All was stillness there, but there was no peace. I entered the

piazza, threw myself into a chair, and gazed out upon the leaves and

waters, trying to collect my scattered thoughts--trying to subdue

my blood, that my thoughts might meet in deliberation upon

the desolating prospect which was then spread before me. But I

struggled for this in vain. But one thought was mine at that hour.

But one fearful image gathered in completeness and strength before

my mind; and that was one calculated to banish all others and baffle

all their deliberations.

"The blood of William Edgerton must be shed, and by these hands!

My disgrace is known! There is no help for it!"

I had repeatedly resolved this gloomy conviction in my mind. It

was now to receive shape and substance. It was a thing no longer

to be thought upon. It was a thing to be done! This necessity

staggered me. The kindness of the father, the kindness and long

true friendship of the son himself, how could I requite this after

such a fashion? How penetrate the peaceful home of that fond family

with an arm of such violence, as to tend their proudest offspring

from the parental tree, and, perhaps, in destroying it, blight

for ever the venerable trunk upon which it was borne? Let it not

be fancied that these feelings were without effect. Let it not be

supposed that I weakly, willingly, yielded to the conviction of

this cruel necessity--that I determined, without a struggle, upon

this seemingly necessary measure! Verily, I then, in that dreary

house and hour, wrestled like a strong man with the unbidden

prompter, who counselled me to the deed of blood. I wrestled with

him as the desperate man, knowing the supernatural strength of

his enemy, wrestles with a demon. The strife was a fearful one. I

could not suppress my groans of agony; and the cold sweat gathered

and stood upon my forehead in thick, clammy drops.

But the struggle was vain to effect my resolution. It had been

too long present as a distinct image before my imagination. I had

already become too familiar with its aspects. It had the look of

a fate to my mind. I fancied myself--as probably most men will do,

whose self-esteem is very active--the victim of a fate. My whole

life tended to confirm this notion. I was chosen out from the

beginning for a certain work, in which, my-self a victim, I was

to carry out the designs of destiny in the ease of other victims.

I had struggled long not to believe this--not to do this work.

But the struggle was at last at an end. I was convinced, finally.

I was ready for the work. I was resigned to my fate. But oh!

how grateful once had one of these victims seemed in my eyes! How

beautiful, and still how dear was the other!




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