 | CHAPTER XXX.
CONFESSION. Seacliff, or, The mystery of the Westervelts |  |
30. CHAPTER XXX.
CONFESSION.
“Dear Sir,—I find that my son has not yet turned out that
rascally Somerville, and dares not do it. I beg and insist
that you take immediate measures to send him adrift, even if
you and the gardener have to kick him off. He is such a
notorious, dirty rogue that his mere presence is enough to
ruin the name of a decent family; and, in addition, I find
that he has set afloat some scandalous stories concerning my
son's wife. Oust him instanter. Break his bones if necessary.
I will pay all damages. My son, by my desire, will
be at Seacliff to-morrow, and will support you with his authority,
whatever that may amount to.
SLEEP came to me so late that, as a consequence, it
left me late, or at least later than I expected. It
was nearly seven o'clock, when, going down stairs,
I found Mr. and Mrs. Van Leer, Mary, and Genevieve in
the parlor, all silent, and gazing abstractedly out of different
windows, as I have seen crazy people in lunatic asylums.
I had just inquired for Mr. Westervelt, and learned that he
had not yet been seen, when he walked slowly into the room,
unaware of us, his head bent, his hands unconsciously crumpling
a manuscript. When I spoke to him he looked up with
a start, and mumbled something which was doubtless meant
for Good-morning. Presently he drew the roll of paper
from behind him, shook his head sadly, sank into a chair, put
on his spectacles, and began to peruse the scrawled, blotted
pages with a sickening look of trouble.
“It is very bad,” he said at last, shaking his head again;
“very bad indeed; but not so bad as it might have been;
not so bad as some of us thought. Mary, has any one seen
Mrs. Westervelt?”
“I believe not, papa,” she replied; and all of us repeated
“No,” in succession.
“I have knocked at her door, but she did not answer,”
said he. “I suppose she is asleep,—worn out,—poor
child!”
It was touching to hear the tone of kindness, unaffected,
and, as it were, unconscious, with which he spoke of her.
“Well,” he resumed, after another glance at the manuscript,
“here is the whole story. It is a very bad one, but
not the worst,—thank Heaven, not the worst! I will read it
to you. You must all hear it.”
Mary quietly locked the doors, and we sat down around
him.
“My dear husband,” he began, but his voice faltered
weakly among the words, and sank helpless, soundless over
the last, the tenderest. He sought to recall his manhood;
he made an unavailing struggle with his heart, that was painful
to behold; and then, with a look at us which said, You
see that I cannot do it, he mutely handed me the paper. I
took the tear-stained, blurred, almost illegible pages, and read
aloud this sorrowful tale of weakness, crime, and retribution.
“I wish you in the first place to believe that I love you
from the bottom of my heart, and that never, never since our
marriage have I been unfaithful to you in deed or thought.
I declare this to you most solemnly, as if with my dying
breath; and I will repeat it to you at the last great day; and
God knows that it is the truth. Do not, I beg of you, believe
one word that Mr. Somerville may say against my honor as
a wife. I have sins enough to answer for, but not that one.
“To make you forgive me, or at least pity me a little, I
will tell you how I came under this wicked man's influence.
I committed a great crime, indeed, but not such a crime as
you suspect. You remember that my old uncle, Jacob C.
Van Leer, supported me from the time my parents died, introduced
me into society, dressed me handsomely, gave parties
for me, and took me to all the watering-places. While
he lived, I was quite a belle, very gay and very fashionable.
Alas! it was this which ruined me. If I had not loved dress
so, if I had not been so ambitious to move in the first society,
wretched one.
“Everybody said, and I always supposed, that, as my
uncle had no children, and I had no parents, he would leave
all his money to me, who had lived with him so long, and
been, as it were, his daughter. He had no other natural
heir, except my cousins, Henry and Robert, and he knew
that they were very rich already. But at last I learned that
he was anxious to keep his property in the name, and meant
to give it all to my cousins, only leaving me the interest of
ten thousand dollars until I should get married. It was Mr.
Somerville himself who told me that such a will had been
made. Mr. Somerville came to know about it, because he
was the junior partner of Mr. Longbill, my uncle's lawyer,
and helped to draught the papers. He was a very fashionable,
showy man then, as he is now, and pretended to be a
great friend of mine. His friendship began during my first
season at Saratoga, when he was excessively struck by my
waltzing. You remember, my dear husband, how fond I was
of waltzing when you first knew me. Oh, me! I shall never
waltz any more. But I was speaking of Mr. Somerville, and
of what he told me about the will. It made me very melancholy
and perhaps angry. I knew that I could not move
suitably in society on six or seven hundred a year. It
seemed very cruel of my uncle thus to blight my prospects,
especially after he had led me to entertain such expectations.
