"If she reveals not the truth in season," I said in my secret soul;

"if she claims not protection at my hands against the adulterer,

she shall share his fate!" and with this resolve, even at the moment

when I was measuring the antidote for myself, I resolved that the

same vial should furnish the bane for her!

The medicine relieved me, though not with the same promptness as

usual. I looked at the watch and found it two o'clock. My wife

begged me to come to bed, but that was impossible. I proceeded

to change my garments. By the time that I had finished, the rain

ceased, the stars came out, the morning promised to be clear. I

determined to set forth from my office. I had no particular purpose;

but I felt that I could not meditate where she was. She continually

spoke to me--always tenderly and with great earnestness. I pleaded

my spasms as a reason for not lying down. But I lingered. I was as

unwilling to go as to stay. I longed to hear her narrative; and,

once or twice, I fancied that she wished to tell me something. But

she did not. I waited till near daylight, in order that she should

have every opportunity, but she said little beyond making professions

of love, and imploring me to come to bed.

In sheer despair, at last, I went out, taking my pistol-case,

unperceived by her, under my arm. I went to my office where I

locked it up. There I seated myself, brooding in a very whirlwind

of thought, until after daylight.

When the sun had risen, I went to a man in the neighborhood who

hired out vehicles. I ordered a close carriage to be at my door

by a certain hour, immediately after breakfast. I then despatched

a note to Kingsley, saying briefly that Edgerton and myself would

call for him at nine. I then returned home. My wife had arisen, but

had not left the chamber. She pleaded headache and indisposition,

and declined coming out to breakfast. She seemed very sad and

unhappy, not to say greatly disquieted--appearances which I naturally

attributed to guilt. For--still she said nothing. I lingered near

her on various small pretences in the hope to hear her speak. I

even made several approaches which, I fancied, might tend to provoke

the wished-for revelation. Indeed, it was wished for as ardently

as ever soul wished for the permission to live--prayed for as

sincerely as the dying man prays for respite, and the temporary

remission of his doom.

In vain! My wife said little, and nothing to the purpose. The

moments became seriously short. Could she have anything to say?

Was it possible that, being innocent, she should still lock up the

guilty secret in her bosom? She could not be innocent to do so!

This conclusion seemed inevitable. In order that she should have

no plea of discouragement, I spoke to her with great tenderness of

manner, with a more than usual display of feeling. It was no mere

show. I felt all that I said and looked. I knew that a trying and

terrible event was at hand--an event painful to us both--and all

my love for her revived with tenfold earnestness. Oh! how I longed

to take her into my arms, and warn her tenderly of the consequences

of her error; but this, of course, was impossible. But, short of

this, I did everything that I thought likely to induce her confidence.

I talked familiarly to her, and fondly, with an effort at childlike

simplicity and earnestness, in the hope that, by thus renewing the

dearest relations of ease and happiness between us, she should be

beguiled into her former trusting readiness of speech. She met my

fondnesses with equal fondness. It seemed to give her particular

pleasure that I should be thus fond. In her embrace, requiting

mine, she clung to me; and her tears dropping warm upon my hands,

were yet attended by smiles of the most hearty delight. A thousand

times she renewed the assurances of her love and attachment--nay,

she even went so far as tenderly to upbraid me that our moments

of endearment were so few;--yet, in spite of all this, she still

forbore the one only subject. She still said nothing; and as I knew

how much she COULD say and ought to say, which she did not say, I

could not resist the conviction that her tears were those of the

crocodile, and her assurances of love the glozing commonplaces of

the harlot.




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