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Confession by W. Gilmore Simms

W >> W. Gilmore Simms >> Confession




"Delaney tells me that Bill Edgerton has gone to travel. He says
to Tennessee. But I know better. I know he can't keep from you,
let him try his best. But be on your guard, Julia. Don't let him
get too free. Your husband's a jealous man, and if he was once to
dream of the truth, he'd just as leave shoot him as look at him.
I thought at one time he'd have guessed the truth before. So far
you've played your cards nicely, but that was when I was by you,
to tell you how. I feel quite ticklish when I think of you, and
remember you've got nobody now to consult with. All I can say is,
keep close. It would be the most terrible thing if Clifford should
find out or even suspect. He wouldn't spare either of you. It's
better for a woman in this country to drag on and be wretched, than
to expose herself to shame, for no one cares for her after that.
Be sure and burn this the moment you've read it. I would not have
it seen for the world. I only write it as a matter of duty, for I
can't forget that I'm your mother, though I must say, Julia, there
were times when you have not acted the part of a daughter."

Precious, voluminous postscript! Considerate mother! "Be on
your guard, Julia. Don't let him get too free!" Prudent, motherly
counsel! "You've played your cards nicely." Nice lady! "I feel
quite ticklish!" Elegant sensibilities!

Enough! The evil was done. Here was another piece of damning
testimony, indirect but conclusive, to show that I was bedevilled.
I refolded the letter, but I could not place my lips to the wafer.
The very letter seemed to breathe of poison. Faugh! I put it from
me, went to the basin, and wetting the end of my finger, sufficiently
softened the gum to make it more effectually fasten the letter than
when I had received it. This done, I proceeded to the business of
the day with what appetite was left me.






CHAPTER XLV.

VERGE OF THE PRECIPICE.





I do not know how I got through with the business of that day. Even
in my weakness I was possessed of a singular degree of strength.
I saw Kingsley, Wharton, and all of the parties whom we met the
day before. We came to a final decision on the subject of Kingsley's
claims; I took down the heads of several papers which were to be
drawn up; the terms of sale and transfer, bounds and characteristics
of the land to be conveyed; and engaged in the discussion of the
various topics which were involved in these transactions, with as
keen a sense of business, I suspect, as any among them. The habit
of suppressing my feelings availed me sufficiently under the present
circumstances. Kingsley said nothing on the subject of yesterday's
adventure, nor was I in the mood to refer to it. With some effort
I was cheerful; spoke freely of indifferent topics, and pleased
myself with the idea of my own firmness, while persuading my hearers
of my good humor and my legal ability. I do not deny that I paid
for these proofs of stoicism. Who does not? There is no such thing
as suppressing passions which are already in action--at least, there
is no such thing as suppressing them long. If the summer tempest
keeps off to-day it will come to-morrow, and its force and volume
is always in due proportion to the delay in its utterance. The
solitudes of the forest heard my groans and agonies when man did
not--and the venom which I kept from my lips, overflowed and poisoned
the very sources of life and happiness within my heart.

I gave the letter to Julia without a word. She did not look at me
while extending the hand to receive it, and hurried to her chamber
without breaking the seal. I watched her departing form with a vague,
painful emotion of inquiry, such as would possess the bosom of one,
looking on a dear object, with whom he felt that a disruption was
hourly threatened of every earthly tie. That day she ate no dinner.
Her brow was clouded throughout the meal. Edgerton was present,
seemingly as well as at his first arrival. I had learned casually
from Mrs. Porterfield that he had been in our little parlor all
the morning; while another remark from the good old lady gave me
a new idea of the employment of my wife.

"This writing," said she, addressing the latter, "does your eyes
no good. Indeed they look as if you had been crying over your task."

"What writing?" I asked, looking at Julia, She blushed, but said
nothing, and the blush passed off, leaving the sadness more distinct
than ever.

"Oh, she has been writing whole sheets for the last two mornings.
I went in this morning to bring her out to assist me in entertaining
Mr. Edgerton, who looked so lonesome; and I do assure you I thought
at first, from the quantity of writing, that you had given her some
of your law-papers to do. The table was covered with it."

