University of Virginia Library

`What can this mean?' he exclaimed in astonishment. `Marie to address me
thus. This is certainly her hand-writing, and at the end of it' (and here he
rapidly ran over the pages of the letter to the close) and here is her signature
`Marie.' What can this mean? It is signed simply `Marie' without one
word of affection. Nay. It is `your unfortunate and lost, Marie.' What fearful
news have I now to hear. She can be lost to me only by being the wife of
this baron Can it——Oh, can it be possible that she has——but I
will not drive myself mad by anticipation. I will hasten to learn the worst.'

`Sir,—It is with emotions which I know not how to express—alas, I
know not how to say what I have to divulge. It breaks my heart to address
you so formally as I have begun my letter. My heart is not equal to the task
it has schooled itself to. `Dear Bertrand' would flow from my pen if I dared
thus to address you. But how shall I ever again bestow upon you a title so
endearing. Oh, Edward, I am all unworthy to address you in any way. But
for this once forgive me if I let my heart speak; for I cannot coldly write to
one in whom my soul—my very being is wrapped up.

`What shall I say to you. How shall I begin. If I begin I know not if I
shall have the courage to end the fearful narration. While I write my eyes
swim—my brain whirls—my reason wanders.

My last letter closed with my resolution to fly at once. I had delayed but a
few moments to collect a few little articles together, and had already raised
the windows to escape, for my father had contented himself with locking my
door, when I heard high voices approaching my door. One was my father's
and it was raised to a menacing key—the other was that of a female. Surprised
I arrested my flight. The next moment the voices ceased apparently
close to my door, and then the lock was turned and father entered.

I saw at a glance that something of a most extraordinary nature had disturbed
him; something more than a suspicion of my intention for at the first I believed
that it was this that was bringing him to my room.

Never did I behold such an expression of countenance as his, as I looked at
him. It caused me to shudder. He closed the door and coming towards me
said—

`Prepare instantly to go with me.'

`Wither?' I asked fearfully.

`Not to the Convent now. But do not delay. You have to fly from a
greater evil than any you fear.'

At this moment the door, at which my father had been anxiously turning
his eyes as if fearing an interruption, was struck with emphasis, and a thrilling
voice cried—

`Robert, oh, Robert, harm her not—fly not with her and I swear to do whatever
you dictate.'

`Go back to the library. Did you not promise but now you would be peaceful.'

`But I heard you bid her go with you! Fly not. Take her not away. Let
me—'

`Cease woman,' cried my father almost ferociously as he opened the door and
exposed to my view an extremely beautiful woman, her hair dishevelled, her
features animated with wild grief, her attitude excited and imploring. I never
beheld so beautiful yet so painfully interesting a creature. She did not appear
to be more than eight and twenty, and was in deep mourning. Oh how, all at
once my heart went out towards her with love and sympathy and hope. There
was something in her looks that seemed to me to belong to some of the faces
of the lovely beings I have seen in the dreams of my childhood.

I stood spell-bound gazing upon her with deep wonder. When she beheld

me her arms went forth from her bosom as if to embrace and clasp me closely
to it. I never had such emotions in my life. My father stood and eyed her
closely and terribly. He caught her eye and then I saw him lift his finger menacingly
and heard him whisper harshly,

`Beware.'

She shrunk from his gaze and I could see she trembled. But her eyes turned
from him only to rest upon me with the tenderest curiosity and affectionate interest
that melted my soul and caused tears to start into my eyes.

Who could this darkly beautiful lady be, over whom my father had such a
mysterious power?' I asked myself. She made a movement towards me.

`Beware,' repeated my father a second time; and again she quailed before
his glance.

`This, my daughter, is a person who has come to bear to you a piece of news,
that may perhaps both grieve and rouse your indignation. I wished to broach
it gently to you, but she, as you have seen, would rush in and make all known
at any risk. You will now retire,' he said to her, keeping his eyes steadily as
he had done while speaking, upon her, `and I will make known to my child
that which so nearly interests her.'

There was something in my father's words and manner that made me fear.
He looked as if instigated and possessed fully by an evil spirit. Something instinctively
whispered to me that not one word he had said was true; and that
the female knew it was not true, but feared to gainsay it. He opened the door
for her and she slowly left the chamber bestowing secretly upon me a look of
the sweetest affection. Oh, how I felt for her and yearned to know what fearful
mystery surrounded her: to know how she was thus under my father's power.
He left the chamber with her. He accompanied her through the hall to the
library, and then returned to me.

`We like to have had a scene, my daughter, said my father with a torced
smile as he re-entered.

`Who is that beautiful stranger, sir?' I asked in my anxiety.

`She is a Southern lady. Her father was an officer I believe. I have seen
her before in Charleston.'