If my cousins had needed it, I would not have cared so much
about it; but it was too bad to cut me off so, merely to keep
the money in the name of Van Leer.”
“Why, she's crazy,” broke in Henry. “She wasn't cut
off; nothing of the sort. What in Heaven's name does she
mean?”
Mr. Westervelt turned a vacant eye on him and then
pointed to me. I continued from the manuscript.
“Mr. Somerville often told me so, in a manner that seemed
very friendly then, although I am sure now that it was for
wicked. He was quite frequent in his calls about this time,
and repeatedly made me presents of bouquets, and I occasionally
wondered if he had any serious intentions. But he
said nothing very remarkable until a little while after Mr.
Longbill died. Then he told me that now he was the manager
of my uncle's estate, and that there was nothing in the
world to prevent me from having the will altered. I told
him that I was ashamed to speak to my uncle about it. He
laughed at me, said that I was very innocent, and talked a
long time in a strange, joking way before I could understand
him. At last I saw that what he meant was to have a will
forged which should give me all the property. Oh, my dear
husband, I want that you should do me justice, and believe
that at first I was horror-struck at this dishonest and wicked
proposition. I told Mr. Somerville that I would not think
of it for a minute. But, oh! I did think of it night and day;
so troubled by it, that sometimes I could hardly eat or sleep;
so tempted that I could not get rid of the idea even in my
pleasantest parties. At last, when Mr. Somerville urged the
plan for perhaps the twentieth time, I half consented.”
“Oh, the devil!” exclaimed Henry Van Leer. “I begin
to understand. The will was a false one, eh? I say, Robert,
—well, never mind;—I'll tell you another time. Go on,
Mr. Fitz Hugh.”
“Yes, go on,” said Robert, excitedly. “You dry up,
Henry. What's the use interrupting so!”
“Oh, my husband!” the manuscript continued, “do not,
I beg of you, tell my cousins how much I have wronged
them, unless you must. I am obliged to tell you, but they
need never hear of it, surely; and then, you know, they do
not want the money. It was wrong to cheat them out of it,
but they did not feel the loss of it.”
“It must all go back,” spoke out Mary, in such a firm,
imperative voice as I had never before heard from her.
“Indeed, we cannot keep it.”
“Not a bit of it!” cried Robert, furiously. “I won't
touch the first red.”
“Please go on,” said Mr. Westervelt, languidly, and I
continued.
“Well, when I had consented, Mr. Somerville brought me
a false will, all complete, with a signature like my uncle's
and several others of witnesses. Nothing was left out but
the date, which he said must not be added till my uncle died.
Whether he wrote the paper himself or hired some other
person to do it, I do not know, for he never told me, and he
could imitate every sort of handwriting. The will gave me
all my uncle's property, except a thousand dollars a-piece to
my cousins.” (“That's so,” muttered Henry.) “Mr. Somerville
showed it to me once, and then I did not see it again for
more than a year; that is, not till my uncle was dying. Then
he brought me the real will (though I don't know how he got
hold of it) and the false one with it, and made me read them
over. I pretended to do it, but I hardly saw one word that
was in them, I was crying so at the thought of my poor old
uncle and of my own wickedness.
“`Now,' said he, when I handed them back to him, `burn
the one that you dislike.'
“`Give me the false one, then,' said I. `I can't burn the
other. I won't do it. It is too wicked.'
“He tossed me one of them, and I threw it into the grate
without looking at it.
“`There,' said he; `there goes the true will; it was the
true will I gave you.'
“I jumped to save it, but it was already half burned.
Then I threatened to run up stairs and confess the whole to
my uncle; but it seemed too late, he was so near death; and,
finally, I dared not do it. While I was still wringing my
hands and walking about the room in a fright, Mr. Somerville
demanded my signature to a paper promising to pay
him ten thousand dollars when I came into possession of my
uncle's property. I signed it, because he threatened to expose
that I did not know what to do. The moment he had my
name, he took both the papers and hurried off. I suppose
that he went to put the false will in place of the old one before
any one should discover its absence; but I do not know,
for he never told me anything about it, and I cannot even
guess how he got at my uncle's private papers. Perhaps it
was half an hour afterward, though it seemed a whole day,
that a servant came to tell me that uncle was suddenly
worse, and would only live a few minutes. I ran up to the
room crying, and fainted away by the bedside. Oh, my husband!
