All was stillness there, but there was no peace. I entered the
piazza, threw myself into a chair, and gazed out upon the leaves and
waters, trying to collect my scattered thoughts--trying to subdue
my blood, that my thoughts might meet in deliberation upon
the desolating prospect which was then spread before me. But I
struggled for this in vain. But one thought was mine at that hour.
But one fearful image gathered in completeness and strength before
my mind; and that was one calculated to banish all others and baffle
all their deliberations.
"The blood of William Edgerton must be shed, and by these hands!
My disgrace is known! There is no help for it!"
I had repeatedly resolved this gloomy conviction in my mind. It
was now to receive shape and substance. It was a thing no longer
to be thought upon. It was a thing to be done! This necessity
staggered me. The kindness of the father, the kindness and long
true friendship of the son himself, how could I requite this after
such a fashion? How penetrate the peaceful home of that fond family
with an arm of such violence, as to tend their proudest offspring
from the parental tree, and, perhaps, in destroying it, blight
for ever the venerable trunk upon which it was borne? Let it not
be fancied that these feelings were without effect. Let it not be
supposed that I weakly, willingly, yielded to the conviction of
this cruel necessity--that I determined, without a struggle, upon
this seemingly necessary measure! Verily, I then, in that dreary
house and hour, wrestled like a strong man with the unbidden
prompter, who counselled me to the deed of blood. I wrestled with
him as the desperate man, knowing the supernatural strength of
his enemy, wrestles with a demon. The strife was a fearful one. I
could not suppress my groans of agony; and the cold sweat gathered
and stood upon my forehead in thick, clammy drops.
But the struggle was vain to effect my resolution. It had been
too long present as a distinct image before my imagination. I had
already become too familiar with its aspects. It had the look of
a fate to my mind. I fancied myself--as probably most men will do,
whose self-esteem is very active--the victim of a fate. My whole
life tended to confirm this notion. I was chosen out from the
beginning for a certain work, in which, my-self a victim, I was
to carry out the designs of destiny in the ease of other victims.
I had struggled long not to believe this--not to do this work.
But the struggle was at last at an end. I was convinced, finally.
I was ready for the work. I was resigned to my fate. But oh!
how grateful once had one of these victims seemed in my eyes! How
beautiful, and still how dear was the other!