I need not pursue this. I throw it upon paper with no deliberation.
It streams from me like the rest. Its tone was somewhat derived
from those peculiar, sad feelings, and that pang-provoking course
of thought, which it has been the purpose of this narrative to
embody. In the expression of digressive but earnest notions like
these, I could momentarily divert myself from deeper and more
painful emotions. I had really gone through a great trial: I say
a great trial--always assuming human indulgence for that disease
of the blind heart which led me where I found myself, which makes
me what I am. I did not feel lightly the pang of parting with my
birthplace. I did not esteem lightly the sacrifice of business,
comfort, and distinction which I was making; and of that greater
cause of suffering, supposed or real, of the falling off in my
wife's affection, the agony is already in part recorded. It may
be permitted to me, perhaps, under these circumstances--with the
additional knowledge, which I yet suppressed, that these sacrifices
were to be made, and these sufferings endured, partly that the
son might be saved--to speak with some unreserved warmth of tone
to the venerable and worthy sire. He little knew how much of my
determination to remove from my country was due to my regard for
him. I felt assured that, if I remained, two things must happen.
William Edgerton would persevere in his madness, and I should murder
him in his perseverance! I banished myself in regard for that old
man, and in some measure to requite his benefactions, that I might
be spared this necessity.
When, the next day, I sought William Edgerton himbelf, and declared
my novel determination, he turned pale as death. I could see that
his lips quivered. I watched him closely. He was evidently racked
by an emotion which was more obvious from the necessity he was
under of suppressing it. With considerable difficulty he ventured
to ask my reasons for this strange step, and with averted countenance
repeated those which his father had proffered against my doing
so. I could see that he fain would have urged his suggestions more
vehemently if he dared. But the conviction that his wishes were
the fathers to his arguments was conclusive to render him careful
that his expostulations should not put on a show of earnestness.
I must do William Edgerton the justice to say that guilt was not
his familiar. He could not play the part of the practised hypocrite.
He had no powers of artifice. He could not wear the flowers upon
his breast, having the volcano within it. Professionally, he could
be no roué. He could seem no other than he was. Conscious of guilt,
which he had not the moral strength to counteract and overthrow,
he had not, at the same time, the art necessary for its concealment.
He could use no smooth, subtle blandishments. His cheek and eye
would tell the story of his mind, though it strove to make a false
presentment. I do him the further justice to believe that a great
part of his misery arose from this consciousness of his doing
wrong, rather than from the difficulties in the way of his success.
I believe that, even were he successful in the prosecution of
his illicit purposes, he would not have looked or felt a jot less
miserable. I felt, while we conferred together, that my departure
was perhaps the best measure for his relief. While I mused upon his
character and condition, my anger yielded in part to commiseration.
I remembered the morning-time of our boyhood--when we stood up
for conflict with our young enemies, side by side--obeyed the same
rallying-cry, recognised the same objects, and were a sort of David
and Jonathan to one another. Those days!--they soothed and softened
me while I recalled them. My tone became less keen, my language
less tinctured with sarcasm, when I thought of these things; and
I thought of our separation without thinking of its cause.