University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

It is strange, that, with my extended and
perfect knowledge of human character, and
my great love of mental and moral analysis,
I should have suffered myself to be taken in
by these external shows on the part of my
victim. Strange, that so sudden—so unlooked
for, an alteration from his wonted habit had
not aroused my jealousy—my suspicion of
some hidden motive. But, my blindness was
a part of my fate, or, how should it have been
that a creature so weak, so utterly dependent
as Harding had ever been, should have deceived
a spirit so lynx-eyed as mine. Led to consider
him too greatly the victim of the nervous

irritability, boy which, indeed, his every action
and impulse was distinguished, I had not looked
for the exercise, in his mind, of any of that
kind of energy, which would carry him undeviatingly
and perseveringly to the attainment of
any remote or difficult object, or to the accomplishment
of a far and foreign purpose. I had
neglected entirely to allow for the stimulating
properties of a defeat, to a mind which had
only lived for a single object. I had refused to
count upon the decision of character, which,
might, by probability, arise in a mind, however
in all other respects, variable and vascillating,
when concentrating itself upon the attainment
of a single end, and that, too, of a kind, so absorbing,
so all impelling as the attainment of
fame. I did not recollect that Harding had
himself acknowledged the existence of one
only passion, in his bosom; or, I should have
seen that his present change of manner, was but
a thin veil disguising and concealing some ulterior
project, subservient to the leading passion
of his spirit. I failed, therefore,—fool that
I was—to perceive the occult design, which
of a sudden had so completely altered all the
obvious characteristics of my companion—his
habits, his temper, and his hopes. Folly to
suppose, that with the loss of public estimation,
he would be content with life unless with
a desperate effort to regain his position. And
how could he regain that position? How, but
by establishing my guilt, and his innocence of
all malevolent intention. And such was his
design. Assured, as he now was, that I
was in truth a criminal—that I had committed
the murder of which I had accused myself,
and that I had only so varied the statement of
its particulars as to mislead and defeat enquiry
—and looking forward to the one single object,—that
of restoring himself to the popular
regards of which I had deprived him—he was
determined, of himself, to establish my crime—
to trace the story from the very imperfect data
I had myself given him, and by perpetual associations
with myself, and a close examination
into my moral make, to find out the materials
of evidence which should substantiate
his now defeated accusations. How blind was
I not to have perceived his object—not to see
through his unaccustomed artifices! The
genius—the gigantic genius of his mind, will
be best comprehended from this curious and
great undertaking, and from the ingenuity and
indefatigable industry with which he pursued
it. Nor, from this fact, alone, but coupled, as
under existing circumstances was the pursuit
adopted, his strength of character and firmness
of mind, are of the most wonderful description.
The task was attended with an association,
which, for a protracted period of
time, still further exposed him to the scornful
execrations and indignation of those, for whose
good opinion, alone, he was voluntarily about
to undergo all this additional load of obloquy.
Under these aspects the effort was a high-souled
and sublime one, and furnished one of
the best proofs of the moral elevation of his
genius. I regard it now, when too late to
arrest its exercise and progress, with a sentiment
little short of wonder and admiration.

All these occurrences, had, of course, been
made known to my wife; and shocked and

terrified as she had been—torn and distracted
between a sense of duty to myself, and a feeling
of deep, but unexpressed regard for my
accuser—when, for the first time after the
trial, I brought him to the house, with a highly
proper spirit—seeing the affair as she had seen
it—she declined making her appearance. I insisted
upon it:—

“How can you require such a thing?” was
her very natural inquiry. “Whatever may
have been his motive, has he not sought your
life. Has he not brought a foul and false accusation
against you, making you a criminal
of the darkest dye?”

“Look at me, Constance,” I said in reply,
as I took one of her hands in mine—“I am
the criminal—I committed the crime he charged
upon me, and which I myself had revealed

to him. His accusation, so far as he was
concerned, was neither foul nor false!”

And wherefore did I tell her this? Why
should I have multiplied the evidence against
me—why put myself at the mercy of another?
It might be enough to say that I did not fear
that Constance would betray me. As she
was a pure and delicate woman, her love for
him—treasured up in secret, and a source of
trembling and self-reproach, as I knew it must
be, to her heart—was my sufficient security.
She would not have linked her testimony with
his, however she might have hated me and
loved him, fearing that her motives might be
subject to the suspicion of others, as she herself
would have suspected them. This consideration
would have left me without fear, in
that quarter, but this was not a consideration

with me, in telling her the story. I could not
refrain from telling it—in spite of myself I was
compelled to do so—it was my fate.

I shall not attempt to describe her horror.
She was dumb, and in silence descended with
me to the apartment in which Harding had
been left. To him this was a moment of fearful
ordeal. The woman he loved, though
hopelessly, he had struck, through her husband.
He was not to know that I had most effectually
acquitted him, to her, of the offence, for
which he anticipated her scorn and hatred.
His anxiety and wretchedness were again
manifest until she relieved him, as with a
boldness of spirit which I had never before
seen her manifest, she walked forward, took
his hand, and welcomed him as if nothing had
happened. He looked first to me, then to her

and silently, with a tearful eye, and frame violently
agitated, he carried her hand to his lips.
She retreated, and was deeply confused by
this act. I saw her inmost soul, at that moment
in her face. Why had she not loved
me as she loved him? Why, oh, why?

That night, in my chamber, I said to her—
“You love this youth—speak not—I would
not have you deny it. I will tell you more—
would you know it?—he loves you too, and
there are few persons in the world more deserving
the love of one another. Were I dead
to-morrow you would most probably make the
discovery, and—”

“Oh, Martin Faber, I see not why you should
torment me in this manner. For heaven's
sake, let me have peace. Make not all miserable
about you; or, if you are bent on making

me so, let not your malice exercise itself on
this unhappy youth, whose life you have already
embittered, whose prospects you have
blighted—and to whom every hour of association
with yourself, must work additional evil.
Persuade him, for the repose of all, to leave
the country.”

“Would you fly with him! Beware, woman!
Think not to deceive me—I see into
your heart, and understand all its sinuosities.
Look that your interest in this enthusiast gets
not the better of your duty.”

She turned her head upon the pillow, and sobbed
bitterly:—yet, how wantonly had I uttered
these reproaches. The angels were not more
innocent in spirit than was she at that moment
when I had inflicted upon her the tortures of
the damned.