Mrs Porterfield, good old lady, half blind, half deaf, infirm and

gouty, but very good natured, easily complied with my request to

accommodate my friend. My friend!--She soon put one of her bed-rooms in

order, and Edgerton was in quiet possession of it sometime before

the pedestrians came home. When my wife was told of what I had

done, she was perfectly aghast. Her air of chagrin was well put on

and excellently worn. But she said nothing. Kingsley wore a face

of unusual gravity.

"You are either the most wilful or the most indifferent husband

in the world," was his whispered remark to me as he bade me good

night, refusing to remain for supper.

I said something to my wife about tending Edgerton--seeing to his

wants--nursing him if he remained unwell, and so forth She looked

at me with a face of intense sadness, but made no reply.

"She is too happy for speech," said my demon; "and such faces are

easily made for such an occasion."

I went in to Edgerton after a brief space; I found him feeble,

complaining of chill. His hands felt feverish. I advised quiet and

sent off for a physician. I sat with him until the physician came,

but I observed that my presence seemed irksome to him. He answered

me in monosyllables only; his eyes, meanwhile, being averted, his

countenance that of one excessively weary and impatient for release.

The physician prescribed and left him, as I did myself. I thought

he needed repose and desired to be alone. To my great surprise he

followed me in less than half an hour into the supper-room, where

he stubbornly sat out the evening. He refused to take the physic

prescribed for him and really did not now appear to need it. His

eyes were lighted up with unusual animation, his cheeks had an

improved color, and without engaging very actively in the conversation,

what he said was said with a degree of spirit quite uncommon with

him during the latter days of our intimacy.

Mr. Wharton spent the evening with us, and the ball of talk was

chiefly sustained by him and myself. My wife said little, nothing

save when spoken to, and wore a countenance of greater gravity

than ever. It seemed that Edgerton made some effort to avoid any

particularity in his manner, yet seldom did I turn my eyes without

detecting his in keen examination of my wife's countenance. At

such times, his glance usually fell to the ground, but toward the

close of evening, he almost seemed to despise observation, or--which

was more probable--was not conscious of it--for his gaze became

fixed with a religious earnestness, which no look of mine could

possibly divert or unfix. He solicited my wife to play on the

guitar, but she declined, until requested by Mrs. Porterfield,

when she took up the instrument passively, and sung to it one of

those ordinary negro-songs which are now so shockingly popular. I

was surprised at this, for I well knew that she heartily detested

the taste and spirit in which such things were conceived. Under

the tuition of my demon, I immediately assumed this to be another

proof of the decline of her delicacy. And yet, though I did not think

of this at the time, she might have employed the coarse effusion

simply as an antidote against the predominance of a morbid

sentimentalism. There is a moment in the history of the heart's

suffering, when the smallest utterance of the lips, or movement of

the form, or expression of the eye, is prompted by some prevailing

policy--some motive which the excited sensibilities deem of importance

to their desires.




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