I re-opened my office and resumed my customary seat at the table.
But I sat only to ruminate upon things and thoughts which, following
the track of memory, diverted my sight as well as my mind, from
all present objects. I saw nothing before me, except vaguely, and
in a sort of shadow. I had a hazy outline of books against the
wall; and a glimmering show of papers and bundles upon the table.
I sat thus for some time, lost in painful and humiliating revery.
Suddenly I caught a glimpse of a packet on the table, which I did
not recollect to have seen before. It bore my name. I shuddered to
behold it, for it was in the handwriting of my wife. This, then,
was the writing upon which she had been secretly engaged, for so
many days, and of which Mrs. Porterfield had given me the first
intimation. I remembered the words of Julia when she assured
me that it was intended for me--when she playfully challenged my
curiosity, and implored me to acknowledge an anxiety to knew the
contents. The pleading tenderness of her speech and manner now rose
vividly to my recollection. It touched me more now--now that the
irrevocable step had been taken--far more than it ever could have
affected me then. Then, indeed, I remained unaffected save by the
caprice of my evil genius. The demon of the blind heart was then
uppermost. In vain now did I summon him to my relief. Where was
he? Why did he not come?
I took up the packet with trembling fingers. My nerves almost failed
me. My heart shrank and sank with painful presentiments. What could
this writing mean? Of what had Julia Clifford to write? Her whole
world's experience was contained, and acquired, in my household.
The only portion of this experience which she might suppose unknown
to me was her intercourse with Edgerton. The conclusion, then, was
natural that this writing related to this matter; but, if natural,
why had I not conjectured it before? Why, when I first heard of
it, had the conclusion not forced itself upon me as directly as it
did now? Alas! it was clear to me now that I was then blind; and,
with this clearness of sight, my doubts increased; but they were
doubts of myself, rather than doubts of her.
It required an effort before I could recover myself sufficiently to
break the seal of the packet. First, however, I rose and reclosed
the office. Whatever might be the contents of the paper, to me it
was the language of a voice from the grave. It contained the last
words of one I never more should hear. The words of one whom I
had loved as I could never love again. It was due to her, and to
my own heart, that she should be heard in secret;--that her words--whether
in reproach or repentence--whether in love or scorn--should fall
upon mine ear without witness, in a silence as solemn as was that
desolate feeling which now sat, like a spectre, brooding among the
ruins of my heart.