Such was the important portion of the letter. In an instant, as
I read it, I saw, with the instinct of jealousy, the annihilation
of all my hopes of happiness. All my dreams were in the dust--all
my fancies scattered--my schemes and temples overthrown. Bitter
was the pang I felt on reading this letter. It said more--much
more--in the very language of solicitation which the good old father
professed to believe unnecessary. He poured forth the language of
a father's grief and entreaty. I felt for the venerable man--the
true friend--in spite of my own miserable apprehensions. I felt
for him, but what could I do? What would he have me do? I had no
house in which to receive his son. He would lodge, perhaps, for a
time, in the community. It could not be supposed that he would remain
long. The letter of the father spoke only of a brief visit. Our
neighborhood had no repute, as a place of resort, for consumptive
patients. I consoled myself with the reflection that William Edgerton
could, on no pretence, linger more than a week or two among us. I
will treat him kindly--give him the freedom of the house while he
remains. A dying man, if so he be, must have reached a due sense of
his situation, and will not be likely to trespass upon the rights
of another. His passions must be subdued by this time. Ah! but will
not his condition be more likely to inspire sympathy?
The fiend of the blind heart prompted that last suggestion. It
was the only one that I remembered. When I returned home that day
to dinner, I mentioned, as if casually, the letter I had received,
and the contents. My eye narrowly watched that of my wife while
I spoke. Hers sunk beneath my glance Her cheeks were suddenly
flushed--then, as suddenly, grew pale, and I observed, that, though
she appeared to eat, but few morsels of food were carried into her
mouth that day. She soon left the table, and, pleading headache
declined joining me in our usual evening rambles.