University of Virginia Library

30. CHAPTER XXX.

The letter was written in a strong and bold hand.
It was as follows:—

“You will be surprised, Mr. Leslie, but not displeased,
at these few lines from me. I render them
to you as a duty. I should have performed it before,
but for a circumstance mentioned below. I am
going to sketch my history; not to solicit your sympathy,
but because it is closely interwoven with
your own. If I utter any sentiment in my own extenuation,

or in my praise, ascribe it, not to vanity,
but to truth. I have done with vanity and with
the world. Long before this reaches you I shall
be immured irrevocably within the walls of a holy
sisterhood, where not even the farthest of its floating
rumours can reach me more. What have I to
do with vanity? I write as one dying, and you
may read my words as those of one dead. Dead!
oh, would to God I were!

“Fifteen years ago, in the loveliest part of Italy,
there lived a family in easy circumstances, without
rank or fortune, without the wish to obtain them.
They were independent, enlightened, affectionate,
and happy. The villa they inhabited stood on the
seashore near Naples. That scene of heaven!—I
will not even attempt to describe it.

“The circle that gathered together in the happy
dwelling consisted of four:—a kind old father; a
mother, only too fond and indulgent; a brother (I
feel the blood ebb from my cheek as I write); and
a young girl, the most joyous and light-hearted of
all creatures. Her face was ever illumined with a
smile of peace, purity, and happiness. There was
in her heart nothing but sunshine. It resembled
the heaven of her own radiant clime, as clear and
—as fervid. Never had she known a sorrow, a
fear, a reproach—never had she heard of ill—never
had she practised an art—never had she deceived
a being. She could not deceive. She was too ingenuous.
She knew naught of fashion, naught of
splendour. She was all simplicity and confidence,
all hope and truth.

“Recall her whom you met at the Prince M—'s,
seated amid lords, dukes, and nobles, flashing with
diamonds; yet, which vainly flashed over a sternly
melancholy brow, over a dark and broken heart.
You suddenly pronounced to her a name which

struck every drop of blood in her veins to lightning.
Recall her calm look, her full, unflinching eyes.
Can you believe these two beings the same?

“The same, did I say? No, there is not a
thought of my mind, an impulse of my heart, but
is now changed. All that then graced me has vanished—all
that I then was incapable of I have since
learned. The world has so transformed me, that I,
who could not endure the gaze of a stranger, can
look down now the fiercest foe; I, who shuddered
at the death of a bird, now can, nay, have stood
tearless by the graves of all I ever loved.

“I was nineteen when I met a young Neapolitan,
of very mean extraction, but of great beauty and
talent. It was Clairmont, though that was not his
name. We met—he wooed me, he won me. I
had never loved before. I have never loved since.
Such as I love but once, and that once is either
heaven or hell! My story is the story of many a
maiden. The unfriended suiter solicited my hand
in vain. He was poor; and there were, moreover,
suspicions concerning his character, which, while
they made me only cling to him with deeper devotion,
caused others to shrink from his side as from
pollution. Love, with me, was more powerful than
all other considerations. It overwhelmed me. I
was whirled off upon its turbid and resistless tide
from all that I had been, all that I had hoped. Father,
mother, brother, all were then to me but the
worthless thistle-down that floats away on the summer
gale. We loved. We married secretly. Eve
in Eden was never so happy, till one day I was disturbed
from a blissful revery by the trampling of
hasty feet, as of men who bore a heavy burden. I
rose. A shriek met my ear from the lips of my
mother—a groan from my father. Startled with
fears of I knew not what, I rushed to the chamber

I saw—even now my brain whirls at the recollection!—several
stranger forms: in their hold was
apparently a dead body. The arms and head hung
heavily, lifeless; the hair fell back from the forehead,
clotted with gore. It was my brother! He
cast his eyes on me.

“ `Rinaldo!' he murmured, and died.

“We had been watched. My generous and high-tempered
brother had traced me to Rinaldo. They
fought; and the never-failing pistol of my husband
had lodged a bullet almost in his heart.

“I pass over that period. My father and mother,
both old, soon followed their darling boy. I was
left with all their property. Rinaldo had fled. I
was alone, and a mother.

“Still mad with the passion with which Clairmont—for
by that name you know him—had inspired
me, I followed him to Venice. For his love,
what had I not sacrificed?—parents, brother, happiness!
On rejoining him who had thus bereft me,
I found him cold. He no longer caressed me.
Strange companions lured him from my side.
Strange and mysterious enterprises occupied his
hours. I was unloved, unheeded, almost forgotten.
From many circumstances, I was induced to fear
that I was linked to a villain. I strove tremblingly,
and in anguish, to crush my apprehensions.

“At length, one day he announced his intention
of leaving me for an indefinite time—me and my
bright boy! I found growing up in myself then a
new energy—a power, a fire, equal to his own. I
begged, I prayed; and when he turned away deaf
and cold, I started to my feet, and, with flashing
eyes, I threatened him. It was the first unfolding
of that character which neither he nor I knew belonged
to my nature. It was the first uncoiling of
the basilisk within me. He gazed on me incredulously,

and coolly smiled. You remember that
smile!—I fainted.

“When I recovered he was gone! It was two
years before I could trace him. At length I found
he had sailed for America. I followed him in the
depth of winter—I and my child. I knew not that
he resided in New-York; I knew not the name he
had assumed; and I was struck mute with astonishment
in your city on beholding, surrounded by
fair ladies, the form of my husband, still beautiful
and still adored. You know the rest. My agitation
had nearly cost me my life, when your daring
arm rescued me from those fierce steeds. I had
seen you before I discovered Clairmont; and, without
meaning to flatter, they who see you once do
not forget you. Again I saw you subsequently
with Miss Romain. Hence I recognised you immediately
at Torrini's in Florence.

