against which I had really striven, seemed now to be concluded.
I had heard her scream; I had seen her tenderly sustaining his form;
I had felt her emotions, when, the danger being over, her feminine
nature gained the ascendancy and she fainted in my arms. I could
no longer doubt, that if she was still pure in mind, she was no
longer insensible to a passion which must lessen that purity with
every added moment of its permitted exercise. Still, even with this
conviction, something more was necessary to justify me in what I
designed. There must be no doubt. I must see. I must have sufficient
proof, for, as my vengeance shall be unsparing, my provocation
must be complete. That it might be so I had brought Edgerton into
the house. Something more was necessary. Time and opportunity must
be allowed him. This I insisted on, though, more than once, as I
walked under the dark whispering groves which girdled our cottage,
and caught a glimpse of the light in Edgerton's chamber, my demon
urged me to go in and strangle him. I had strength to resist this
suggestion, but the struggle was a long one.

I did not soon retire to rest. When I did, I still remained sleepless.
But Julia slept. In her sleep she threw herself on my bosom, and
seemed to cling about and clasp me as if with some fear of separation.
Had I not fancied that this close embrace was meant for another
than myself, I had been more indulgent to the occasional moanings
of distress that escaped her lips. But, thinking as I did, I forced
her from me, and in doing so she wakened.

"Edward," she exclaimed on wakening, "is it you?"

"Who should it be?" I demanded--all my suspicions renewed by her
question.

"I am so glad. I have had such a dream. Oh! Edward, I dreamed that
you were killing me!"

"Ha! what could have occasioned such a dream?"

My demon suggested, at this moment, that her dream had been
occasioned by a consciousness of what her guilty fancies deserved.
But she replied promptly:--

"Nay, I know not. It was the strangest fancy. I thought that you
pursued me along the river--that my foot slipped and I fell among
the bushes, where you caught me, and it was just when you were
strangling me that I wakened."

"Your dream was occasioned by the affair of the afternoon. Was
nobody present but ourselves?"

"Yes--there was a man at a little distance beyond us, and he seemed
to be running from you also."

"A man! who was he?"

"I don't know exactly--his back was turned, but it seemed as if it
was Mr. Edgerton."

"Ha! Mr. Edgerton!"

A deep silence followed. She had spoken her reply firmly, but so
slowly as to convince me of the mental reluctance which she felt in
uttering this part of the dream. When the imagination is excited,
how small are the events that confirm its ascendency, and stimulate
its progress. This dream seemed to me as significant as any of the
signs that informed the ancient augurs. It bore me irresistibly
forward in the direction of my previous thoughts. I began to see
the path--dark, dismal--perhaps bloody--which lay before me. I began
to feel the deed, already in my soul, which destiny was about to
require me to perform. A crime, half meditated, is already half
committed. This is the danger of brooding upon the precipice of
evil thoughts. A moment's dizziness--a single plunge--and all is
over!

I doubt whether Julia slept much the remainder of the night. I know
that I did not. She had her consciousness as well as mine. THAT I
now know. The question--"was her consciousness a guilty one?" That
was the only question which remained for me!

Tho next morning I saw Edgerton. He looked quite as well as on the
previous night, but professed to feel otherwise--declined coming
forth to breakfast and begged me to send the physician to him on
my way to the office. I immediately conjectured that this was mere
practice, for he had not taken the medicine which had been prescribed.

"He must keep sick to keep HERE," said my demon. "He can have no
pretext, otherwise, to stay!"

When I was about to leave the house Julia followed me to the door.

"Don't forget to bring mother's letter with you," was her parting
direction. I had not been half an hour at the office before
a little servant-girl, who tended in the house, came to me with a
message from her, requesting that the letter might be sent by her.

This earnestness struck me with surprise. I remembered the expression
in my wife's face the day before when I told her the letter had been
received, I now recalled to mind the fact, that, on no occasion,
had she ever shown me any of her mother's letters; though nothing
surely would have seemed more natural, as she knew how keen was my
anxiety to hear at all times from the old maternal city.

