University of Virginia Library

St. Luke.

“Among the crosses of a wayward destiny, it
is not the least, that for so many years I have lost
all trace of the only man on earth to whom I
could look for kindness or sympathy. Since accident
has discovered to me your residence, I have

felt as if fate might have in store for me some
solace for a life of poverty and disgrace. For the
last, indeed, there is no remedy; for the opinion
of others cannot stifle the voice of self-reproach,
nor deaden the sense of merited dishonour. But,
bad as these are, (and they are enough to poison
all enjoyment, to extinguish all hope, and to turn
the very light of heaven into blackness,) they may
be rendered more intolerable by the cold scorn of
the world, by the unappeased wants of nature, and
by the constant view of sufferings, brought by ourselves
on those we love. This complication of
evil has been my lot; and if one ray of comfort
has ever shot into my benighted mind, it came with
the thought, that he who knew me best knew all
my fault, but did not think me vile. But what
reason have I to think this? Why may not the
misconstruction, which conscience has denied me
power to correct, have reached you uncontradicted?
How can I hope that you have not been
told, that the lip, on which, with your last blessing,
you left the kiss of pure, and generous, and ill-requited
love, has not been since steeped in the
pollution of a villain's breath? All this may have
been told you. All this you may believe. But,
whatever else may be credited against me, you
will never doubt my truth. No, George; the fearful
proof I once gave that I am incapable of deception,
is not forgotten. Take, then, my single
word, against all the world can say, that that hallowed
kiss `my lip has virgined' to this hour.
Except the cold and clammy brow of my dying
father, no touch of man has since invaded it; nor
has one smile profaned it, since in that moment I
consecrated it to virtue.

“You will not, then, disdain to hear the sad
story of the poor girl whom you generously tried
to save from destruction. Oh! had you come to
the rescue one hour sooner! But God is just, and
wise, and good. Pride needed to be rebuked. The
sin by which the angels fell had rendered me incapable
of the happiness of heaven, had it not been
punished here. Pride led me to the precipice.
Pride deepened the abyss below. Pride urged my
fall; and pride prepared the flinty bed of shame,
remorse, and horror, where all hope of recovered
happiness was crushed.

“To go back to that fatal day, up to which my
life was open before you as a book. To return to
that blotted page, which mercy may tear from the
records of eternity, but which memory can never
cancel. Montague never returned to Raby Hall.
His dread of you was succeeded by a dread of my
father. The poor old man never knew, and, I
hope, never suspected the truth. But he had
marked the abrupt departure of Montague; he
saw my dejection; he saw me indeed to all appearance
sinking to the grave; he had known of our
engagement and approved it; and he naturally inferred
that Montague had deserted me. I had
sufficient self-command not to undeceive him. My
first struggle with my feelings (though then they

triumphed over me) had taught me to control them.
Not that I regretted that then they had triumphed.
No, George; I do not now regret it. As your
wife, cherished, beloved, and respected, I should
have had less peace of mind, than in the recollection
that, on that occasion, I was just to you. But
why should I break my poor old father's heart? I
did not undeceive him; and though his resentment
against Montague burned like a volcano in his
bosom, it never blazed forth. He determined to
avoid the wretch; and when, at my request, he
forbade his return to the estate, he gave him warning
never, as he valued his own safety, to cross his
path. The hint was not thrown away. My father
rarely left the estate, and they never met. The
poor old man soon fell into deelining health, and
pined away, and died by inches.

“I could not disguise from myself that he had
received his death blow from my hand. I had been
the object of his tenderest affection; my misfortune
was felt as the direst calamity that had ever
befallen him; solicitude for my future destiny occupied
all his thoughts. I did what I could to
repair my fault, to sooth the wound I had inflicted,
and to postpone the fatal hour. He attributed all
to filial duty, tearing my heart by calling me the
best daughter in the world, and died blessing me.

“Our means of comfort, and even subsistence,
died with him. His death disclosed the fact, that
his fond indulgence of his darling daughter had
consumed all his income, and even involved him in

some debt. This swept away so much of what he
left, that we had little more than the means of furnishing
an humble cottage on the estate, where the
kind old gentleman permitted us to take shelter.
My father had served him faithfully for twenty
years, and he could not see us turned out houseless
the wide world. He accordingly gave us the
place for our lives rent free. You may remember

It is Martin's former residence. It is humble
enough; but sufficient for us, and more than we
had a right to expect.

