The Damning Letter

Mr. Wharton spent the evening with us, and the ball of talk was
chiefly sustained by him and myself. My wife said little, nothing
save when spoken to, and wore a countenance of greater gravity
than ever. It seemed that Edgerton made some effort to avoid any
particularity in his manner, yet seldom did I turn my eyes without
detecting his in keen examination of my wife's countenance. At
such times, his glance usually fell to the ground, but toward the
close of evening, he almost seemed to despise observation, or--which
was more probable--was not conscious of it--for his gaze became
fixed with a religious earnestness, which no look of mine could
possibly divert or unfix. He solicited my wife to play on the
guitar, but she declined, until requested by Mrs. Porterfield,
when she took up the instrument passively, and sung to it one of
those ordinary negro-songs which are now so shockingly popular. I
was surprised at this, for I well knew that she heartily detested
the taste and spirit in which such things were conceived. Under
the tuition of my demon, I immediately assumed this to be another
proof of the decline of her delicacy. And yet, though I did not think
of this at the time, she might have employed the coarse effusion
simply as an antidote against the predominance of a morbid
sentimentalism. There is a moment in the history of the heart's
suffering, when the smallest utterance of the lips, or movement of
the form, or expression of the eye, is prompted by some prevailing
policy--some motive which the excited sensibilities deem of importance
to their desires.