I clapped him on the shoulder as I spoke. His face had been half
averted from me while I was speaking; but now it turned upon me,
and his glance met mine, teeming with inquisitive horror.
"No! no! you are not right!" he faltered out; "it is not so.
Nothing is the matter with me! I am quite well--quite! I will see
my father, and set him right."
"Do so," I said, coolly and indifferently--"do so; tell him what you
please: but you can't change my conviction that you're after some
pretty woman, and probably poaching on some neighbor's territory.
Come, make me your confidante, Edgerton. Let us know the history
of your misfortune. Is the lady pliant? I should judge so, since
you continue to spend so many nights away from home. Come, make a
clean breast of it. Out with your secret! I have always been your
friend. WE COULD NOT BETRAY EACH OTHER, I THINK!"
"You are quite mistaken," he said, with the effort of one who is
half strangled. "There is nothing in it; I assure you, you were
never more mistaken."
"Pshaw, Edgerton! you may blind papa, but you can not blind me.
Keep your secret, if you please, but, if you provoke me, I will
trace it out; I will unkennel you. If I do not show the sitting
hare in a fortnight, by the course of the hunter, tell me I am none
myself."
His consternation increased, but I did not allow it to disarm me. I
probed him keenly, and in such a manner as to make him wince with
apprehension at every word which I uttered. Morally, William Edgerton
was a brave man. Guilt alone made him a coward. It actually gave
me pain, after a while, to behold his wretched imbecility. He hung
upon my utterance with the trembling suspense of one whose eye has
become enchained with the fascinating gaze of the serpent. I put
my questions and comments home to him, on the assumption that he
was playing the traitor with another's wife; though taking care,
all the while, that my manner should be that of one who has no sort
of apprehensions on his own score. My deportment and tone tallied
well with the practised indifference which had distinguished my
previous overt conduct. It deceived him on that head; but the truth,
like a sharp knife, was no less keen in penetrating to his soul;
and, preserving my coolness and directness, with that singular
tenacity of purpose which I could maintain in spite of my own
sufferings--and keep them still unsuspected--I did not scruple to
impel the sharp iron into every sensitive place within his bosom.
He writhed visibly before me. His struggles did not please me, but
I sought to produce them simply because they seemed so many proofs
confirming the truth of my conjectures. The fiend in my own soul
kept whispering, "He has it!"--and a fatal spell, not unlike that
which riveted his attention to the language which tore and vexed
him, urged me to continue it until at length the sting became too
keen for his endurance. In very desperation, he broke away from
the fetters of that fascination of terror which had held him for
one mortal hour to the spot.