"Indeed!" said I--"this must be looked into. It will not do for the
wife to take the husband's business from him. It looks mischievous,
Mrs. Porterfield--there's something wrong about it."

"Indeed there must be, Mr. Clifford, for only see how very sad it
makes her. I declare, she looks this last few weeks like a very
different woman. She does nothing now but mope. When she first
came here she seemed to me so cheerful and happy."

All this was so much additional wormwood to my bitter. The change
in Julia, which had even struck this blind old lady, corresponded
exactly with the date of Edgerton's arrival. When I saw the earnest
tenderness in his countenance as he watched her, while Mrs.
Porterfield was speaking, I ceased to feel any sympathy for the
intense sadness which I yet could not but see in hers. I turned
away, and leaving the table soon after, went to our chamber, but
the traces of writing were no longer to be seen. The voluminous
manuscripts had all been carefully removed. I was about to leave
the chamber when Julia met me at the door.

"Come back; sit with me," she said. "Why do you go off in such a
hurry always? Once it was not so, Edward."

"What! are you for the honeymoon again?"

"Do not smile so, and speak so irreverently!" she said, with a
reproachful earnestness that certainly seemed to me very strange,
thinking of her as I did. My evil spirit was silent. He lacked
readiness to account for it. But he was not unadroit, and moved me
to change the ground.

"But what long writing is this, Julia?"

"Ah! you are curious?"

"Scarcely."

"TELL me that you are?"

"What! at the expense of truth?"

"No! but to gratify my desire. I hoped you were; but, curious or
not, it is for you."

"Let me see it, then."

"Not yet; it is not ready."

"What! shall there be more of it?"

"Yes, a good deal."

"Indeed! but why take this labor? Why not tell me what you have to
say?"

"I wish I could, but I can not. You do not encourage me."

"What encouragement do you wish to speak to your husband?"

"Oh, much! Stay with me, dear husband."

"That will keep you from your writing."

"Ah! perhaps it will render it unnecessary."

"At all events it will keep me from mine;" and I prepared to go. She
put her hand upon my shoulder--looked into my eyes pleadingly--hers
were dewy wet--and spoke:--

"Do not go-stay with me dear husband, do stay. Stay only for half
an hour."

Why did I not stay? I should ask that question of myself in vain.
When the heart grows perverse, it acquires a taste for wilfulness.
I, myself, longed to stay; could I have been persuaded that she
certainly desired it, I should have found my sweetest pleasure in
remaining. But there was the rub--that doubt! all that she said,
looked, did, seemed, through the medium of the blind heart, to be
fraudulent.

"She would disguise her anxiety, that you should be gone. Leave
her, and in twenty minutes she and Edgerton will be together."

Such was the whisper of my demon. I did leave her. I went forth for
an hour into the woods--returned suddenly and found them together!
They were playing chess, Mrs. Porterfield, with all her spectacles,
watching the game. I did not ask, and did not know, till afterward,
that the express solicitation of the old lady had drawn her from
her chamber, and placed her at the table. The conjecture of the
evil spirit proved so far correct, and this increased my confidence
in his whispers. Alas! how readily do we yield our faith to the
spirit of hate! how slow to believe the pure and gentle assurances
of love!

Three days passed after this fashion. Edgerton no longer expressed
indisposition, yet he made no offer to depart. I took care that
neither word nor action should remind him of his trespass. I gave
the parties every opportunity, and exhibited the manner of an
indifference which was free from all disquiet--all suspicion. The
sadness, meanwhile, increased upon the countenance of Julia. She
gazed at me in particular with a look of earnestness amounting to
distress. This I ascribed to the strength of her passions. There
was even at moments a harshness in her tones when addressing me
now, which was unusual to her. I found some reason for this, equally
unfavorable to her fidelity. After dinner I said to Edgerton:--

"You are scarcely strong enough for a bout at the bottle. I take
wine with Kingsley this afternoon. He has commissioned me to ask
you."

"I dare not venture, but that should not keep you away."

"It will not," I said indifferently.

"Thank him for me, if you please, but tell him it will not do for
one so much an invalid as myself."

