Instantly, a barrier seemed to rise up between Julia Clifford ind

myself. She had her consciousness, evidently, no less than I. What

was THAT consciousness? Ah! could I have guessed THAT, there would

have been no barrier--all might have been peace again. But a destiny

was at work which forbade it all; and we strove ignorantly with

one another and against ourselves. There was a barrier between

us, which our mutual blindness of heart made daily thicker, and

higher, and less liable to overthrow. A coldness overspread my

manner. I made it a sort of shelter. The guise of indifference is

one of the most convenient for hiding other and darker feelings.

Already we ceased to ramble by river and through wood. Already the

pencil was discarded. We could no longer enjoy the things which

so lately made us happy, because we no longer entertained the same

confidence in one another. Without this confidence there is no

communion sweet. And all this had been the work of that letter. The

name of William Edgarton had done it all--his name and threatened

visit!

But--and I read, the letter again and again--it would be some

time before he might be expected. The route, as laid down for him

by his father, was a protracted one. "Through Georgia, Tennessee,

Mississippi, then homeward, by way of Alabama." "He can not be

here in less than six weeks. He must travel slowly. He must make

frequent rests."

And there was a further thought--a hope--which, though it filled

my mind, I did not venture to express in words. "He may perish on

his route: if he be so feeble, it is by no means improbable!"

At all events, I had six weeks' respite--perhaps more. Such was

my small consolation then. But even this was false. In less than

a week from that time, William Edgerton stood at the door of our

cottage!

Instead of going into Tennessee, he had shot straight forward,

through Georgia, into Alabama.

Though surprised, I was not confounded by his presence. Under the

policy which I had resolved upon, I received him with the usual

professions of kindness, and a manner as nearly warm and natural

as the exercise of habitual art could make it. He certainly did

look very miserable. His features wore an expression of uniform

despair. They brightened up, when he beheld my wife, as the cloud

brightens suddenly beneath the moonlight. His eyes were riveted

upon her. He was almost speechless, but he advanced and took her

hand, which I observed was scarcely extended to him. He sat the

evening with us, and a chilly, dull evening it was. He himself

spoke little--my wife less; and the conversation, such as it was,

was carried on chiefly between old Mrs. Porterfield and myself.

But I could see that Edgerton employed his eyes in a manner which

fully compensated for the silence of his tongue. They were seldom

withdrawn from the quarter of the apartment in which my wife sat.

When withdrawn, it was but for an instant, and they soon again

reverted to the spot. He had certainly acquired a degree of

boldness, which, in this respect, he had not before possessed. I

keenly analyzed his looks without provoking his attention. It was

not possible for me to mistake the unreserved admiration that his

glance expressed. There was a strange spiritual expression in his

eyes, which was painful to the spectator. It was that fearful

sign which the soul invariably makes when it begins to exert itself

at the expense of the shell which contains it. It was the sign of

death already written. But he might linger for months. His cough

did not seem to me oppressive. The flush was not so obvious upon

his cheek. Perhaps, looking through the medium of my peculiar

feelings, his condition was not half so apparent as his designs.

At least, I felt my sympathies in his behalf--small as they were

before--become feebler with every moment of his stay that night.




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