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`I have already written to him.'

`You have!' said I, astonished at her self-possession,
`and has it gone?'

`Yes; nearly three weeks since.'

I waited for a moment, fashioning to myself some
mode of inquiry, to prolong the conversation; while it
should neither distress her, nor myself; for I began to
love Lucia, the dear patient sufferer, with a quiet, deep
reverence, that never diminished, to the last moment of
her life.

`Take your babe, a moment,' said she, `and I will
show you the answer. You would like to see it; and I
kept the copy for you—and you alone. I would not
have Clara see it—John—'

She stopped, and put her white hand upon my child's
head.

`I shall not live long; not many months, I am sure;
as you wish for a blessing on that child, let the secret
die with you.'

`Sister—nay—do not go, yet.'

`O, it makes my heart warm,' she replied, locking
her hands, and pressing them fervently upon it, `to
hear that word from the lips of a man. Brother! sister!
O, there is comfort, strength, and honour in the
countenance of a brother!'

`Dear Lucia; I cannot give the pledge that you desire.
I cannot become the guardian of a secret, that
Clara may not participate in.'

`Do I hear aright, brother?'

`Yes. You do not know her; either commit it to
both, or—'

`Weak man,' said Lucia; `I pity you. what! can
there be no secret from a wife—none!—none of sorrow
or shame?'

`None!' I echoed, firmly—`none, certainly, of sorrow
or shame.'

`I will not stop to argue with you, John; there are
things, which must be left to trouble the heart of the
man alone; things, that should never be told, but with
a design to make the woman happier or wiser. Why
should she sorrow in anticipation of what may be uncertain?
Why, be made to weep at evils, which, to her
gentleness and inexperience, may be disheartening?
while, to the man of fortitude and steadiness, they are
but temporary embarrassments? No, my brother—no!
none but a weak husband will say: I will have no secret
from my wife. None but a weak husband will
trouble his wife with all that troubles him.'

`Lucia, hear me. Of all my pleasure, my wife hath
a full share; of all her sorrow, I would share all that
I may. But how may this be, if either believe that the
other has some untold malady of the spirit, or of the
heart; feeding, like a serpent, upon the vitals, day and
night; for which there is to be no remedy, not even that of
tears; no, sympathy, because it is untold. No! I will
hereafter have no secret, that I may not, under any circumstances
impart to my wife. All that I say is this:
Leave it to my discretion. Bind me by no promise.
Let me do as I may believe it best, whatever may happen.'

`You are right, brother,' said Lucia, in reply, `altogether
right. That is the spirit of a man. I will
trust to it. I will bring you the letter. It will tell,
not a fearful tale; for I am still (covering her face with
her hands, under pretence of excluding the sun,) too
much of a woman to tell it all: it will tell enough, to
show you that, while I live, it is no tale for the ear of
my sister.'

`There!' said she, returning soon after, with a face
unusually pale; `there! take it, while I have collectedness
and courage enough, to give it to you, with my
own hands: and read it. Nay, not yet; give me your
boy, your little Archibald,' (for so, we had first agreed

to call him, till Archibald requested him to be called
James, for what reason, I know not,) `and read it while
I am away.'

She came to me, then; and, putting both her hands
into mine, said, with a low, sweet, tremulous voice,
whose accents I hear yet, whenever I have been more than
usually devout and abstracted in my religious duty;
as if to reward me. `Remember my situation—tempted—tried—scorned—proud—young—helpless,
and
have compassion on me.' The tears gushed out of her
eyes, all at once, as she uttered these words; and she
had nearly fainted; but, at last, with James nestling
at her bosom, she succeeded in raising herself, and tottering
out of the room—the little brat squalling all the
while, as if he were bound up with pins and needles.
—yet his cry was musical—to me, I mean. He did
not cry like any other child, that ever I heard.

I opened the letter. It was hardly legible; written,
evidently, in the hurry of her feeling, without attention
to what the world are pleased to call pretty letter-writing.
It follows.

`You are deeply to blame, Archibald. You have
stirred up a spirit within me, that will never sleep
again. The darkness is scattered. I see clearly now,
more clearly than ever, the dim and perilous road, over
which I have trodden. You are very incoherent. I
shall, probably, be more so. You speak of my appearance,
when you saw me last. When do you mean?
Where was it? I do not understand you. Yet, making
all possible allowance for the aggravating power,
which we all have, and you, in an especial manner, of
picturing whatever is past and gone—irretrieveably
gone, as supremely beautiful and dear—I find something,
that has given me a clue to your meaning, where
you speak of the last time that you saw me. Yes, I
understand you—Archibald: I cannot deceive you.
On that very night, I first saw Clinton. It was he,
that I had been walking with. My heart was heavy,
sorrowful at your coldness—pining under mortification,
and sore with the jeering of my companions. He took