I was really very much to be pitied, notwithstanding
that I was such a guilty tool of a wicked man.”
“Poor Nelly!” Henry Van Leer muttered, perhaps unawares
to himself.
“Why, good Lord! we would have given her the
money,” exclaimed Robert. “Good Lord! we wouldn't
have taken the first dollar from her.”
“Please to continue,” said Mr. Westervelt, again, without
seeming to notice the Van Leers.
“And now, my dear husband,” I read on, “you understand
the whole. Now you can see how I came under the influence
of Mr. Somerville, and never could break away from
him, no, not even when you commanded me to do so. Much
as I have loved you,—and I have loved you dearly,—I dared
quarrel with you sooner than with him. Oh! that man has
been the terror and anguish of my life. I have feared him
day and night, present and absent. I have hated him, too,
as I never thought I could hate any of my fellow-creatures.
He made me wicked, and he has kept me wicked. How often,
when I was the belle of the evening, when I was laughing
and dancing as though I was too gay to think, have I envied
the homeliest and most unnoticed woman present, if I saw a
look of pure, sinless happiness in her face! How willingly
and joyfully would I have given up my ill-gotten wealth, if I
could have regained my old innocence! But, you see, it
I came by it. So I had to keep my money, and it was a
perpetual torment.
“I paid Mr. Somerville his ten thousand dollars. What
he did was worth that, if I had really cared to have him do
it. But that was only the beginning of his extortions. He
spent his money on bad women, or gambled it away, in a few
months, and then he demanded more, threatening to show me
up if I refused. I thought that he was as guilty as I, but I
knew that he was far more reckless, and I did not dare to
make him desperate. Although I was worth fifty thousand
dollars, I had to economize closely, in order to meet the checks
he drew on me. He spent nearly all my income one year,
and made me use part of my capital for my own support. At
last, my dear husband, you addressed me, and I accepted
you. I hoped that your position and character would be a
defence to me, and keep off this villain, who so tortured and
robbed me. But he was too cunning and too desperate to be
beaten. During all our engagement, yes, and during all our
married life, in America and in Europe, he has haunted,
plagued, terrified, and plundered me. I have wondered a
thousand times that you never saw into our miserable secret.
How could you help seeing that I hated this man, and yet
dreaded him so that I did not dare to say that I hated him!”
Mr. Westervelt interrupted the reading with a groan, but
made no remark. The Van Leers muttered half audible
maledictions.
“Let me tell you some particular things that he has done,”
the narrative went on. “You will hardly believe that a man,
who is so polite and graceful as he is in society, can be guilty
of such ungentlemanliness and cruelty to a woman; but, so
sure as I live, and God lives, all that I am going to tell you
is the sacredest truth. He has often pretended to be in love
with me, and has made me such proposals that I am ashamed
to tell them, and would only stop urging the subject when I
would give him money. Then, if I had nothing for him, he
I begged and cried to have him spare it, because it was left
me by my mother when I was a little girl. After that he
often carried off my jewelry and laces, sometimes before my
eyes and sometimes secretly. He frequently threatened to
be the death of me, swore at me, and called me the vilest
names, all to make me furnish him money.”
Mr. Westervelt groaned again here, while the Van Leers
cursed loudly and furiously.
“At last, he began to strike me; yes, as true as God lives,
to strike me.”
“Is the man a beast?” roared Henry Van Leer. “I
swear, I'll kill him. But, go on. Let's hear. Let's hear
the whole of it. I'll finish him;—I'll—”
“It was just before we went to Europe, that he first struck
me,” I read. “I had not seen him for a long while, except
by accident at a party, and then only to say Good-evening.
Sometimes he would leave me alone in this way, when he got
plenty of money from other sources; and then I would get
heart again, go into society, and try to be happy, as I was
before. You must remember, my dear husband, how I used
to differ in this respect at different times. You must remember
how cheerful and sociable I became during that whole
year when he was absent in Europe, just before our own
tour. Did you ever see me lively and happy when he was
about? Now you know the reason.
“Well, when he returned, I was anxious to be away, and
teased you into going abroad. I tried to keep the affair a
secret, but he heard of it. While we were staying at the
Millionaire Hotel, in New York, he saw me in the passage,
followed me into my room, told me to hush my noise when I
offered to call the servants, and demanded money. As I said
that I had none, he put his hand in my dress pocket, and then
rummaged my drawers until he found my porte-monnaie and
three bracelets. The bracelets were valuable,—one a diamond,—and
the porte-monnaie contained about fifty dollars.
me to sign it. I refused. He locked the door, and began to
curse me. I still refused, and tried to get at the bell. He
struck my hands three or four times, and finally struck me in
the face. I screamed, but no one heard me, and he struck
me again, and pulled my hair, until I promised to be still.
At last he said he would go away if I would sign a draft for
two hundred and fifty dollars. You will not wonder that I
did so.”
I need not repeat the running comments of the Van Leers;
they were frequent and profane at this stage of the story.
“Father, ought we to hear all this?” asked Mary.
“Stay,” said he. “You must hear it all. It will be a
lesson to you. Oh, what a lesson!”
“You know how soon he followed us to Europe,” the confession
went on. “You know how he stuck by us at Paris,
and again at Florence, until I persuaded you away from both
those beautiful places before we had half seen them. You
could not imagine then why I was so unreasonable and obstinate.
In Europe, he repeatedly robbed me; repeatedly threatened
and cursed and struck me. I used to make the girls wear
my best laces, and keep my jewelry in their trunks, so that
he could not possibly get at them. Finally, he threatened
so violently that he would ruin me, and send me to Sing
Sing, that I sold nearly half my ornaments, and gave him the
money, which was about fifteen hundred francs. At Florence,
when I met him at the Grand Ducal ball, he tried to make
me give him a draft on my bankers, at home, for two thousand
dollars, promising to let me entirely alone in future, if I
would do so. When I refused, he said that I should learn
his vengeance as soon as I got to America. That was the
last time I saw him in Europe.
“In a fortnight after we reached home he reappeared, and
robbed me of my Neapolitan corals. They were not marked;
—I never had my name on things now;—I was afraid he
would pledge them, and then a name would have discovered
found out how my valuables disappeared, and why I wore so
little lace and jewelry, when before I wore such a quantity.
Oh, I have had to tell you so many falsehoods! I do most
humbly and earnestly ask your pardon for them. You see
how wretchedly I was forced to lie.
“It was after we returned from Europe that Mr. Somerville
began to put advertisements in the secret column of the
New York Tattler. He addressed me by the name of Josephine,
and signed himself Rudolph. Sometimes he demanded
money in this way, sometimes threatened me with exposure,
and sometimes ordered me to meet him in this or that part
of the city, which was often a very low quarter. Perhaps
these advertisements were the revenge that he spoke of in
Florence. At all events, they used to frighten me dreadfully,
they seemed so public, and so easily understood. Yet I subscribed
for the Tattler, and always felt wretchedly when it
failed, for fear that I should miss seeing his advertisements,
and so he would get furious, and expose me.
“I soon found that I could not enjoy myself in New York
society, because he was always there, and always ready to
torment me. That was the reason that I bought this Seacliff
house, and chose to live in the country, when, as you know,
I hate country life. But he followed us up here as soon as
summer came, and recommenced his old persecutions, becoming
more and more violent as I grew poorer and less able to
satisfy him. I think that he has robbed me, all together, of
about ten thousand dollars, besides the first sum that I gave
him. All this I had to conceal, as well as I could, by silence
and lying. Then no sooner had I covered up one loss in a
manner, than he would come for more money, and I would
have to find it or endure everything.
“There is one thing that I want Mary should know. A
little while ago he told me that he really believed I was running
low, and that he was going to look elsewhere for money.
He said that he should marry one of the girls, because he
could attack Westervelt, senior, to advantage, and get at least
a hundred thousand dollars out of him. He said that he
should choose Mary, and that I must help him by influencing
her in his favor, and by saying things against Mr. Fitz Hugh,
who was the only person that he feared as a rival. I begged
that he would not do it; for I loved Mary too well to wish
her married to such a bad, cruel man; but he insisted so,
and threatened me so, that at last I promised to do just as he
ordered. I never did, however; on the contrary, I said what
I could to prejudice Mary against him; yes, my husband,
I even risked discovery to keep her out of his power. I
want you to tell Mary this, so that she may not hate and
despise me utterly.
“I have lost very little jewelry, this summer, because I
had little to lose. My Geneva watch, my Paris bracelet, my
miniature, and some laces, are all that he has got from me.
