If I felt so deeply annoyed at the first morning visit which William
Edgerton paid to my wife, what was my annoyance when these visits
became habitual. I was miserable but could not complain. I was
ashamed of the language of complaint on such a subject. There is
something very ridiculous in the idea of a jealous husband--it has
always provoked the laughter of the world; and I was one of those
men who shrunk from ridicule with a more than mortal dread. Besides,
I really felt no alarm. I had the utmost confidence in my wife's
virtue. I had not the less confidence in that of Edgerton. But I
was jealous of her deference--of her regard--for another. She was,
in my eyes, as something sacred, set apart--a treasure exclusively my
own! Should it be that another should come to divide her veneration
with me? I was vexed that she should derive satisfaction from another
source than myself. This satisfaction she derived from the visits
of Edgerton. She freely avowed it.
"How amiable--how pleasant he is," she would say, in the perfect
innocence of her heart; "and really, Edward, he has so much talent!"
These praises annoyed me. They were as so much wormwood to my spirit.
It must be remembered that I was not myself what the world calls
an amiable man. I doubt if any, even of my best friends, would
describe me as a pleasant one. I was a man of too direct and
earnest a temperament to establish a claim, in reasonable degree,
to either of these characteristics. I was, accordingly, something
blunt in my address--the tones of my voice were loud--my manner
was all empressement, except when I was actually angry, and then
it was cold. hard, dry, inflexible. I was the last person in the
world to pass for an amiable. Now, Julia, on the other hand, was
quiet, subdued, timorous--the tones of a strong, decided voice
startled her--she shrunk from controversy--yielded always with
a happy grace in anticipation of the conflict, and showed, in all
respects, that nice, almost nervous organization which attaches
the value of principles and morals to mere manners, and would be
as much shocked, perhaps, at the expression of a rudeness, as at
the commission of a sin. Not that such persons would hold a sin to
be less criminal or innocuous than would we ourselves; but that
they regard mere conduct as of so much more importance.
When, therefore, she praised William Edgerton for those qualities
which I well knew I did not possess, I could not resist the annoyance.
My self-esteem--continually active--stimulated as it had been
by the constant moral strife, to which it had been subjected from
boyhood--was continually apprehending disparagement. Of the purity
of Julia's heart, and the chastity of her conduct, the very freedom
of her utterance was conclusive. Had she felt one single improper
emotion toward William Edgerton, her lips would never have voluntarily
uttered his name, and never in the language of applause. On this
head I had not then the slightest apprehension. It was not jealousy
so much as EGOISME that was preying upon me. Whatever it was,
however, it could not be repressed as I listened to the eulogistic
language of my wife. I strove, but could not subdue, altogether,
the evil spirit which was fast becoming predominant within me. Yet,
though speaking under its immediate influence, I was very far from
betraying its true nature. My egoisme had not yet made such advances
as to become reckless and incautious. I surprised her by my answer
to her eulogies.