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Confession by W. Gilmore Simms

W >> W. Gilmore Simms >> Confession




"Apoplexy!" I exclaimed, involuntarily. Kingsley gave me a look.

"Yes, sir, apoplexy," continued the learned gentleman. "She must
have had several fits. It is evident that she was conscious after
the first, for she appears to have endeavored to reach the door.
She was found at the entrance, lying upon the floor. When I saw
her, she must have been lifeless a good hour." [The reader will be
reminded of the melancholy details in the ease of Miss Liuulon-L.
E. L.-whose fate is still a mystery.]


He added sundry reasons, derived from her appearance, which he
assured us were conclusive on this subject; but to these I gave
little heed. I did not stop to listen. I hurried to the chamber,
closed the door, and was alone with my victim, with my wife!

My victim!--my wife!

I stood above her inanimate form. How lovely in death--but, oh!
how cold! I looked upon her pale, transparent cheeks and forehead,
through which the blue lines of veins, that were pulseless now,
gleamed out, showing the former avenues of the sweet and blessed
life. I was disarmed of my anger while I gazed. I bent down beside
her, took the rigid fingers of her hand in mine, and pressed my
lips upon the bloodless but still beautiful forms of hers.

I remembered her youth and her beauty--the glowing promise of her
mind, and the gentle temper of her heart. I remembered the dear
hours of our first communion--how pure were our delights--how perfect
my felicity. How we moved together as with one being only--beside
the broad streams of our birthplace--under the shelter of shady
pines--morning, and noon, and in the star-lighted night--never once
dreaming that an hour like this would come!

And she seemed so perfect pure, as she was so perfect lovely! Never
did I hear from her lips sentiment that was not--not only virtuous,
but delicate and soft--not only innocent but true--not only true
but fond! Alas! so to fall--so too yield herself at last! To feel
the growth of rank passion--to surrender her pure soul and perfect
form to the base uses of lust--to be no better than the silly harlot,
that, beguiled by her eager vanity, surrenders the precious jewel
in her trust, to the first cunning sharper that assails her with
a smiling lie!

Oh God! how these convictions shook my frame! I had no longer strength
for thought or action. I was feebler than the child, who, lost in
the woods, struggles and sinks at last, through sheer exhaustion,
into sobbing slumber at the foot of the unfeeling tree. I did
not sob. I had no tears. But at intervals, the powers of breathing
becoming choked, and my struggles for relief were expressed in a
groan which I vainly endeavored to keep down. The sense of desolation
was upon me much more strongly than that of either crime or death.
I did not so much feel that she was guilty, as that I was alone!
That, henceforth, I must for ever be alone. This was the terrible
conviction;--and oh! how lone! To lessen its pangs, I strove to
recall the fault for which she perished--to renew the recollection
of those thousand small events, which, thrown together, had seemed
to me mountains of rank and reeking evidence against her. But even
my memory failed me in this effort. All this was a blank. The
few imperfect and shadowy facts which I could recall seemed to me
wholly unimportant in establishing the truth of what I sought to
believe; and I shuddered with the horrible doubt that she might be
innocent! If she were indeed innocent, what am I?

With the desperate earnestness of the cast-away, who strives, in
mid-ocean, for the only plank which can possibly retard his doom,
did I toil to re-establish in my mind that conviction of her guilt
which the demon in my soul had made so certain by his assurances
before. Alas! I had not only lost the wife of my bosom, but its
fiend also. Vainly now did I seek to summon him back. Vainly did I
call upon him to renew his arguments and proofs! He had fled--fled
for ever; and I could fancy that I heard him afar off, chuckling
with hellish laughter, over the triumphant results of his malice.

I know not how long I hung over that silent speaker. Her pale,
placid countenance--her bloodless lips, that still seemed to smile
upon me as they had ever done before;--and that eye of speaking
beauty--only half closed--oh! what conclusive assurances did they
seem to give of that innocence which it now seemed the worst impiety
to doubt! I would have given worlds--alas! how impotent is such a
speech! Death sets his seal upon hope, and love, and endeavor; and
the regrets of that childish precipitation which has obeyed the
laws of passion only, are only so many mocking memorials of the
blind heart, that jaundiced the face of truth, and distorted all
the aspects of the beautiful.

