Confession; Or, The Blind Heart. A Domestic StorySimms, William Gilmore
General
Confession; Or, The Blind Heart. A Domestic Story
Simms, William Gilmore
Domestic fiction
at his departure, she might have attended him to the entrance, and he
may have taken her hand and retained his grasp upon it rather longer
than was absolutely necessary for his farewell. How was I to know the
degree of pressure which he gave to the hand within his own? That single
grasp, not unfrequently, undid all the better impressions of a whole
evening consumed in these unworthy scrutinies. I will not seek further
to account for or to defend this unhappy weakness. Has not the great
poet of humanity said--
“Trifles, light as air,
Are, to the jealous, confirmations strong
As proofs Of Holy Writ”?
Medical men tell us of a predisposing condition of the system for
the inception of epidemic. It needs, after this, but the smallest
atmospheric changes, and the contagion spreads, and blackens, and taints
the entire body of society, even unto death. The history of the moral
constitution is not unanalogous to this. The disease, the damning doubt,
once in the mind, and the rest is easy. It may sleep and be silent for a
season, for years, unprovoked by stimulating circumstances; but let the
moral atmosphere once receive its color from the suddenly-passing cloud,
and the dark spot dilates within the heart, grows active, and rapidly
sends its poisonous and poisoning tendrils through all the avenues of
mind. Its bitter secretions in my soul affected all the objects of
my sight, even as the jaundiced man lives only in a saffron element.
Perhaps no course of conduct on the part of my wife could have seemed
to me entirely innocent. Certainly none could have been entirely
satisfactory, or have seemed entirely proper. Even her words, when she
spoke to me alone, were of a kind to feed my prevailing passion. Yet,
regarded under just moods, they should have been the most conclusive,
not simply of her innocence, but of the devotedness of her heart to
the requisitions of her duty. Her love and her sense of right seemed
harmoniously to keep together. Gentlest reproaches eluded me for
leaving her, when she sought for none but myself. Sweetest endearments
encountered my return, and fondest entreaties would have delayed the
hour of my departure. Her earnestness, when she implored me not to leave
her so frequently at night, almost reached intensity, and had a meaning,
equally expressive of her delicacy and apprehensions, which I was
unhappily too slow to understand.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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