advantage of it. He spoke kindly of you—very kindly
—defended you—argued as you do, that you felt more
than other men, because you professed to feel so little.
Where we feel, we are hushed, terrified, silent, and under
a perpetual anxiety to please; our manner is constrained,
abrupt, fitful and capricious. Thus, he reasoned
with me. I began to like him; not for his own
sake, but for yours. When we returned, I found you
there; the same haughty, cold, and absent manner;
and I was piqued at it. A few minutes after, I was
rallied about Clinton; and threatened with your
wrath. I affected to scorn the latter; and, had you
not appeared with your heart in your eyes, while we
were talking, which you will probably remember, from
the confusion that it caused among us, for we were
afraid that you had overheard us—I know not what I
might have said of you. Your manner was new to me
—it carried me away. I could have fallen upon your
bosom and wept, before the whole world, Archibald;
as I live, I could, with simple joy, at the change. I
never shall forget your looks; your hand trembled;
your hair was wet, and waving over your temples;
your deep blue eye, were strangely dark and mellowed;
and your voice went to my heart. I do not remember
your words; I did not hear them; but the
sound, I have heard, again and again, since, in my
sleep. I found that I had never known you. I had
believed you too ambitious to love heartily; and I was
impatient of being loved, with aught less than absolute
and unqualified devotion. You were diminutive in your
person; it mattered little to me then, that your soul
was the soul of a giant. — You were neither handsome
nor showy; though the aged, I had seen, stand
still before you; and the wise holding their breath;
yet, such was the foolish weakness of my heart, that,
when I was surrounded with taller and handsomer, and
more fashionable men, I was afraid to acknowledge
any preference for you, even to myself. I loved you;
but I was ashamed of it: not ashamed of you—no, I
was very proud of you. But I could not abide to have
it known among my companions, that I had made such
a choice. They could not know you; and I have been
mortified to tears, more than once, at their jibes, the
simpletons! and their raillery, when, had you but entered
the room, you would have put them and all their
idols to shame, with a single word Archibald, this is
the truth. Do you remember that night, when I sat
upon the railing under the pear-tree, and you stood
hear me; and I turned away my face, and you asked
me, why I refused to answer you? Yes—you cannot
have forgotten it. The truth is this: I had not the
courage to tell the truth; and I could not tell a falsehood.
I was very happy. The expression of your
face was noble; and I was contemplating it, as you
stood looking at the soft low moon, at our left. I
had forgotten Clinton; all the world but you; when,
some devil forced the observation upon me, that you
were very short, and he very tall; nay—for there you
stood before me, that you were so very short (you have
grown since,) as not to overtop me much, when you
were standing and I sitting. It was this, that made
me turn away my face, and weep; for I did weep, Archibald.
I had been, more than once, on the point of mentioning
the walk, that I had taken with Clinton, in the
simplicity of a young heart, honest and ingenuous; but
a new, strange feeling of shame and discretion prevented
me, after I had thought of your stature. I excused
the concealment to myself—so unlike me, as it was;
by saying, that it was not worth the trouble; or that,
if it were, it would only make you uneasy: the two
reasons, exactly, which, had I known your temper
then, as I do now, would have made me tell you. This
kept Clinton in my mind. Yet I did not like him—
showy and brilliant, and fascinating, as he was allowed
to be—there was a freedom in his manners, which I
never liked. Yet it was a novelty; and, as he was a
general favourite, I could not well bear to throw him
utterly off, at once, while I was the subject of universal
envy. At last, I was provoked at your security.
You gave yourself no trouble about Clinton. You
never asked his name—never met him, and, I have since
found, never saw him; though he was with me every day.
Do you remember that evening after our pleasure party
upon the Delaware? as you stood upon the bank, and
a stranger came up to me, in the dim light of the hour,
and took my hand, and bade me good night, with the
air of an old acquaintance? You were silent for a moment
or two, after he had gone; and stepped back, as
you saw him take my hand, in a manner that I thought
tame. `Lucia,' said you, gravely, when you returned,
`he is very intimate with you.'

`Yes,' I replied, willing to tease you a little.

`Who is he?' said you.

`O, one of the finest fellows in the world!' I exclaimed,
affecting a great deal more enthusiasm, than I
felt; for, as I have told you before, I did not like him
—`a universal favourite.'

`Indeed!' said you—and were silent, until we
parted at the door. There, you lingered a moment.
There you spoke to me. I never shall forget either your
look or your words. You may have forgotten both.
I dare say that you have, but I never shall. The lamp
shone upon your face; it was pale as death; and I
thought that I could see the traces of weeping about
your eyes. My emotions were—what? sorrowful?—
Oh no, pleasant beyond all expression. It did my
heart good to find you so deeply interested in me, so
cruelly disturbed. It began to correspond with my
notions of love, and dominion I was a foolish girl then,
a coquette by nature.'

Said you—O, Archibald! I think that I can see
you now, and hear your low, mournful, deep voice
counselling me over again—said you. `Lucia—good
night? Good night, love. Forgive me, for my silence;
I have been troubled. I tremble for you—I tremble
for myself. You are too kind hearted. You form your
opinions too hastily. I pray heaven that you may
never have reason to reproach yourself for it—nor to
— to — to —, (your voice grew indistinct,—`good
night! good night! dear Lucia!'