Once more I laughed--a vain hysterical laugh--the expression of
my conviction that I was self-doomed and desperate; and, writhing
beside the inanimate angel whom I then would have recalled though
with all her guilt--assuming all of it to have been true--to
the arms that wantonly cast her off for ever--I grasped the cold
senseless limbs in my embrace, and placed the drooping head once more
upon the bosom where it could not long remain! What a weight! The
pulsation in my own heart ceased, and, with a shudder, I released
the chilling form from my grasp, and found strength barely to
compose the limbs once more in the bed beside me.

I pass over the usual and unnecessary details. There was a show of
inquiry of course; but the one word of the learned young gentleman
in black silenced any further examination. It was shown to the
mquest by Mrs. Porterfield that my wife had been sick--that she
was suddenly found dead. The physician furnished the next necessary
fact. I was not examined at all, I stood by in silence. I heard the
verdict--"Death by apoplexy"---with a smile. I was not unwilling
to state the truth. Had I been called upon I should have done so.
At first I was about to proffer my testimony, but a single sentence
from the lips of Kingsley, when I declared to him my purpose,
silenced me:--

"If you are not afraid to declare your own act, you should at least
scruple to denounce her shame! She died your wife. Let, that seal
your tongue. The shame would be shared between you! Yov could only
justify your crime by exposing hers!"

With the stern strength of desperation I stood above the grave,
and heard the heavy clod ring hollowly upon the coffin. And there
closed two lives in one. My hopes were buried there as effectually
as her unconscious form.

Life is not breath simply. Not the capacity to move, and breathe,
to act, eat, drink, sleep, and say, "Thank God! we have ate, drank,
and slept!" The life of humanity consists in hope, love, and labor.
In the capacity to desire, to affect, ant to struggle. I had now
nothing for which I could hope, nothing to love, nothing to struggle
for!

Yes! life has something more:--endurance! This is a part of the
allotment. The conviction of this renewed my strength But it was
the strength of desolation I I had taken courage from despair!






CHAPTER LIII.

REVELATION--THE LETTER OF JULIA.





It must be remembered, that, in all this time--amidst all my
agonies--my feelings of destitution and despair--I had few or no
doubts of the guilt of Julia Clifford. My sufferings arose from
the love which I had felt--the defeat of my hopes and fortune--the
long struggle of conflicting feelings, mortified pride, and disappointed
enjoyment. Excited by the melancholy spectacle before me--beholding
the form of her, once so beautiful--still so beautiful--whom I had
loved with such an absorbing passion--whom I could not cease to
love--suddenly cut off from life--her voice, which was so musical,
suddenly hushed for ever--the tides of her heart suddenly stopped--and
all the sweet waters of hope dried up in her bosom, and turned
into bitterness and blight in mine--the force of my feelings got
the better of my reason, and cruel and oppressive doubts of the
justness of her doom overpowered my soul. But, with the subsiding
of my emotions, under the stern feeling of resolve which came to my
relief, and which my course of education enabled me to maintain,
my persuasions of her guilt were resumed, and I naturally recurred
to the conclusions which had originally justified me to myself, in
inflicting the awful punishment of death upon her. But I was soon
to be deprived of this justification--to be subjected to the terrible
recoil of all my feelings of justice, love, honor and manliness,
in the new and overwhelming conviction, not only that I had
been premature, but that she was innocent!--innocent, equally of
thought and deed, which could incur tire reproach of impurity, or
the punishment of guilt.

Three days had elapsed after her burial, when I re-opened and
re-appeared in my office. I did not re-open it with any intention
to resume my business. That was impossible in a place, where, at
every movement, the grave of my victim rose, always green, in my
sight. My purpose was to put my papers in order transfer them to
other parties, dispose of my effects, and depart with Kingsley to
the new countries, of which he had succeeded in impressing upon
me some of his own opinions. Not that these furnished for me any
attractions. I was not persuaded by any customary arguments held
out to the ambitious and the enterprising. It was a matter of small
moment to me where I went, so that I left the present scene of my
misery and over-throw. In determining to accompany him to Texas,
no part of my resolve was influenced by the richness of its soil,
or the greatness of its probable destinies. These, though important
in the eyes of my friend, were as nothing in mine. In taking that
route my object was simply, TO GO WITH HIM. He had sympathized with
me, after a rough fashion of his own, the sincerity of which was
more dear to me than the rougbress was repulsive. He had witnessed
my cares--he knew my guilt and my griefs--this knowledge endeared
him to me more strongly than ever, and made him now more necessary
to my affections than any other living object.

I re-opened my office and resumed my customary seat at the table.
But I sat only to ruminate upon things and thoughts which, following
the track of memory, diverted my sight as well as my mind, from
all present objects. I saw nothing before me, except vaguely, and
in a sort of shadow. I had a hazy outline of books against the
wall; and a glimmering show of papers and bundles upon the table.
I sat thus for some time, lost in painful and humiliating revery.
Suddenly I caught a glimpse of a packet on the table, which I did
not recollect to have seen before. It bore my name. I shuddered to
behold it, for it was in the handwriting of my wife. This, then,
was the writing upon which she had been secretly engaged, for so
many days, and of which Mrs. Porterfield had given me the first
intimation. I remembered the words of Julia when she assured
me that it was intended for me--when she playfully challenged my
curiosity, and implored me to acknowledge an anxiety to knew the
contents. The pleading tenderness of her speech and manner now rose
vividly to my recollection. It touched me more now--now that the
irrevocable step had been taken--far more than it ever could have
affected me then. Then, indeed, I remained unaffected save by the
caprice of my evil genius. The demon of the blind heart was then
uppermost. In vain now did I summon him to my relief. Where was
he? Why did he not come?

I took up the packet with trembling fingers. My nerves almost failed
me. My heart shrank and sank with painful presentiments. What could
this writing mean? Of what had Julia Clifford to write? Her whole
world's experience was contained, and acquired, in my household.
The only portion of this experience which she might suppose unknown
to me was her intercourse with Edgerton. The conclusion, then, was
natural that this writing related to this matter; but, if natural,
why had I not conjectured it before? Why, when I first heard of
it, had the conclusion not forced itself upon me as directly as it
did now? Alas! it was clear to me now that I was then blind; and,
with this clearness of sight, my doubts increased; but they were
doubts of myself, rather than doubts of her.

It required an effort before I could recover myself sufficiently to
break the seal of the packet. First, however, I rose and reclosed
the office. Whatever might be the contents of the paper, to me it
was the language of a voice from the grave. It contained the last
words of one I never more should hear. The words of one whom I
had loved as I could never love again. It was due to her, and to
my own heart, that she should be heard in secret;--that her words--whether
in reproach or repentence--whether in love or scorn--should fall
upon mine ear without witness, in a silence as solemn as was that
desolate feeling which now sat, like a spectre, brooding among the
ruins of my heart.

My pulses almost ceased to beat--my respiration was impeded--my
eyes swam--my senses reeled in dismay and confusion--as I read
the following epistle. Too late! too late! Blind, blind heart! And
still I was not mad!--No! no!--that would have been a mercy which
I did not merit!--that would have been forgetfulness--utter oblivion
of the woe which I can never cease to feel.

The Last Letter of Julia.

"Husband, Dear Husband!

"I write to you in fear and trembling. I have striven to speak to
you, more than once, but my tongue and strength have failed me. What
I have to tell you is so strange and offensive, and will be to you
so startling, that you will find it hard to believe me; and yet,
dear husband, there is not a syllable of it which is not true! If
I knew that I were to die to-morrow I could with perfect safety
and confidence make the same confession which I make now. But I
do not wish you to take what I say on trust; look into the matter
yourself--not precipitately--above all, not angrily--and you will
see that I say nothing here which the circumstances will not prove.
Indeed, my wonder is that so much of it has remained unknown to
you already.

"Husband, Mr. Egerton deceives you--he has all along deceived you--he
is neither your friend nor mine. I would call him rather the most
dangerous enemy; for he comes by stealth, and abuses confidence,
and, like the snake in the fable, seeks to sting the very hand that
has warmed him. I know how much this will startle you, for I know
how much you think of him, and love him, and how many are the
obligations which you owe to his father. But hear me to the end,
and you will be convinced, as I have been, that, so far from your
seeking his society and permitting his intimacy in our household,
you would be justified in the adoption of very harsh measures for
his expulsion--at least, it would become your duty to inform him
that you can no longer suffer his visits.