"Very good!" and I left him, and joined Kingsley. The business of
this friend being now in a fair train for final adjustment, he was
preparing for his return to Texas. He had not been at my lodgings
since Edgerton's arrival in M--, but we had seen each other,
nevertheless, almost every day at his or at my office. Our afternoon
was rather merry than cheerful. Heaven knows I was in no mood to
be a bon compagnon, but I took sufficient pains that Kingsley should
not suspect I had any reasons for being otherwise. I had my jest--I
emptied my bottle--I said my good things, and seemed to say them
without effort. Kingsley, always cheerful and strong-minded, was
in his best vein, and mingling wit and reflection happily together,
maintained the ball of conversation with equal ease and felicity.
He had the happy knack of saying happy things quietly--of waiting
for, and returning the ball, without running after it. At another
time, I should have been content simply to have provoked him. Now,
I was quite too miserable not to seek employment; and to disguise
feelings, which I should have been ashamed to expose, I contrived
to take the lead and almost grew voluble in the frequency
of my utterance. Perhaps, if Kingsley failed in any respect as a
philosopher, it was in forbearing to look with sufficient keenness
of observation into the heart of his neighbor. He evidently did
not see into mine. He was deceived by my manner. He credited all
my fun to good faith, and gravely pronounced me to be a fortunate
fellow.

"How?" I demanded with a momentary cessation of the jest. His gravity
and--to me--the strange error in such an observation--excited my
curiosity.

"In your freedom from jealousy."

"Oh! that, eh? But why should I be jealous?'

"It is not exactly why a man should be jealous--but why, knowing
what men are, usually, that you are not. Nine men in ten would be
so under your circumstances?"

"How, what circumstances?"

"With Edgerton in your house--evidently fond of your wife, you
leave them utterly to themselves. You bring him into your house
unnecessarily, and give him every opportunity. I still think you
risk everything imprudently. You may pay for it."

I felt a strange sickness at my heart. I felt that the flame
was beginning to boil up within me. The perilous turning-point of
passion--the crisis of strength and endurance--was at hand My eyes
settled gloomily upon the table. I was silent longer than usual. I
felt THAT, and Loked up. The keen glance of Kingsley was upon me.
It would not do to suffer him to read my feelings. I replied with
some precipitation:--

"I see, Kingsley, you are not cared of your prejudices against
Edgerton."

"I am not--I have seen nothing to cure me. But my prejudice against
him, has nothing to do with my opinion of your prudence. Were it
any other man, the case would be the same."

"Well, but I do not think it so clear that Edgerton loves my wife
more than is natural and proper."

"Of the naturalress of his love I say nothing--perhaps, nothing
could be more natural. But that he does love her, and loves her as
no married woman should be loved, by another than her husband, is
clear enough."

"Suppose, then, it be as you say! So long as he does nothing
improperly, there is nothing to be said. There is no evil."

"Ah, but there is evil. There is danger."

"How? I do not see."

"Suppose your wife makes the same discovery which other persons
have made? Suppose she finds out that Edgerton loves her?"

"Well--what then?"

"She can not remain uninfluenced by it. It will affect her feelings
sensibly in some way. No creature in the world can remain insensible
to the attachment of another."

"Indeed! Why, agreeable to that doctrine, there could be no security
from principle. There could be no virtue certain--nay, not even
love."

"Do not mistake me. When I say SHE would be influenced--I do
not mean to say that she would be so influenced as to requite the
illicit sentiment. Far from it. But she must pity or she must scorn.
She may despise or she may deplore. In either case her feelings
would be aroused, and in either case would produce uneasiness if
not unhappiness. I KNOW, Clifford, that your wife perceives the
passion of Edgerton--I am confident, also, that it has influenced
her feelings. What may be the sentiment produced by this influence
I do not pretend to say. I would not insinuate that it is more than
would be natural to the breast of any virtuous woman. She may pity
or she may scorn--she may despise or she may deplore. I know not.
But, in either case, I regard your bringing Edgerton into the house
and conferring upon him so many opportunities, as being calculated
either to make yourself or your wife miserable. In either event
you have done wrong. Look to it--remedy it as soon as you can."