`Then that is where I have seen her,' I answered quickly; `for her features
are familiar to me, but vaguely recollected like faces seen in dreams.'

`Did you ever see her before?' demanded my father with extraordinary
emotion'

`I think I must have seen her, sir.'

`Then you are not certain?' he asked with the close look of an inquisitor.

`No, sir.'

`She is, as I said, a Charleston lady. The rumor of your proposed union
(for all the world,' said my father, have it) with the baron de Rosselau, has
brought her here.'

`The world, sir, are to be disappointed,' I answered not a little vexed and
mortified to know that through de Rosselau and my father it had probably gone
abroad that I was to be wedded to the baron.' What interest had the lady in
the matter?' I asked haughtily `Is she a prior claimant for the Count's
hand?'

`No, not for the Count's but for the hand of one less honorable. Can you
guess?' added my father with a peculiar significance.

`No, sir.'

`She having heard then that you were sought for in marriage by the Count
de Rosselau, but that you refused to give him a final answer—'

`I have given him a final answer, sir,' I interrupted.

`Here me,' cried my father sternly—`I do but give what she heard. This
rumor then coming to her that you delayed a final answer because you felt
that the young officer, Edward Bertrand held a claim upon you, and the lady,
being a friend of Count de Rosselau and seeking his happiness as well as
your own, has kindly taken the trouble to pay a visit here purposely to inform
you that you need not suffer any bonds of engagement to Mr. Bertrand
to influence you, as she is already, herself, privately married to him.'

Was ever such infamous slander and falsehood invented by the devil himself?'
cried Edward with a vehemence, that caused the coachman to draw in

his horses and call back to the coach-window to inquire `if the gentleman
inside wanted anything.'

`Nothing—nothing,' answered Edward, recalled to himself; and governing
his emotion he continued to read—

`The story so base and false,' said Marie in continuation, did not produce
upon me any other effect than scorn and pity for those who could stoop to invent
it. Had she brought intelligence that you were dead, Edward, I should
have believed it; but I never could believe that you were false.'

`Noble Marie,' ejaculated Bertrand, warmly pressing those words to his lips.

`My father saw the effect was lost upon me. He saw that my confidence in
you was stronger than my credulity.

`You do not believe it?' he said.

`No, sir,' I answered firmly. `The woman is an impostor. (God forgive
me, for what I said; but I knew not all then!')

`Yes, I dare say she is,' he answered readily. `I have no doubt of it. I
thought it best to let you know. At any rate you see she is your enemy, and
you will, therefore, not permit her to speak with you.'

There was something, I know not what, that led me to suspect he feared to
have her speak to me—something that produced in my resolution an entirely opposite
effect from what he intended. I recalled her looks of fear—her glances
of tender interest—her expression of sorrow—her evident fear of my father and
his power over her, and I made up my mind that she was a victim of his tyranny
as well as I; that she had sought him for other purposes and objects than that
he had fabricated to my ears, and that she was my friend rather than my enemy.
I did not, however, expose the secret judgment of my mind to my father, but
merely answered quietly—

`I thank you, sir, for your caution. Will she remain here till morning?'

`Yes—perhaps longer,' he answered hesitating. I have some business touching
property in the South I wish to speak with her about, and besides I wish to
question her more fully in relation to this matter of Bertrand's.'

`Of that, sir, I am now quite well satisfied,' I answered.

`I doubt if she is married to him, but I have no question but that she is betrothed
to him; and that Bertrand has rendered himself, therein, unworthy of
you.'

`Let her tell me this herself, and I can then judge,' I answered.

`My word must be sufficient for you,' he answered; and then adding, `I
trust you will now let no further hopes of this young man deter you from giving
your consent to marry de Rosselau.'

`I do not believe Bertrand to be false, sir.'

`Who do you think this woman is, then? What motive other than this has
brought her, a stranger to you?' he asked angrily.

`That, sir, you can best answer, perhaps; I cannot,' I replied.

`It is well you cannot,' I heard him murmur as he left the room.

`Mistress Marie,' said my maid, coming in as my father left, and trembling as
she spoke; `do you know that lady in mourning what came in de coach half
hour ago.'

`Well, what?' I asked eagerly.

`She has been weeping in de library while master in here; and afore when
she first came and he saw her in de hall—soon as he saw her lift her veil he
grew black in de face and curse her so wicked. But she take his hand and say
something and cry, and den he go into de library wid her. And den I hear him
scold her, and hear her sob, and three time, Missy Marie, I hear him say he
kill her, she no go right away. Den I hear him swear and den she say something
'bout you, and den he tell her she must keep some secret or he shoot her
on de spot. Den little while he come out and go to your room and de strange
lady follow wringing her hands and he cursing her to keep quiet.'