“Here Montague, soon after, sought to renew
his visits. I refused to see him, and urged my
other to order him from the house. But she was
overcome by his protestations and professions, and
pressed me to meet him. I felt that, without undeceiving
her, I could not carry my opposition
much further, and consented.

“It was a relief to me that he had stipulated for
private interview. I could not have dared to
trust my feelings in her presence; and I feared
nothing from an unmasked traitor. We met, and
he approached me, but stopped short, apparently
amazed and overawed by my manner. He did
not dare to come nearer, but stood trembling like
a convicted culprit. I let him stand without inviting
him to take a seat, and merely said,

“`Your pleasure, sir?'

“`I wished to see you,' said he, `for the purpose
of correcting a mistake into which I feared you
had been led by Balcombe.'

“`What reason have you to suppose, sir, that
Mr. Balcombe had given me any information?'

“`I supposed so, because he told me he would.'

“`You have great confidence in his word; would
you have me doubt it?'

“`No, Mary,' said he. I felt my eye flash at
this approach to familiarity; he saw it, cowered,
and went on:

“`No, Miss Scott; I do not doubt Mr. Balcombe's
word; but what he said to me, at the
moment of our separation, showed that he had misunderstood
me.'

“`Why, then, did you not follow and explain?'

“`After what had just passed,' said he.

“`Wretch!' said I, in a voice smothered by passion,
not less than restrained by a fear of being
overheard, `one other allusion to that topic, and I
would not ensure your life against a woman's
hand.'

“He was now completely subdued. I had made
him know his place, and beyond that place I never
suffered him to advance.

“`I did not dare then,' said he, `in the excited
state of your feelings, to hazard any explanation
in the presence of a third person.'

“`That is plausible,' said I. `But what room
was there for mistake? Have you, or not, expectations
under that will?'

“`I have,' said he. `If things remain as they
are, until Mr. Raby's death, I shall certainly gain

a competence that might make us comfortable for
life.'

“This was said in a tone so humble and deprecating,
that I repressed my indignation at the use
of the word us, and merely asked, `How, then, do
you deny what Balcombe told me you had said?
for this is the same story.'

“`His mistake was,' said Montague, `that he
supposed me to have said, that lands were devised
to me by that will. This would have been false,
and he would have known it to be false; but as the
bequest is not of lands, the reasoning by which
he arrived at that conclusion did not apply, as I
could have convinced him, had he listened to me.'

“`And why was this explanation deferred till
now?'

“`Because I was forbidden the house by your
father, As no reason was assigned, I was left to
conjecture his motive; what my conjecture was, I
will not say. I certainly did not suspect the true
one; besides, I will frankly acknowledge, that I
was not, at first, sensible how much my happiness
depended on your acceptance of this explanation,
and of my repentance for my past fault. I come
to offer these, and tender the only reparation in my
power.'

“`And what is that? Food and raiment for
her you have made a widow? The means of subsistence
and education to the poor little orphan
boy, whose fine precocious faculties are wasted in
the duties of a household drudge?”

“`These and all else that a life devoted to you
can give.'

“`Hear me, Montague!' said I. `Nothing will
I ever receive at your hands. For myself nothing.
No; not a cup of cold water at my last gasp.'

“`Not even my hand itself?'

“`No! that, last of all. No, Montague; without
love I will marry no man. What solace have
I for past errors, but the thought that I was beguiled
by the best and purest feelings of the heart?
And shall I falsify that plea, by sinning against the
heart itself? No; I repeat, without love I will
marry no man.'

“`And did you not then love me?'

“`Dare you ask that question?' said I. `Had
you returned promptly, and before the illusion
which dressed you in qualities different from those
of other men had been dispelled, I might have
heard you gladly. Once dissolved, that spell is
gone for ever.'

“`I will hope not,' said he. `For the present,
at least, I will do your will. What you permit
me to do shall be done. My deportment to you
shall be dictated by yourself, and I will see no
more of you than you think proper. I see that I
must leave you now. What is to be done, I will
arrange with your mother.'

“He left me, accordingly, and after conferring
with my mother, took suitable measures for her
comfort, and for the education of poor little
James.