My face burned like fire. My eyes were fixed upon the table. I
dared not look upon my companion. When I spoke, I felt a choking
difficulty in my utterance which compelled me to speak loud to be
understood, and which yet left my speech thick, husky, and unnatural.

"Say no more, Kingsley. What you have said disturbs me Nay, I
acknowledge, I have been disturbed before. Perhaps, indeed, I know
more than yourself. Time will show. At all events, be sure of one
thing. These opportunities, if what you say he true, afford an
ordeal through which it is necessary that the parties should now
go--if it be only to afford the necessary degree of relief to my
mind. Enough has been seen to excite suspicion--enough has been
done, you yourself think, to awaken the feelings of my wife. Those
feelings must now be tried. Opportunity will do this. She must
go through the trial. I am not blind as you suppose. Nay, I am
watchful, and I tell you, Kingsley, that the time approaches when
all my doubts must cease one way or the other."

"But I still think, Clifford--" he began.

"No more, Kingsley. I tell you, matters must go on. Edgerton can now
only be driven from my house by my wife. If she expels him, I shall
be too happy not to forgive him. But if she makes it necessary that
the expulsion shall be effected by my hands, and with violence--God
have mercy upon both of them for I shall not. Good night!"

"But why will you go? Stay awhile longer. Be not rash--do nothing
precipitately, Clifford."

I smiled bitterly in replying:--

"You need not fear me. Have I not proved myself patient--patient
until you pronounced me cold and indifferent? Why should you suppose
that, having waited and forborne so long I should be guilty of
rashness now? No, Kingsley! My wife is very dear to me--how dear
I will not say; I will be deliberate for her sake--for my own. I
will be sure, very sure--quite sure;--but, once sure!--Good night."

Kingsley followed me to the door. His last injunctions exhorted me
to forbearance and deliberation. I silenced them by a significant
repetition of the single words, "Good night--good night!" and
hurried, with every feeling of anxiety and jealousy awakened, in
the direction of my cottage.






CHAPTER XLVI.

THE UNBRIDLED MADNESS.





The night did not promise to be a good one. The clouds were scudding
wildly from east to west. The air was moist and chill. There was
no light from moon or stars, and I strode with difficulty, though
still rapidly, through the unpaved streets. I was singularly and
painfully excited by the conversation with Kingsley. My own experience
before, had prepared me to become so, with the slightest additional
provocation. Facts were rapidly accumulating to confirm my fears,
and lessen my doubts. That dark, meaning letter of Mrs. Delaney!
The adventure in the streamlet.--The scream--the look--the secrecy!
What a history seemed to be compressed in these few topics.

I hurried forward--I was now among the trees. I had almost to grope
my way, it was so dark. I was helped forward by some governing
instincts. My fiend was busy all the while. I fancied, now, that
there was something exulting in his tone. But he drove me forward
without forbearance. I felt that these clouds in the sky--this gloom
and excitement in my heart--were not for nothing. Every gust of
wind brought to me some whisper of fear; and there seemed a constant
murmur among the trees--one burden--whose incessant utterance was
only shame and wo. How completely the agony of one's spirit sheds
its tone of horror upon the surrounding world. How the flowers wither
as our hearts wither--how sickly grows sunlight and moonlight, in
our despair--how lonely and utter sad is the breath of winds, when
our bosoms are about to be laid bare of hope and sustenance by the
brooding tempest of our sorrows.

I had a terrible prescience of some dreadful experience which awaited
me as I drove forward. Obstructions of tree and shrub, and tangled
vines, encountered me, but did not long arrest, and I really felt
them not. I put them aside without a consciousness.