"To begin, then, dear husband. Mr. Egerton has been bold enough
to speak to me in such language, as was insulting in him to utter,
and equally painful and humiliating for me to hear. He has done
this, not once, nor twice, nor thrice, but many times. You will
ask why I have not informed you of this before; but I had several
reasons for forbearing to do so, which I will relate in the proper
places. I fancied that I could effectually repel insult of this
sort without making you a party to it, for I feared the violence of
your temper, and dreaded that the consequences might be bloodshed.
I am only prompted to take a different course now, as I find that
I was mistaken in this impression--and perceive that there is no
hope of a remedy against the impertinence but by appealing to you
for protection.

"It was not long after our marriage before the attentions of Mr.
Edgerton became so particular as to annoy me; and I consulted my
mother on the subject, but she assured me that such were customary,
and so long as you were satisfied I had no reason to be otherwise.
I was not quite content with this assurance, but did not know what
other course to take, and there was nothing in the conduct of Mr.
Edgerton so very marked and offensive as to justify me in making
any communication to you. What offended me in his bearing was his
fixed and continued watchfulness--the great earnestness of his
looks--the subdued tones of his voice when he spoke to me, almost
falling to a whisper, and the unusual style of his language, which
seemed to address itself to such feelings only as do not belong to
the common topics of discourse. The frequency of his visits to the
studio afforded him opportunities for indulging in these practices;
and your strange indifference to his approaches, and your equally
strange and most unkind abandonment of my society for that of
others, increased these opportunities, of which he scrupled not to
take constant advantage. I soon perceived that he sought the house
only at the periods when you were absent. He seemed always to know
when this was the case; and I noted the fact, particularly, that,
if, on such occasions, you happened to arrive unexpectedly he never
remained long afterward, but took his departure with an abruptness
that, it seemed wonderful to me you should not have perceived.
Conduct so strange as this annoyed rather than alarmed me; and it
made me feel wretched, perhaps beyond any necessity for it, when
I found myself delivered up, as it were, to such persecution, by
the very person whose duty it was to preserve me, and whose own
presence, which would have been an effectual protection, was so dear
to me always. Do not suppose, dear Edward, that I mean to reproach
you. I do not know what may have been your duties abroad, and the
trials which drew you so much from home, and from the eyes of a
wife who knows no dearer object of contemplation than the form of
her husband. Men in business, I know, have a thousand troubles out
of doors, which a generous sensibility makes them studious never
to bring home with them; and, knowing this, I determined to think
lovingly of you always--to believe anything rather than that
you would willingly neglect me;--and, by the careful exercise of
my thoughts and affections, as they should properly be exercised,
so to protect my own dignity and your honor, as to spare you any
trouble or risk in asserting them, and, at the same time, to save
both from reproach.

"But, though I think I maintained the most rigid reserve, as well
of looks as of language, this unhappy young man continued his
persecutions. In order to avoid him, I abandoned my usual labors
in the studio. From the moment when I saw that he was disposed
to abuse the privileges of friendship, I yielded that apartment
entirely to him, and invariably declined seeing him when he visited
the house in the mornings. But I could not do this at evening; and
this became finally a most severe trial, for it so happened, that
you now adopted a habit which left him entirely unrestrained, unless
in the manner of his reception by myself. You now seldom remained
at home of an evening, and thus deprived me of that natural protector
whose presence would have spared me much pain with which I will not
distress you. Ah! dearest husband, why did you leave me on such
occasions? Why did you abandon me to the two-fold affliction of
combating the approaches of impertinence, at the very moment when
I was suffering from the dreadful apprehension that I no longer
possessed those charms which had won me the affections of a husband.
Forgive me! My purpose is not to reproach, but to entreat you.

