Such, I fancied, was the proud language of that melancholy music.
Had I been other than I was--nay, had I listened to the burden under
other circumstances and in another place--I should most probably
have felt nothing but sympathy for the musician. As it was, I
can not describe my feelings. All my racking doubts and miseries
returned. The tone of triumph which the strain conveyed wrought
upon me like an indignity. It seemed to denote that "foregone
conclusion" which had been my cause of apprehension so long. Could
it be then that Julia was really guilty? Could she have given William
Edgerton so much encouragement that triumph and exultation should
still mingle with his farewell accents of despair? Ah! what
fantasies preyed upon my soul; haunted the smallest movements of
my mind; conjured up its spectres, and gave bitterness to its every
beverage! When I thought thus of Julia, I rose cautiously from my
seat, approached the bed where she was lying, and gazed steadily,
though with the wildest thrill of emotion, into her face. I verily
believe had she not been sleeping at that moment--sleeping beyond
question--she would have shared the fate of "The gentle lady wedded to the Moor."
I was in the mood for desperate things.
But she slept--her cheek upon her arm--pale, but oh! how beautiful!
and looking, oh! how pure! Her breathing was as tranquil and regular
as that of an infant. I felt, while I gazed, that hers must be
the purity of an infant also. I turned from beholding her, as the
renewed notes of the musician once more ascended to the chamber.
I again took my seat at the window and concealed myself behind the
curtain. Here I had been concealed but a few moments, when I heard
a rustling in the branches of the tree. Meanwhile, the music again
ceased. I peered cautiously from behind the drapery, and fancied I
beheld a dark object in the tree. It might be one of its branches,
but I had not been struck by it before. I waited in breathless
watchfulness. I saw it move. Its shape was that of a man. An
exulting feeling of violence filled my breast. I rose stealthily,
went into the dressing-room, and took up one of my pistols which
lay on the toilet, and which I had that afternoon prepared with a
travelling charge.
"A brace of bullets," I muttered to myself, "will bring out another
sort of music from this rare bird."
With this murderous purpose I concealed myself once more behind the
curtain. The figure was sufficiently distinct for aim. The window
was not more than twelve or fourteen paces from the tree. My
nerves were now as steady as if I had been about to perform the
most ordinary action. What then prevented me? What stayed my arm?
A single thonght--a momentary recollection of an event which had
taken place in my boyhood. What a providence that it should have
occurred to me at that particular moment. The circumstance was
this.