The whole affair was at that time unaccountable to me. It necessarily served to increase my pangs. Had I not seen her with my own eyes tenderly supporting the fainting frame of the man whom I believed to be my rival—whom I believed she loved? Had I not heard her scream of terror announcing her interest in his fate—her apprehensions for his safety? His danger had made her forgetful of her caution—such was the assurance of my demon—and in the fullness of her heart her voice found utterance. Besides, how was I to know what endearments—what fond pressure of palms—had been passing between them, making them heedless of their course, and consequently, making them liable to the accident which had occurred. For, it must be remembered, that the general impression was that Edgerton's foot had slipped, and, falling into the stream while endeavoring to assist Julia, he had nearly pulled her in after him. His fainting afterward we ascribed to the same nervous weakness which had induced that of Julia. On this head, however, Kingsley was better informed. He told me, in a subsequent conversation, that he had narrowly observed the parties—that, until the moment before he fell, the hands of the two had not met—that then, Edgerton offered his to assist my wife over the stream, and scarcely had their fingers touched, when Edgerton sank down, like a stone, seemingly lifeless, and falling into the water only after he had become insensible.
All was confusion. Mine, however, was not confusion. It was commotion—commotion which I yet suppressed—a volcano smothered, but smothered only for a time, and ready to break forth with superior fury in consequence of the restraint put upon it. This one event, with the impressive spectacle of the parties in such close juxtaposition, seemed almost to render every previous suspicion conclusive.
Julia was soon recovered; but the swoon of Edgerton was of much longer duration. We sprinkled him with water, subjected him to fanning and friction, and at length aroused him. His mind seemed to wander at his first consciousness—he murmured incoherently. One or two broken sentences, however, which he spoke, were not without significance in my ears.
“Closer! closer! leave me not now—not yet.”
I bent over him to catch the words. Kingsley, as if he feared the utterance of anything more, pushed me away, and addressing Edgerton sternly, asked him if he felt pain.
“What hurts you, Mr. Edgerton? Where is your pain?”
The harsh and very loud tones which he employed, had the effect which I have no doubt he intended. The other came to complete consciousness in a moment.
“Pain!” said he—“no! I feel no pain. I feel feeble only.”
And he strove to rise from the ground as he spoke.
“Do not attempt it,” said Kingsley—“you are not able. Wharton, my good fellow, will you run back to town, and bring a carriage?”