My suspicions began to warm, and I resolved upon another act of
baseness in obedience to the counsel of my evil spirit. I pretended
to look awhile for the letter, but finally dismissed the girl,
saying that I had mislaid it, but would bring it home with me when
I came to dinner. The moment she had gone I examined this precious
document. It was sealed with one of those gum wafers which are stuck
on the outside of the envelope. In turning it over, as if everything
was prepared to gratify my wish, I discovered that one section of
the wafer had nearly parted from the paper. To the upper section of
the fold it adhered closely. To the lower it was scarcely attached
at all, and seemed never to have been as well fastened as the upper.

The temptation was irresistible. A very slight effort enabled me
to complete the separation without soiling the paper or fracturing
the seal. This was all done within my desk, the leaf of the desk
being raised and resting upon my head. In this position I could
easily close the desk, in the event of any intrusion, without
suffering the intruder to see in what I had been engaged. Thus
guarded I proceeded to read the precious epistle, which I found
very much what I should have expected from such a woman. It said
a great deal about her neighbors and her neighbors' dresses; and
how her dear Delaney was sometimes "obstropolous," though in the
end a mighty good man; and much more over which I hurried with all
the rapidity of disgust. But there was matter that made me linger.
One or two sentences thrown into the postscript contained a volume. I
read, with lifted hair and a convulsed bosom, the following passage:--

Letter: Gender roles in the Cinderella story

Doctors assure us that wherever you find an elderly, pompous old writer long past his prime you will find a bottle of scotch nearby. If only that were the case. Hilly hid mine after I fell up the stairs when I came home from the Garrick yesterday, and I've had to make do with a bottle of Blue Nun I found in the maid's parlour. Not that I am an alcoholic. Dipsomaniacs are a breed of the lower orders you meet on street corners: people like myself are bon viveurs who happen to like a drink. Or 12.

My primary observation is that drinking makes the daily grind of dealing with people so much easier. You drink a pint of whisky and become the life and soul of the party. You then start insulting people, before sweating heavily and wetting yourself involuntarily. You will usually find that everyone quickly avoids you, thereby relieving you of the need to make conversation. This is why I prefer to do much of my drinking at home. It saves so much time.

There are a great many drinks on the market - spirits, wines and beers - and I've probably drunk them all. Usually in some kind of combination with one another. Mixing cocktails is one of my favourite hobbies. Here's one I invented last week for my great sycophant, Christopher Hitchens.

The Hitch

One bottle of Babycham

One bottle of absinthe

Five shots of Angostura very bitters

Two tablespoons of bile

Two or three glasses of this tincture can give you a lifetime of self-satisfaction.

At some time you will probably be forced to invite people to your home and they may expect a drink. My advice is to offer them the cheapest tipple you can find; my local off-licence does a ghastly Mosel at 70p a bottle. I've never cared for even the best wines, and this should guarantee those poncing off you neither ask for top-ups nor stay long, thereby leaving you more money and time for the pub.

It is well known that only the very dullest of petit-bourgeois minds fail to over-imbibe on a daily basis, so I regard hangovers as a price worth paying for my brilliance. That said, I have found ways of coping with this metaphysical malaise. The first is to fuck someone; preferably somebody else's wife, but if your own is the only one around then she will do. The second is to read a book by that little shit Mart; it will either remind you you're not that bad a writer or give you some sleep.

The one downside to drinking is that it can make you fat. This is remedied by cutting out food entirely and drinking all spirits without mixers. My weight has gone down to 19st with this diet. There isn't much more to say, but as I'm being paid by the column I'd better repeat myself. And now that I'm dead, there's no harm in Bloomsbury repackaging the same material several times in the same collection.