At length a glimmering light informed me I was near the cottage.
I could see the heavy dark masses of foliage that crowded before
the entrance. The light was in the parlor. There was also one in
the room of Mrs. Porterfield. Ours, which was on the same floor
with hers, was in darkness. I never experienced sensations more
like those of a drunken man than when, working my way cautiously
among the trees, I approached the window. The glasses were down,
possibly in consequence of the violence of the gust. But there was
one thing unusual. The curtains were also down at both windows.
These curtains were half-curtains only. They fell from the upper
edge of the lower sash, and were simply meant to protect the inmates
from the casual glance of persons in front. The house was on an
elevation of two or three feet from the ground. It was impossible
to see into the apartment unless I could raise myself at least that
much above my own stature. I looked around me for a stump, bench,
block--anything; but there was nothing, or in the darkness I failed
to find it. To clamber up against the side of the house would have
disturbed the inmates. I ascended a tree, and buried within its
leaves, looked directly into the apartment.

They were together! alone!--at the eternal chess! Julia sat upon the
sofa. Edgerton in front of her. A small table stood between them.
I had arrived at an opportune moment. Julia's hand was extended
to the board. I saw the very piece it rested upon. It was the white
queen; but, just at that moment--nothing could be more clearly
visible--the hand of Edgerton was laid upon hers. She instantly withdrew
it, and looked upward. Her face was the color of carnation--flushed
--so said my demon, with the overwhelming passions in her breast.
The next moment the table was thrust aside--the chess-men tumbled
upon the floor, and Edgerton kneeling before my wife had grasped
her about the waist, and was dragging her to his knee.

I saw no more. A sudden darkness passed over my eyes. A keen,
quick, thrilling pang went through my whole frame, and I fell from
the tree, upon the earth below, in utter unconsciousness.






CHAPTER XLVII.

FATAL SILENCE.





Strange and cruel destiny! When everything depended apon my firmness,
I was overwhelmed by feebleness. It seemed as if I had not before
believed that this terrible moment of confirmation would come.
And yet, if anybody could have been prepared for such a discovery,
I should have been. I had brooded over it for months. A thousand
times had my imagination pictured it to me in the most vivid
and fearful aspect. I fancied that I should have been steeled by
conviction against every other feeling but that of vengeance. But
in reality, my hope was so sanguine, my love for Julia so fervent,
I did not, amidst all my fears, really believe that such a thing
could ever prove true. All my boasted planning and preparation,
and espionage, had only deceived myself. I believed, at worst, that
Julia might be brought to love William Edgerton,--but that he would
presume to give utterance to his love, and that she would submit
to listen, was not truly within my belief. I had not been prepared
for this, however much, in my last interview with Kingsley, I had
professed myself to be.

But had she submitted? That was still a question. I had seen
nothing beyond what I have stated. His audacious hand had rested
upon hers--his impious arm had encircled her waist, and then
my blindness and darkness followed. I was struck as completely
senseless, and fell from the tree with as little seeming life, as
if a sudden bullet had traversed my heart.

In this state I lay. How long I know not--it must have been for
several hours. I was brought to consciousness by a sense of cold.
I was benumbed--a steady rain was falling, and from the condition
of my clothes, which were completely saturated, must have been
falling for some time previous. I rose with pain and difficulty to
my feet. I was still as one stunned and stupified, by one of those
extremes of suffering for which the overcharged heart can find no
sufficient or sufficiently rapid method of relief. When I rose,
the light was no longer in the parlor. The parties were withdrawn.

Horrible thought! That I should have failed at that trying moment.
I knew everything--I knew nothing. It was still possible that Julia
had repulsed him. I had seen HIS audacity only--was it followed by
HER guilt? How shall that be known? I could answer this question
as Kingsley would have answered it.

"If your wife be honest, she must now reveal the truth. She can
no longer forbear. The proceeding of Edgerton has been too decided,
and she shares his guilt if she longer keeps it secret. The wife
who submits to this form of insult, without seeking protection where
alone it may be found, clearly shows that the offence is grateful
to her--that she deems it no insult."

That, then, shall be the test! So I determined. Edgerton must be
punished. There is no escape. But for her--if she does not seek
the earliest occasion to reveal the truth, she is guilty beyond
doubt--doomed beyond redemption.

I entered the house with difficulty. I was as feeble as if I had been
under the hands of the physician for weeks. A light was burning on
the staircase. I took it and went into the parlor, which I narrowly
examined. There were no remaining proofs of the late disorder. The
table was set against the wall. The chess-men were all gathered
up, and neatly put away in the box, which stood upon the mantel.