“On recovering from the terror, less of the accident
than of the discovery by which it was occasioned,
I ascertained Clairmont's address; and the
next morning, after being rudely denied admission,
I at length succeeded in gaining an interview. Once
more I entreated, and once more I threatened.
Here I found my threats of more avail, for here his
plans were high and audacious, having conceived
the design of marrying a very wealthy and beautiful
girl. I accused him of it. He smiled again,
and bade me learn that I was not his wife. The
ceremony had been a feigned one. I would have
cried him through the city for a villain; but, with
a look so sardonic that it affrighted even me, he
solemnly swore that if I breathed his name to any
human being, he would sacrifice every hope, every
consideration, and never sleep till he had taken the
life of myself or my child. He then frankly confessed
that his passion for Miss Temple was only a

mask—he loved her not. Me, he said, he loved.
It was his intention to fly when he could raise a
large sum of money; and he declared that I should
be his companion. To what degradation had I fallen,
that even after this—such was my infatuation,
such my love—I consented. He even went so far
as to promise to depart by a certain time. I have
reason to believe that the lady whose fortune he
pursued disliked and rejected him; for, after some
time, he altered his plans, and had proposed to raise
money by a mock union with another, the miserable
victim with whom— But let me not be in advance
of my story. Rosalie Romain yielded to
his flatteries. By the arts in which he was so proficient,
he completely fascinated her, and prevailed
upon her to fly, and to carry with her, upon her
person, a number of diamonds of which she was
very fond, and which he hoped to find sufficient for
the demands of his necessities, which were great.
Against you he had conceived so mortal a hatred,
that, as I subsequently learned, he had already attempted
your life. He also circulated against you
the most malignant slanders. Partly by persuasions,
partly by threats, he had prevailed upon me
to be a participator in the game he was about to
play. He swore to me that, once in Europe, he
would send home again the girl; it was only for
the jewels she brought him that he had wooed her
—that he could not procure them unless she fled
with us; that he would marry me in Europe, where,
he said, a large sum would soon fall into his hands
from his brother Ambrose: and he threatened me
with the most dreadful revenge if I refused. It was
I, then, who received Rosalie Romain from your
hands on the day of your mysterious ride. It was
then that I saw and knew you. The gig belonged
to Clairmont. Late in the evening he drove us to
town, and left us to walk alone to a boat that was
to carry us on board a vessel which sailed in the
morning for Naples, while he returned the gig to
his servant, who waited at the hotel. In that walk
we encountered yourself and Miss Temple on the
Battery. We hastened on board. I passed for the
mistress, to avoid suspicion, and she for my maid.
She being ill all the voyage, I only was seen. I
was at once known as an Italian lady: we thus eluded
any inquiries which, when suspicion fell on
you, might have been that way directed. The vessel
did not sail till the next afternoon. Clairmont
was in the act of coming down; his baggage was
all packed and ready in his chamber, and left to the
direction of his valet, when you encountered him,
and inflicted upon him that new rancorous wound,
which only ceased to sting and torture him in death.
He rushed to his chamber. His temper was lashed
to its highest, wildest paroxysm of rage and revenge,
when the valet accidentally mentioned what
he had heard in the hotel. The disappearance of
Miss Romain had already created a sensation
through the town, and a report had been started that
you had murdered her. From that moment his
hellish mind was fixed. He sent a message to me,
stating that, by force or art, I must silence the voice
of Rosalie Romain; that the vessel must go without
him; that the valet would accompany us in his
stead, and that he would, by a Havre ship, meet us
on our landing at Naples. So artfully was it managed
that we complied, scarce comprehending what
it meant. Rosalie was sick during the whole passage.
We met Clairmont a long time after our arrival.
The valet had received instructions to conceal
us, if possible, from all observation. This he
effectually did; but, just before our meeting with
Clairmont, died of a fever. It was Clairmont who
flung the hat and feathers on the stream, and the
handkerchief in the wood. He remained some
time after in America, to guard himself from suspicion.

“On his arrival in Europe, he had a most difficult
game to play. It was his determination to
conceal Rosalie Romain from human eyes, that the
suspicion might never be withdrawn from you. I
soon learned to hate the villain more ardently than
I had ever loved him; but, while I hated, I also
feared him. A character so malignant mastered
mine. I knew him capable of the most fiendish
actions, and I soon had an instance of it. Miss
Romain, on finding her situation, and the cruel
baseness of her lover, lost her senses, became a
confirmed maniac, and was most secretly confined
at Rome, under the superintendence of the priest
Ambrose, the brother of Clairmont, and, like him,
a villain. Lest this should be betrayed by me, he
obtained possession of my boy, in whom he knew
my soul was bound up. With this grasp on me,
he told me, with the triumphant hate and ferocity
of a devil, that if ever I betrayed him, nay, if ever
he suspected me, the young head I loved most
should be crushed in the grave. I shuddered. I
believed. I obeyed. How well I kept the secret,
you can testify.

“At Prince M—'s you unknowingly informed
me of the place where my boy was concealed. I
hastened to his rooms in disguise, when I knew the
priest was away, and recovered my lost treasure.
I should have said, that, on first parting with Clairmont,
I had yielded to the solicitations of Count
D—, and become his wife. With the intention
of gaining possession of her person, that I might
commit her to your charge, I unlocked the prison
of Rosalie Romain; but, with the subtlety of madness,

she eluded my care, and escaped into the
crowded streets. You know the rest. The angel
boy is dead. I have no longer any reason to guard
my reputation. May you be happy. My heart is
ice. I have performed my duty. Farewell for
ever!”