“It is not true, George, as some have said, that
love can never die. I will not repeat that I had
loved Montague. You know it but too well. But
when he appeared before me that day, he was to
me the most hateful object upon earth. But it is
true that while esteem lasts affection cannot perish.
It is equally true that that—the grossest crime
that man can commit against woman—is one that
love too readily forgives to love. Of all but that,
Montague had satisfactorily acquitted himself;
and when I saw him, with patient assiduity, devoting
himself to the comfort of my family, without
intruding himself on my notice—without presuming
to expect a word or look of gratitude or
approbation—could I doubt his love? I certainly
did not; and though the frosty barrier which I
had placed between us was never thawed, I saw
that he began to hope, and I took no pains to discourage
the hope, that he might one day recover
his place in my heart. You will never see in this
that he had already half regained it. Perhaps it
was so; for, in addition to what I have said, he
was the only man I ever had loved, the only man
I could, in common honesty, permit myself to love,
the only being towards whom the `strong necessity
of loving' could direct its tendencies.

“About this time good old Mr. Raby died. We
saw nothing of Montague for two months. We
heard from him, indeed; and though he did not
express himself distinctly, we inferred from what
he said, that he had not been disappointed in the

will. At length he came, accompanying the English
gentleman who now owns this property. He
gave me to understand that all was right, and requested
a private interview. I remarked a great
alteration in his manner. He had become grave
thoughtful, and formal, and let drop some expressions
which showed a change in his religious sentiments.
In fine, he professed deep contrition and
repentance, and a hope that his sins had been forgiven,
along with a full purpose of amendment of
life. I received this assurance with great satisfaction.
I am not going to give you the history of
my own opinions and feelings on this important
subject. But you will readily believe, that, after
having been made to taste the bitterness of death
in disease and pain, in poverty, in degradation, in
self-reproach, and in the destruction of all my
earthly hopes, I am not the giddy creature you
once knew me. I rejoiced in Montague's conversion;
I saw no motive to hypocrisy, and believed
him sincere. I see none yet, but I know there was
one; for I can never believe that the spirit of God
could dwell with one capable of his subsequent
conduct. He now gave me to understand that he
was at length established in a handsome competency,
and hinted, as it seemed, under some apprehension
of offending me, at a hope to share it with
me. I was not prepared to take the hint, or to
encourage him to speak more plainly, though I am
not sure what answer I might have given had he
done so. My heart, indeed, took comfort in the
thought, that I might at last emerge from the abyss
into which my folly had plunged me, and there was
more of confiding tenderness in my feelings towards
Montague, than I had experienced since
you left me. I suppose he saw this; and, without
laying any stress on his own hopes or wishes, spoke
cheeringly to me, encouraged me to look forward
to happier days, and informed me that he had added
to the provision made for my mother and brother.
Something followed, which seemed intended to
usher in some proposed favour to myself; but I
stopped him by holding up my needle, as the only
thing to which I would owe my bread. He seemed
mortified and perplexed, complained of my obduracy,
and lamented that it debarred him from asking
of me a service that no other could render. I
told him that my situation was already irksome
enough, to make me glad to find any proper opportunity
to serve him, and avowed my readiness and
wish to do so. He then placed in my hand a
packet, as large, perhaps, as a dozen newspapers,
enveloped in strong brown paper, and well secured
with twine and seals. This he asked me to keep,
and I promised to do so.

“`I wish you to promise further,' said he, `that
no eye shall see the contents of that packet.'

“I did so. He mused a while, and then added:

“`It is of great importance to me that that packet
should never see the light.'

“`Then why not destroy it?' said I.

“`I don't wish to destroy it,' said he; `it may
be of some importance hereafter. Put it away.'

“I took it to my room, and locked it up. On
my return, he again conversed about other matters
until he rose to take leave. He paused at the door
and said, hesitatingly:

“`Perhaps you had better destroy that packet.'

“`I will do so.'

“He turned, paused again, and said,

“`No! maybe better not.'

“`As you please; which shall I do?'

“`I really do not know,' said he, after a thoughtful
pause. `Do as you will with it. If it is in
your way, throw it in the fire. If not, keep it till
I call for it.'

“`Very well,' said I; `I will do so.'

“He turned, as if to go away; came back, and,
standing before me, looked at me earnestly and
doubtingly.

“`Mary,' said he, `will you remember these
promises?'

“`Certainly,' said I, offended at once by the implied
doubt, and the forbidden familiarity with my
name.

“`Were not my confidence as great in your
word as in another's oath, so great is the importance
of that promise, that I would ask you to bind
it with an oath.'

“`Your words,' said I, `imply the very doubt
you disavow. But are you yet to know me, Montague?
My words are all spoken in the presence

of God. What I aver, and what I promise, is as
an oath. God has heard me, without being invoked.
My promise has been given in his presence.
It is not form that gives an oath its obligation
on the conscience.'