"I need not pass over the long period through which this persecution
continued. Your indifference seemed to me to give stimulus to the
perseverance of this young man. Numberless little circumstances
combined to make me think that, from this cause, indeed, he drew
something like encouragement for his audacious hopes. The strength
of your friendship for him blinded you to attentions which, it
seemed to me, every eye must have seen but yours. I grew more and
more alarmed; and a second time consulted with my mother. Her written
answer you will find, marked No. 1, with the rest of the enclosures
in this envelope. She laughed at my apprehensions, insisted that
Mr. Edgerton had not transcended the customary privileges, and
intimated, very plainly as you will see, that a wife can suffer
nothing from the admiration of a person, not her husband, however
undisguised this admiration may be--provided she herself shows
none in return;--an opinion with which I could not concur, for
the conclusive reason that, whatever the world may think on such a
subject, the object of admiration, if she has any true sensibilities,
must herself. suffer annoyance, as I did, from the special designation
which attends such peculiar and marked attention as that to which
I was subjected. My mother took much pains, verbally and in writing,
as the within letters will show you, to relieve me from the feeling
of disquiet under which I suffered, but without effect; and I was
further painfully afflicted by the impression which her general
tone of thought forced upon me, that her sense of propriety was
so loose and uncertain that I could place no future reliance upon
her councils in relation to this or any other kindred subject. Ah,
Edward! little can you guess how lonely and desolate I felt, when,
unable any longer to refer to her, I still did not dare to look to
you.

"One opinion of hers, however, had very much alarmed me. You will
find it expressed in the letter marked No. 8, in this collection.
When I complained to her of the approaches of Mr. Edgerton, and
declared my purpose of appealing to you if they were continued, she
earnestly and expressly exhorted me against any such proceeding.
She assured me that such a step would only lend to violence and
bloodshed--reminded me of your sudden anger--your previous duel--and
insisted that nothing more was necessary to check the impertinence
than my own firmness and dignity. Perhaps this would have been
enough, were it always practicable to maintain the reserve and
coldness which was proper to effect this object, and, indeed, I
could not but perceive that the effect was produced in considerable
degree by this course. Mr. Edgerton visited the house less frequently;
grew less impressive in his manner, and much more humble, until
that painful and humiliating night of my mother's marriage. That
night he asked me to dance with him. I declined; but afterward he
came to me accompanied by my mother. She whispered in my ears that
I was harsh in my refusal, and called my attention to his wretched
appearance. Had I reflected upon it then, as I did afterward, this
very allusion would have been sufficient to have determined me not
to consent;--but I was led away by her suggestions of pity, and
stood up with him for a cotillion. But the music changed, the set
was altered, and the Spanish dance was substituted in its place.
In the course of this dance, I could not deceive myself as to the
degree of presumption which my partner displayed; and, but for the
appearance of the thing, and because I did not wish to throw the
room into disorder, I would have stopped and taken my seat long
before it was over. When I did take my seat, I found myself still
attended by him, and it was with difficulty that I succeeded finally
in defeating his perseverance, by throwing myself into the midst
of a set of elderly ladies, where he could no longer distinguish
me with his attentions. In the meantime you had left the room. You
had deserted me. Ah! Clifford, to what annoyance did your absence
expose me that night! To that absence, do we owe that I lost the
only dear pledge of love that God had ever vouchsafed us--and you
know how greatly my own life was perilled. Think not, dearest,
that I speak this to reproach you; and yet--could you have
remained!--could you have loved, and longed to be and remain with
me, as most surely did I long for your presence only and always--ah!
how much sweeter had been our joys--how more pure our happiness--our
faith--with now--perhaps, even now--the dear angel whom we then
lost, living and smiling beneath our eyes, and linking our mutual
hearts more and more firmly together than before!

"That night, when it became impossible to remain longer without
trespassing--when all the other guests had gone--I consented to
be taken home in Mr. Edgerton's carriage. Had I dreamed that Mr.
Edgerton was to have been my companion, I should have remained
all night before I would have gone with him, knowing what I knew,
and feeling the mortification which I felt. But my mother assured
me that I was to have the carriage to myself--it was she who had
procured it;--and it was not until I was seated, and beheld him
enter, that I had the least apprehension of such an intrusion.
Edward! it is with a feeling almost amounting to horror, that I am
constrained to think that my mother not only knew of his intention
to accompany me, but that she herself suggested it. This, I say
to YOU! You will find the reasons for my suspicions in the letters
which I enclose. It is a dreadful suspicion--at the expense of
one's own mother! I dare not believe in the dark malice which it
implies.--I strive to think that she meant and fancied only some
pleasant mischief.

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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