I don't really like wine. Gin is for pansies, though a snifter with water doesn't go amiss. Liqueurs are best left to patent-shoed Wops. Or Americans. Champagne is an overrated girl's drink, though it can be drunk with any food; as such, it's a perfect breakfast drink because a scotch before 10am is very non-U.

I loathe pubs with loud music, but my utmost detestation is reserved for sanctimonious ex-topers. There's nothing worse than a man who doesn't drink. I once tried not drinking for several hours and my wives and mistresses said how dull it was that I was conscious and they were spared removing my soiled trousers from my bloated legs.

Whisky is my favourite tipple, though I recommend never giving it to a Welshman as it's wasted on someone with an IQ of less than 80. Have I mentioned that I'm partial to a Macallan? Gosh is that the time? Hilly's coming to change my IV drip before I fall unconscious again. The publisher can bloody well pad out the rest of the book with a pointless quiz without me.

Q: Who will buy this?

A: No one.

The digested read digested: The old pub bore.

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A judge who was sued for libel by her mother over allegations of childhood cruelty and neglect in her bestselling "misery memoir" won her case yesterday.

Constance Briscoe burst into tears at the high court in London as a jury unanimously cleared her and publishers Hodder & Stoughton over the claims in Ugly, which her mother Carmen Briscoe-Mitchell, 74, had alleged were a "piece of fiction".

During the 10-day trial, Briscoe, 51, who was one of the first black women judges in the UK, told the court her mother repeatedly beat her with a stick for bed-wetting and called her a "dirty little whore", a "potato-head" and "miss piss-a-bed".

She described trying to kill herself by drinking diluted bleach after failing to get taken into care, and told the jury she used a university grant to have plastic surgery to remove the "ugliness" her mother had taunted her over.

Briscoe, of Clapham, south London, also said that when she was nine, her mother had deliberately cut her on the inside of her arm with a knife in a row over the preparation of a chicken.

Ugly, published in 2006, has sold more than 400,000 copies in the UK. Briscoe and Hodder & Stoughton had denied libel and said the book was substantially true. Andrew Caldecott QC, for Briscoe, said the events occurred between 1964 and 1975.

Briscoe-Mitchell, from Southwark, south-east London, left court without making any immediate comment about her legal defeat. During the trial she had denied all the allegations of verbal and physical abuse and claimed she and her daughter had enjoyed a loving relationship within a happy family.

Her counsel, William Panton, told the jury Briscoe was "spinning a yarn", claiming his client had struggled to bring up her 11 children and had provided for them equally to the best of her ability.

Outside court, Briscoe told reporters she was "very happy" with the jury's verdict, which came after more than a day of deliberation.

"It is sad that my mother still feels the need to pursue me," she said. "Now I just want to get on with my career. I would like to thank all my readers who have sent me messages of support, including the very many children who provided helpful advice.

"I can quite understand why my family went into collective denial but whilst child abuse may be committed behind closed doors it should never be swept under the carpet."

Hodder & Stoughton said it was pleased with the verdict. "We are very proud to be Constance Briscoe's publisher," a statement said. "Her books Ugly and Beyond Ugly have touched hundreds of thousands of readers, many of them children. Sadly, as we know from the news over the past few weeks, child abuse is all too common and nothing and no one should ever stand in the way of the truth."

Asked during the trial why she wrote the book, Briscoe said: "I didn't believe for a split second that I owed my mother a bond of silence. I don't. I had a story to tell and that story really is that I, someone who from dirt poverty, from absolutely nowhere, with absolutely no assistance whatsoever, who faced adversity at every turn, could come through."

The court heard she had cleaned offices for two hours every day before school until her studies took her to Newcastle University, the criminal bar and, eventually, to become one of the country's few black women judges.

"I wanted to say to whoever read the book ... you can be whatever you want to be," Briscoe said. "You just have to believe in yourself ... you do not have to be posh or privileged to be at the Bar.

"You just need to believe in yourself and I truly, truly believe that my book has done an enormous amount of good."

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