Such was the letter that Lucia gave to me, on the very
day that it was received! I wondered at her. There
was a meaning in it, that I dreaded to fathom---nor had
I an opportunity, for nearly three weeks; during
which time, James was born. Yes, James, you were
the first fruit of our union---our pride and beauty:---
and Ellen had a little girl; a very feeble, sickly thing,
who, heaven bless the sweet creature, I saw afterward
dying in your brother's arms.
As soon after these events had happened, and the
tumult, of a father's and a husband's heart, had been
permitted to subside, as it could be, I opened the subject
anew to Lucia.
She was holding my boy in her arms; her red lips
looking, as if they had been moistened with the kisses
of her own babe.
`Lucia,' said I; `have you answered Archibald's
letter?'
I had no idea that she had. I asked the question only
by way of introducing the subject, for I have observed
that women are less scrupulous about entrusting
their sacredest and fearfullest thought and confession,
to men, than to women; even if these women be their
mothers, sisters, or daughters; and that, when they do
this, they choose neither father, brother nor child, nor
husband nor lover. And they are safer in it. Men
feel a pride in such confidence; a pride too, in protecting
and advising, their helplessness. There cannot be
any collision of interest or passion—nor envy, nor uncharitableness
between them. My remark, therefore,
was intended to lead her into just such a disclosure, as
would give most ease to her own heart. I asked no
questions. I meant to ask none. But to what I said,
she replied:
