University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

Some months had now elapsed since our
marriage; and in this time, my house and
young wife had lost most of their attractions.
My favorite habit, and one which contributed
not a little to my mood of sternness, was to
take long walks into the neighboring country;
and with my fowling-piece on my shoulder as
apologetic for my idle wanderings, the neighboring
forests for ten or fifteen miles round,
soon became familiar to my survey. Sometimes,
on these occasions, Harding would become
my companion; and as he was highly
contemplative in character, his presence did
not at all interfere with the gloominess of my

mood. It was on one of these occasions,
while traversing a dense wood, thickly sown
with undergrowth, and penetrable with difficulty,
that we sat down together upon the
trunk of a fallen tree, and fell into conversation.
Our dialogue was prompted by the circumstances
of our situation, and unconsciously
I remarked—

“Harding, this is just such a spot, which
one would choose in which to commit a murder!”

“Horrible!” was his reply, “what could
put such a thought into your head? This, is
just the spot now which I should choose for
the inception of a divine poem. The awful
stillness—the solemn gloom—the singular and
sweet monotony of sound, coming from the
breeze through the bending tree tops, all

seem well calculated to beget fine thoughts,—
daring fancies—bold and striking emotions.”

“You talk of taking life, as if it were the
crowning crime—it appears to me an error of
society by which the existence of a being, limited
to a duration of years, is invested with so
much importance. A few years lopt from the
life of an individual is certainly no such loss,
shortening as it must, so many of his cares
and troubles; and the true standard by which
we should determine upon a deed, is the amount
of good or evil which it may confer upon the
person or persons immediately interested.”

“That is not the standard,” was his reply—
“since that would be making a reference to
varying and improper tribunals, to determine
upon principles which should be even and immutable.
But, even by such a standard,

Martin, it would be a crime of the most horrible
complexion, for, leave the choice to the
one you seek to murder, and he will submit,
in most cases, to the loss of all his worldly
possessions, and even of his liberty, in preference
to the loss of life.”

“What would you say, William if you
knew I had been guilty of this crime?”

“Say!” he exclaimed, as his eyes shot
forth an expression of the deepest horror—
“say!—I could say nothing—I could never
look upon you again.”

I looked at him with close attention for a
moment, then, placing my hands upon his
shoulder with a deliberation which was significant
of the deepest madness, I spoke:

“Look—you shall look upon me again. I

have been guilty of this same crime of taking
life. I have been, and am, a murderer.”

He sprung upon his feet with undisguised
horror. His face was ashen pale—his lips
were parted in affright; and while I held one
of his hands, the other involuntarily was passed
over, entirely concealing his eyes. What
prompted me to the narration I know not. I
could not resist the impulse—I was compelled
to speak. It was my fate. I described my
crime—I dwelt upon all its particulars; but
with a caution, strangely inconsistent with the
open confidence I had manifested, I changed
the name of the victim—I varied the period,
and falsified, in my narrative, all the localities
of the crime; concluding with describing her
place of burial beneath a tree, in a certain

ground which was immediately contiguous,
and well known to us both.

He heard me out with wonder and astonishment.
His terror shook his frame as with
an ague, and at the conclusion he tried to
laugh, and his teeth chattered in the effort.

“It is but a story,” he said chokingly, “a horrible
story, Martin, and why do you tell it me?
I almost thought it true from the earnest manner
in which you narrated it.”

“It is true, William—true as you now
stand before me. You doubt, I will swear—”

“Oh, swear not—I would rather not believe
you—say no more, I pray you—tell me no
more.”

With a studied desperation—a malignant
pleasure, increasing in due proportion with the
degree of mental torture which he appeared

to undergo, I went again over the whole story
as I had before told it—taking care that my
description of each particular should be made
as vivid as the solemn and bold truth certainly
made it.

“I am a murderer! William Harding!”

“May God forgive you, Martin—but why
have you told me this—would you murder
me, Martin? Have I done any thing to offend
you?”

His excessive nervousness, at length, grew
painful, even to myself. “Nay, fear not, I
would not harm you, William, for the world.
I would rather serve and save you. But keep
my secret—I have told it you in confidence,
and you will not betray me.”

“Horrible confidence!” was his only reply,
as we took our way from the forest.