After this, I said no more; and thought no more of
Clinton. My disposition had altered; and I began to
look upon you, as my future husband. Yet your solitary,
thoughtful habit; your youth; and, above all, that
haughty exteriour of yours which repelled all kindness
that came not from the known hand of two or three,
alarmed me. It was at this time, while I truly loved
you; but began to doubt whether you loved me, or was
capable of loving any woman, or any thing on this
earth, except your books; and, while the remembrance
of your former tenderness had begun to be, like
that of a dream to me; for my very nature appeared
to be changed, that Clinton reappeared. His
manner was frank and noble. He dealt fairly
with me for awhile; but I did not so with him—
when I did, it was too late. Archibald—I am no
wanton. I was never made for a harem or seraglio.
God never meant me to be the mistress of any man. I
was made for a wife, and a mother. Believe me—O,
believe me, Archibald! if you would not have my poor
heart expire with shame and mortification. At last,
I found that our intercourse, hitherto so innocent, had
begun to assume a mysteriousness, that was full of
excitement and terrour. We conversed by signals; we
corresponded, before your eyes; and, in the presence of
the whole family, with books and cards. Yet, all this
while, though my heart smote me, at times, I was not,
nor did I mean to be unfaithful to you, if you would
claim me. But you did not; you smiled, and your
smile was full of bitterness. Clinton persuaded me that
it was contempt. He pretended to love me; to counsel
me; and, I had already gone too far—much too far—
not to be growing giddy with the peril of my course.
At last—O, Archibald—I could weep myself blind
at the thought—but, it has been told once, and I can
only allude to it. I was not fully aware of my danger
till—I found that, should he forget himself, I had no
hope left. He was in my room; how should that be
explained?—again, he was there—and again—for I
dared not provoke him—yet I was not altogether unworthy,

no, not then—nor—no, Archibald—not till
—faint with excess of terrour, and passion, from some
slight of yours, I awoke from a troubled dream about
you, and found myself in the arms of a man—I shrieked
—I—'

`No matter—you have known it all. But you do not
know, that he—he alone, prevented me from destroying
myself. What could I do. I did not love him? But,
could I ever look you, whom I did love, in the face
again? —never! never—I was a guilty creature,
but not guilty, oh no, not guilty to the consummation
of my shame—I—I—how I am able to write it at all,
is a matter of wonder to me. I am astonished at my
own calmness. But, bear with me for a moment, that
you may know the whole truth.

`I loved you—more than ever; because I felt that I
was unworthy of you; that I had injured you. Clinton
was penitent, I am sure—terribly penitent; for he
offered me, immediately, all the atonement in his power,
upon his knees. I took one night to think of it;
only one, and resolved to marry him.—Aye, though
it was like lashing myself to something detestable,
after this event. Yes, and I should have married him,
but for his own perverse, foolish, and precipitate nature.
He triumphed too easily. I might be humbled,
surprised, shamed; but I could not be trampled on.
I awoke, as from a trance. I compared you togther.
I wondered at my infatuation, wept and prayed. From
that hour, my resolution was formed; happen what would
—I would not marry him—nor you---nor anybody—die,
if there were no other means of concealing my shame—
and—'

`But heaven hath seen fit to spare me the guilt of
murder—the guilt of self murder—the blood of innocence,
my own blood. You slew him. I forgive you
for it. I forgave you then. Though I—I would have
protected him, at the peril of my life; for, hateful as he
was to me, on some accounts for his ruffian passion,
yet, on others, he was very dear to me—as the only
husband that I should ever wed. After this, it was

owing to yourself, to your own continued importunity,
that I told the secret. I could not kill you—I did not
scorn you. I could not bear that you should believe my
refusal of you, to be owing to my horrour of `Clinton's
murderer,' as you were pleased to call yourself; nor
to my love of Clinton. Nay, there may have been
another feeling, not so praise worthy, as the desire of
dealing with truth, to influence me. I knew that I had
done that, which few women upon this earth, since its
creation, could have done, or would; and, I was willing
that you should know it. I knew that your blood
would thrill, your eyes flash fire; that you might go
mad at the recital, but I knew also---for your nature
is known to me, better than to any other living creature,
I am sure, that you would, if you survived the shock,
feel a passion for me, altogether more sublime and
elevating, than that of love. It would be wonder and
admiration. I have lived to find that true. I can
now die contented. You have been willing to espouse
me. Archibald---I thank God that I have lived to hear
the proposal; to see it in black and white. I never
should have believed it, else. But I thank God, yet
more devoutly that he has given me the strength to
resist the temptation; and to say---as I do say—no,
Archibald, no---did I love thee less, it might be. But
I will bear children to no man, who cannot lay his
hands upon their forehead, and pray to God that they
may resemble their mother!—