He took an emerald which I had given to Jenny, but lost it,
and Johnny Treat brought it back. The girls will see now
why I have been so free of my ornaments. But I have been
obliged to give him about four hundred and fifty dollars since
last June, and I have suffered such treatment as has almost
driven me crazy. Oh, my husband, how is it possible that
you could not see how miserable I was, and why I was so
miserable! But you have been away a great deal, and when
you were at home you were full of your business. A great
many times I have been on the point of telling you everything,
but I dared not, and how could I dare? Twice I have
bought poison, and sat looking at it for hours, trying to get
courage to take it, and then have thrown it away, with a
scream, because I came so near doing it. Very often, too, I
have taken the dagger which you bought at Naples, when
you thought of travelling in Sicily, and held it to my heart
till I felt as if I should have fainted.
“Pity me, my dear husband, and try to forgive me. That
is all I ask, and more than I deserve. I am not worthy of
worthy of being the mother of our dear little boy. But oh,
in the name of Heaven, pity me and do not curse me. It
will be hard for you, perhaps.” (“No, not hard,” murmured
Mr. Westervelt.) “I make you very unhappy; almost as
unhappy as I am. But you have a kind heart. You will see
me once more before I die, will you not? After that I will
ask you for nothing farther.
“I have told you all now that you need know. I have
confessed all my guilt. There is nothing else to tell;—I
swear it as before my God.
Mr. Westervelt did not look up when I ended. He sat
still, his chin on his bosom, his eyes on the floor, his hands
folded, an image of quiescent, helpless suffering. Mary rose
up, the firmest and bravest of the two sisters, notwithstanding
her inborn gentleness, and, putting her arm around Genevieve's
waist, led her out of the room. Mrs. Van Leer followed,
sufficiently pale and cast down for decency, but not by
any means the cheerless creature that she had been at this
time the day before, and perhaps disposed to thank God on
the whole that she was not as other women. It is a matter
of much satisfaction and gratitude with me to observe how
heroically most of us endure the misfortunes of other people.
What would become of the human race if we really loved
our neighbors as ourselves? It would die of a broken heart
before next Christmas. Heaven be praised for that great
conservative quality, that salvatory instinct, that beneficent
though unbeautiful virtue, so absurdly abused by well-meaning
but short-sighted theologians and philanthropists, the
Charity that begins at home! I will not attempt to deny,
however, that Mrs. Van Leer may have been somewhat
over-zealous, and, as it were, superstitious in her devotion to
this particular grace.
“Mr. Westervelt, now don't say a word about that money,”
blurted Robert. “Don't you offer it, sir. I shan't touch it.”
“Nor I, either,” added his brother. “Not a dollar.”
“But that's very little,” resumed Robert. “That's a small
affair. As to the—the—well, the shame of it, I don't know
what to say. It's a hard case for you, Mr. Westervelt. It's
a hard case for us, too. She's our cousin as well as your
wife. We must bear and help bear.”
“Yes,” said Henry; “That's very true, Bob. Mr. Westervelt
and we must stand by each other.”
“Gentlemen, I thank you for your kindness,” replied Mr.
Westervelt, seeming to start all at once into a consciousness
of the conversation. “But I cannot keep this property. It
is all yours. I shall repay you, as soon as I can, the portion
that has been squandered and the interest. As to my shame,
I will endure that as well as God will help me to do.”
It is astonishing how little the lachrymal glands are used
by men of the Anglo-Saxon breed. Masculine weeping
seems to have been quite respectable in classic days; Socrates
was considered little better than a fool for not crying before
his judges; Cicero had no hesitation about wetting the manly
toga and the senatorial rostrum with pathetic gushings; and,
generally, the heroes and sages of those times were what we
should call a womanish lot in this particular of whimpering.
As for the moderns of other races than ours, they blubber copiously
without distinction of sex. I shall never forget my
astonishment when I first saw a moustached Frenchman, who
doubtless would not have hesitated, at the command of honor,
to fight a duel or charge a battery, burst into public tears in
broad noon-day. But here was this timid, sensitive, fragile
man, no hero, the farthest from it possible, sitting dry-eyed in
his dungeon of sorrows, and merely showing a few nervous
twitches of the mouth and hands as Giant Despair turned the
invisible thumb-screws. I had seen him weep, indeed, but it
was with me alone, once only, and then no more.
To all the generous urgencies and expostulations of the
but a monotonous shaking of the head, and at last begged
them, with some little peevishness, to drop the subject.
“Well, sir, wait a while, then, and think of it,” observed
Henry. “But we must finish this Somerville, Bob,” he
added, clenching his weighty fist.
“Yes, we must,” returned Robert. “I'll try that. I can
devote my life to that. I've nothing else to do; nothing else
particular to live for.”
Mr. Westervelt left the library silently; and after waiting
a moment to let him escape us if he wished, we followed his
example. He went with slow, trembling steps to his wife's
room, and called softly “Ellen!” The key turned, the door
opened a little way, there was a sound as of some one kneeling,
a sobbing whisper, and he entered. What words passed
in that chamber during the next half hour I partially know,
but may not repeat, because they are set apart, and, as it
were, sanctified by grief and forgiveness,—grief the most uncomforted
and forgiveness the most tender.
The Van Leers were now for driving over to Rockford
and breaking Somerville's bones without farther delay; but
to this attractive plan of action I objected for fear that it
might result in unveiling the mystery. Much as Somerville
deserved to writhe under some severe and immediate punishment,
it seemed best to defer that pressing justice, rather than
make the Westervelts the butt of a county's scandal in the
very moment that their calamity had fallen upon them. It
cost much reasoning and persuasion to wheedle the brothers
from a vengeance so congenial to their muscular natures;
but at last they agreed to leave the villain for that day in
peace,—the peace, we hoped, of uncertain terrors and remorse,—the
peace of demons and the lost.
During the remainder of the day Mrs. Westervelt kept
herself secluded, allowing no one to enter her room but her
husband and Willie. Toward evening Mr. Westervelt came
to me with a disturbed look, in which I thought I saw the
workings of some new trouble.
“I am afraid that my wife—I am afraid that she is losing
her mind,” he whispered. “She talks very strangely this
afternoon. I happened to allude to that dreadful paper again.
She denied that she had made any confession; denied that
she knew a person by the name of Somerville; said it was a
very odd name, and burst out laughing at it. What do you
think of that, Mr. Fitz Hugh? Very singular,—very abnormal,—isn't
it? I wish you could see her, but she won't
allow it.”
“A physician,” I suggested. “Send to Rockford immediately.”
“I would—I would,” he began, and hesitated. “But, you
know—she might say something—might rave about the truth.
Well, never mind; they would call it raving; would think
nothing of it. I will send instantly.”
He sent; the doctor came; pronounced her sane. Mr.
Westervelt shook his head sadly, and whispered to me that it
was only a lucid moment. He watched her constantly, and
would not suffer Willie to be alone with her, although she
entreated it with tears, saying that now he was the only creature
in the world who did not despise and hate her. It was
eight o'clock in the evening when the doctor went away. The
day had passed in a sort of stupor, without action and without
resolve; we had done nothing with Somerville, nor had we
decided what to do with him, nor what to do with Mrs. Westervelt,
nor what to do with ourselves. In the mean time
destiny was shaping such an end of all, such a punishment
for the guilty man, such a rest for the wretched woman, as
we could not have fashioned short of crime.
During the evening, Mr. Westervelt became more firmly
convinced that his wife's mind had given way. A portion of
her conversation, which he repeated to me, was the very
rodomontade and perplexity of madness. Does it seem
strange to any one, does it seem incredible that she should
now break down suddenly under her guilty conscience, when
she had borne it for years so steadily and without any visible
Thackeray, observes, in effect at least, that discovery is the
fang which oftenest introduces the poison, remorse. The
satire is pointed, and barbed also, cutting deep and sticking
fast in the sore of ignoble cowardice which in one form or
another so commonly infects our moral nature; and although
there may be many sincere souls who need no other torment
than their own sharp consciences, yet do I fear that the most
of us can sleep with a certain miserable calmness in sin,
until a strength from without stings us. Besides, consider
how weakened the mind must become by long struggle to
hide guilt; day by day, insensibly, it fails and grows toward
decay; at last the shock of discovery crushes it at a
blow.
When we retired late in the evening, Mr. Westervelt
noiselessly locked his wife into her room, and then lay down
in front of her door on a mattress brought for the purpose.
I threw myself dressed on a sofa in the parlor, while Robert
took the chamber lately occupied by Somerville, and the rest
went to their usual sleeping places; all of us leaving our
doors open, so that we might hear and be quickly at hand in
case the lunatic attempted to do herself or others an injury.
Her furniture had been quietly searched for arms, and her
blinds nailed on the outside, without seemingly causing her
any surprise or vexation.
| CHAPTER XXX.
CONFESSION. Seacliff, or, The mystery of the Westervelts | |