University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

After the melancholy events just related, I
know very little of those which took place around
me for the first week. I have a confused recollection
of seeing every one in deep mourning, and an
expression of wo and sadness upon every countenance.
I remember also a moving about my
chamber upon tiptoe, conversation in whispers,
and occasionally the visit of the doctor to the
darkened room. One of the first things that I recollect
distinctly, and unaccompanied with the
overpowering lethargic feelings of the preceding
weeks, was that one morning, while I was lying
in a tranquil state of half sleeping, I felt some
warm tears falling fast upon my face, and upon
looking up to see from whom they came, saw my
dear friend Isabel Hazlehurst standing over me.
Never was her dear and beautiful face more welcome
to my sight. I needed just such a presence;
not that I was by any means fitted to enjoy her
society, but the sight of her countenance brought
such consolation to my mind, it tranquillized my
nerves and composed my spirit.

But I was not suffered to improve in this natural
and gradual manner. Few days had elapsed thus
before she came into the room with something so

evidently struggling at her heart, that even I, prostrated
as I was, demanded to know what more
dreadful things were yet necessary to fill up the
bitter cup of my destiny. She seated herself by
the bed, and taking my hand, said, “My dear
Fanny, you have great strength of mind; now is
the time to call it into action.”

“To what is this to lead, my dear Isabel? For
God's sake, tell me at once.”

“You know, dear Fanny,” continued she, “that
your father was far from being well when the
dreadful accident happened.”

“My God! is my father dead too?”

“He is alive, and wishes to see you; but I came
to prepare you for seeing him much altered.”

I will not dwell upon the melancholy particulars.
My father had desired earnestly to see me. Alas!
that meeting was the last we ever had in this
world! and it seemed to me that all my sorrows
had again assembled in presence before me. To
crown all, my father—my own dear father—implored
his child's forgiveness, calling himself criminal,
guilty, and blind! God knows I had nothing
to forgive. But the grave, in three short weeks,
closed over the last of the St. Clairs,—over the
last male of a once numerous, powerful, and
wealthy house. Thus were my mother and myself
left wretched widows; but we were miserable
from very different feelings. She from too strong
an attachment, I from too little; and yet I was as
wretched and as miserable as I could have been if

my heart had been deeply concerned in the tragedy
which commenced the series.

My cup was not yet full. When some three
months had elapsed, and my health had become
somewhat restored and my spirits a little more
elastic, the servant one day brought me a letter
from the village post-office, directed to Mrs. Frances
Sandford. I opened it without dreaming that
it was any thing more than a friendly letter from
some of my old school friends; but oh, cruel destiny!
all my former sufferings were light in comparison
to those inflicted by this cruel letter. It
deliberately charged me with murdering “my husband”
on his bridal night. The cruel and tremendous
train of too specious charges which it linked
together with an ingenuity that Satan himself could
scarcely have excelled, had well-nigh cost me my
reason! It alluded to my not tasting the fatal
wine,—my ordering the servant to throw out the
evidence of my guilt as soon as my “hellish” work
was completed,—my known aversion to the match,
—my excuse for the bad wine,—and other lesser
corroborating circumstances, which really threw
over the whole charge a frightful plausibility.

I had ever heard the elder Mr. Sandford spoken
of as a man of more than ordinary shrewdness
and soundness of mind; I therefore could receive
none of the cruel consolation derivable from his
supposed insanity.

Mr. Chevillere has, I believe, witnessed, on more
than one occasion, how this individual has pursued

me with this idea; becoming more annoying to
me the more unsettled his mind became. His
friends are now convinced of his lunacy, and have,
it is said, safely secured him from further intrusions
upon me. This has given me much consolation;
for of late I have been afraid to move from home
on account of his persecutions. Long after the
occurrences just related, my mother was united in
marriage to her cousin, Mr. Brumley. This alliance
was eagerly urged upon her, when once proposed,
by all her friends, and by none more ardently
than myself. They were educated together, under
the same roof, and from earliest youth had entertained
the affection of brother and sister for each
other.

I have now given Mr. Chevillere a glance at all
those portions of our family history which it was
necessary for him to know, in order to approve, as
he undoubtedly will do, of my intention, long since
formed, never to carry my personal misfortunes
and their gloomy consequences into the bosom of
a happy family; at all events, never while I am
subject to the persecutions of that man whom he
has so lately seen violate my feelings. Some of
the leading incidents of this narrative have already
been related, as before said, to Mr. Chevillere's
honoured mother. She will, I am quite sure, approve
of my decision. But Mr. Chevillere once
propounded another question to me, which I promised
then to answer at another time. It was
“whether, if none of these things had ever happened,

the offer of his hand would have been accepted
by me.” I will now candidly and honestly
answer that question. My heart would, if I allowed
it, dictate an answer in the affirmative.

Now, sir, let us part,—but as friends; more, I
am sure, you will not now desire to be considered.