"There is proof of coolness and deliberation here!" I muttered
to myself, as I took my way up-stairs. When I entered my chamber,
I felt a pang, the fore-runner of a spasm. I had been for several
years afflicted with these spasms, in great or small degree. They
marked every singular mental excitement under which I labored. It
was no doubt one of these spasms which had seized and overpowered
me while I sat within the tree. Never before had I suffered from
one so severe; but the violence of this was naturally due to the
extreme of agony--as sudden as it was terrible--which seized upon
my soul. My physician had provided me with a remedy against these
attacks to which I was accustomed to resort. This, though a potent
remedy, was also a potent poison. It was a medicine called the
hydrocyanic or prussic acid. Five minims was a dose, but two drops
were death. I went to the medicine-case which stood beneath the
head of the bed, with the view to getting out the vial; but my wife
started up eagerly as I approached, and with trembling accents,
demanded what was the matter. She saw me covered with mud and
soaking with water. I told her that I had got wet coming homeward
and had slipped down the hill.

"Why did you stay so late--why not come home sooner, dear husband?"

Scottish book of the year goes to Kieron Smith, Boy by James Kelman

The barrister Constance Briscoe has won the libel case brought against her by her mother, Carmen Briscoe-Mitchell, over her bestselling misery memoir Ugly, in which she accused Briscoe-Mitchell of childhood cruelty and neglect.

Briscoe-Mitchell claimed the allegations were "a piece of fiction", and sued Briscoe and her publishers Hodder & Stoughton for libel.

A 10-day hearing at the high court in London concluded earlier today with a unanimous verdict from the jury after more than a day's deliberation. Speaking outside the court, Briscoe, a part-time judge, said she was "very happy" with the verdict.

"It is sad that my mother still feels the need to pursue me. Now I just want to get on with my career," she said. "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."

The hearing saw Briscoe tell Mr Justice Tugendhat and a jury how her mother beat her with a stick for wetting the bed, called her a "dirty little whore" and drove her to attempt suicide by drinking bleach.

Briscoe's account of her upbringing was published in 2006 and has sold more than 400,000 copies in the UK.

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Would you have your ashes scattered in Jane Austen's garden?
American film producer to publish version of the Bible in which God says it is better to be gay than straight

The royal family doesn't need a poet

The power of Jane Austen never ceases to amaze: the myriad film and TV adaptations, the biopics, the spin-off self-help books, the novels about Austen book clubs and Austen obsessives and even, next spring, the publication of a book about "how Jane Austen conquered the world" (Jane's Fame, by Clare Harman). And now comes the just-too-weird story that deceased fans of Jane Austen have been banned from having their ashes scattered in her garden. In a letter to the Jane Austen Society, Louise West, the collections manager of Jane Austen's House Museum, wrote: "While we understand many admirers of Jane Austen would love to have ashes laid here, it is something we do not allow. It is distressing for visitors to see mounds of human ash, particularly so for our gardener. Also, it is of no benefit to the garden!" (Or is it? Surely a small quantity of fresh ashes judiciously placed beneath a hydrangea bush is just the ticket?)

Anyway, leaving aside the Gardeners' Question Time minutiae, what on earth is going on here? I like an Austen novel as much as the next person – I probably reread my way through the complete works every couple of years – but I am baffled as to why one would want to be laid to rest among the flowerbeds of Chawton. The only explanation is the currently unstoppable power of the Austen cult, fuelled by Colin Firth in a wet blouse, by Andrew Davies's adaptations, and by Hollywood. I'm all for enjoying books, but the cult of Austen has reached ridiculous proportions. In a post-feminist world that should know better, she seems to be adored as the comforting provider of romantic, happy-endings nonsense instead of the sharp and acerbic social satirist she deserves to be seen as.

(Does anyone actually believe her, by the way, when she foretells a happy marriage for Darcey and Elizabeth? I fear a woman as interesting as Elizabeth would be sorely disappointed with this standard-issue British Repressed Public-school Man - hopeless emotionally, and probably hopeless in bed.)

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