Why did I not stay? I should ask that question of myself in vain. When the heart grows perverse, it acquires a taste for wilfulness. I, myself, longed to stay; could I have been persuaded that she certainly desired it, I should have found my sweetest pleasure in remaining. But there was the rub—that doubt! all that she said, looked, did, seemed, through the medium of the blind heart, to be fraudulent.
“She would disguise her anxiety, that you should be gone. Leave her, and in twenty minutes she and Edgerton will be together.”
Such was the whisper of my demon. I did leave her. I went forth for an hour into the woods—returned suddenly and found them together! They were playing chess, Mrs. Porterfield, with all her spectacles, watching the game. I did not ask, and did not know, till afterward, that the express solicitation of the old lady had drawn her from her chamber, and placed her at the table. The conjecture of the evil spirit proved so far correct, and this increased my confidence in his whispers. Alas! how readily do we yield our faith to the spirit of hate! how slow to believe the pure and gentle assurances of love!
Three days passed after this fashion. Edgerton no longer expressed indisposition, yet he made no offer to depart. I took care that neither word nor action should remind him of his trespass. I gave the parties every opportunity, and exhibited the manner of an indifference which was free from all disquiet—all suspicion. The sadness, meanwhile, increased upon the countenance of Julia. She gazed at me in particular with a look of earnestness amounting to distress. This I ascribed to the strength of her passions. There was even at moments a harshness in her tones when addressing me now, which was unusual to her. I found some reason for this, equally unfavorable to her fidelity. After dinner I said to Edgerton:—
“You are scarcely strong enough for a bout at the bottle. I take wine with Kingsley this afternoon. He has commissioned me to ask you.”
“I dare not venture, but that should not keep you away.”
“It will not,” I said indifferently.
“Thank him for me, if you please, but tell him it will not do for one so much an invalid as myself.”
“Very good!” and I left him, and joined Kingsley. The business of this friend being now in a fair train for final adjustment, he was preparing for his return to Texas. He had not been at my lodgings since Edgerton's arrival in M—, but we had seen each other, nevertheless, almost every day at his or at my office. Our afternoon was rather merry than cheerful. Heaven knows I was in no mood to be a bon compagnon, but I took sufficient pains that Kingsley should not suspect I had any reasons for being otherwise. I had my jest—I emptied my bottle—I said my good things, and seemed to say them without effort. Kingsley, always cheerful and strong-minded, was in his best vein, and mingling wit and reflection happily together, maintained the ball of conversation with equal ease and felicity. He had the happy knack of saying happy things quietly—of waiting for, and returning the ball, without running after it. At another time, I should have been content simply to have provoked him. Now, I was quite too miserable not to seek employment; and to disguise feelings, which I should have been ashamed to expose, I contrived to take the lead and almost grew voluble in the frequency of my utterance. Perhaps, if Kingsley failed in any respect as a philosopher, it was in forbearing to look with sufficient keenness of observation into the heart of his neighbor. He evidently did not see into mine. He was deceived by my manner. He credited all my fun to good faith, and gravely pronounced me to be a fortunate fellow.
“How?” I demanded with a momentary cessation of the jest. His gravity and—to me—the strange error in such an observation—excited my curiosity.