This narration of the girl's aroused my curiosity and awakened my interest
in the mysterious stranger, who for some end my father had represented as my
rival and enemy; neither of which did I believe; for I could not believe you
false; and it was difficult to regard as my foe one, who in looking upon me had
poured from her eyes into my soul a flood of the most extraordinary affection—
which found a strange echo in the deepest recesses of my being. No, I could
not believe such an one false and hostile. It was easier to believe that she was

a victim of my father's tyranny, and acted by his commands. That night, I retired
late; for much thinking kept me up. I had just laid down filled with a
restless curiosity to know who she could be, for she was still an inmate of the
house and, as my maid informed, had been ordered by my father to occupy the
chamber over mine. I could hear her step as she moved to and fro across the
floor in ceaseless motion, hour after hour, and this kept me from sleeping. I resolved
that I would not leave the house till I had had an interview with and
learned precisely why she came on this extraordinary visit. My maid had informed
me that she took her tea in the library alone, whither my father had ordered
it, and that he himself had escorted her to the door of her chamber, left
her with a severe threat that was not understood, and locking the door upon her
returned to the library. I had, as I have said, just laid down, when I heard
a horse led up to the door. Looking out secretly I saw my father mount him
and ride away at a rapid pace down the avenue. I now resolved to embrace
the opportunity to see this stranger; for as he had gone on horseback I
knew that he would be away perhaps for an hour or a much longer time. I
herefore hastily dressed myself, and went to my door. But my father had not
forgotten his care of me, and it was locked on the outside, I and my maid being
locked in. I was about to go to the window, raise it and leave that way and
get into the house, if possible from without, and so to the stranger's room; and
I had sent my servant Jennette out by the window to see if the house could be
entered that way, when I was startled by a low knock at my door. My blood
run cold in my veins. I trembled with a strange feeling of alarm. I knew it
must be the stranger, for it was the touch of a light hand.

I began to fear the stranger. My mind was suddenly filled with apprehensions
of some great evil of which she was to be the instrument. I shrunk from
the door, and stood transfixed without daring to speak, and painfully listening.
The knock was repeated. I grew bolder and answered as firmly as I could.

`Who seeks admittance?'

`One who would embrace this moment of freedom to speak to you,' answered
a voice of singular sweetness of cadence, but earnest and thrilling.

`I cannot open to you, if I would,' I answered. `If perhaps you find a key
on the outside you may enter!' was my response in a resolute tone; for I was
now deeply interested to have speech with this mysterious person.

`It is in the lock,' was the reply.

The key turned slowly and felt as if it was turning in my very heart, so
wrought up were my feelings at the prospect of seeing and speaking with her.
A lamp was burning upon my toilet table and reflected in the mirror threw a
two-fold brilliancy over the room. The door openod and it fell full upon her
person. She was still in black, but her raven hair was now bound up, and her
countenance was more composed, yet no less beautiful than when I before beheld
her enter with my father. She was paler and sadder. She fixed her eyes
on me steadily—tears came into them—she sprung forward and knelt at my
feet—caught my hand and bathed it with tears and covered it with kisses. Half
terrified, I shrieked, I believe, broke from her and retreated to the opposite side
of the room. She rose from the floor, folded her hands humbly. Oh, so humbly
upon her bosom, and looked so sad and tearful that I could have wept when
I heard her say—

`Yes, fly me, lovely one. It is thus I deserve to be shunned by thee. Alas,
alas! for me there is no love—no love.'

I approached her—I took her hand—I spoke gently to her—I led her to a seat
and sat by her. She would have knelt to me again, but I embraced her and
bade her tell me her sorrow, and wherefore she had come hither, and what it
was on her heart she would reveal to me.

She made no reply for a few moments; but sat gazing fondly into my face, as
I have seen young mothers bend their eyes of affectionate pride upon the faces
of their first born. She then rose, and crossing the room, secured the door, and
returning to me, took my hand in hers and said—but Edward, I cannot write
further. My pen refuses to express the words of shame and dishonor I feel it
my duty to write. Spare me—at present—another time--soon—perhaps in a

few days I shall be able to write. Only know this—that it is the last letter you
will ever get from me from my father's house. Events have transpired—the
story of that mysterious woman—the tearful destiny that is mine to fear—all
render it necessary for your honor and happiness that you should forget me!
To-night I fly—not from de Rosselau—not from my father's tyranny—but from
myself—from you—from the world. Within three hours I fly from hence leaving
no trace of my flight. It is sixteen days since that night when she told me
her tale! Sixteen days during which I have been part of the time wild with
delirium. Part of this letter was written before then—part since! I will, when,
I reach the asylum I am about to seek once more, write you and explain what
now my mind refuses to dictate! Till then, farewell—farewell forever!'