“`You have sworn, then,' said he. `It is enough.
God is witness between us.'

“So saying, and without waiting for an answer,
he left me.

“I looked after him amazed and perplexed.
Was this some new villany? Was his conversion
all pretence? Were my dawning hopes again to
be swallowed up in darkness? There was at
least so much of doubt on these questions, as to
determine me to preserve the packet. On that
point, at least, I was free. As to my promises, I
am not restrained by any blind superstition. I
know that `God hateth a liar;' so do I. I do not
remember that, to this day, the stain of falsehood
is on my lips. But I am no such casuist as to permit
any scruples of that sort to make me the agent
of another's villany.

“I did not see Montague again for two months.
I received him coldly, and he appeared before me
with an anxious and impatient air, as if desirous to
say what he feared to say. I determined to bring
the matter to a point at once.

“`Do you want that packet?' said I.

“He started, and with an alarmed look said,

“`No; nor do I wish to know what you have
done with it.'

“`But I have no wish to keep it any longer.'

“`Then destroy it if you will. You promised,'
added he, emphatically, `to do so, or keep it till I
called for it. Now I do not call for it, and never
will. So destroy it or not as you please. I never
wish to know what you do with it.'

“Saying this, he left me. From that time forth
I treated him with scorn, and found him always
restless and uneasy. Something of anxiety always
marked his manner, mixed with a double portion
of grimace and sanctimoniousness. But his visits
were now few and hasty, and he always seemed
to go away without doing what he came for.
Whether he wished to resume the subject of marriage,
or to talk about the packet, I could not guess.
In either case my answer was ready. At length
he summoned resolution to ask me what I had
done with the packet.

“`I shall not tell you,' said I.

“`But I really wish to know.'

“`But I have not promised,' said I, `to tell you;
and you promised not to ask.'

“`You don't mean to betray me?' said he, with
an alarmed look.

“`Betray you! I am no traitor, Montague.'

“`Then give me the packet.'

“`You forget that you are not to know whether
I have it.'

“`But I will know!' said he, furiously.

“`What audacity is this?' said I, fixing my eye

steadily upon him. The look subdued him. He
cowered, and slunk away.

“It was now manifest to me that there was
some wickedness connected with this packet, to
which I was determined not to be accessory.
This unusual explosion, too, made it apparent that
he was becoming desperate, and I was apprehensive
he might resort to violence to carry his point.
The house was small, and easily searched, and I
had no place of security on the premises. But I
found means effectually to put the packet beyond
his reach, and did so. It was well I did. The next
time he came he locked the door, and put the key
in his pocket; examined every hole and corner in
the room; then locked me in, and rummaged the
whole house. All was, of course, in vain; and he
returned to the room, wild with rage and alarm.
After this outrage I saw him no more.

“I soon heard that he had left the country; but
never knew, until lately, where he was. In the
mean time my mother's pension was stopped. I
suppose he thought no new provocatien could
make matters any worse; and that it was better
to escape the consequences of disclosure, than to
make a vain attempt to sooth me. I think, too, he
did me the justice to suppose that his baseness
would not make me regardless of my word. But
had I been so, I have no one to advise with—no
means of conjecturing what may be the nature of
this mysterious packet, or whose interests it may
affect. Thirteen years of perfect seclusion from

the world, during which our little dwelling has
been avoided as if infected with pestilence, have
rendered me totally ignorant of everybody, and
everybody's affairs. My needle earns my bread;
my books (which, thanks to my poor father's kindness,
are not few) are my companions. Forgetting
the world, I only wish to be forgotten by it.

“But though my lot must be borne, I am bound
to mitigate, if possible, the evils I have brought on
others. The infirmities of age have come upon
my mother; and poor James, taken from school,
where his improvement justified my estimate of
his capacity, has been forced to seek an employment,
the wages of which just supply her with
bare necessaries. These things ought not to be,
and shall not be if I can help it. James is the
bearer of this. You will see him, and judge whether
he is one who should be required to devote to
the drudgery of a country store, faculties which
might be an ornament to his country. I was
going to add, `and a pride to his family.' But what
have I to do with pride?

“But though the thought of what I am checks
every such feeling, it does not forbid me to know
what I was, and might have been. Humility does
not require me to doubt, that but for Montague I
might not only have enjoyed advantages which I
surrender without a murmur, but that I might have
been instrumental to my mother's comfort, and the
advancement of this poor boy. What he has prevented
me from doing he once agreed to do; and

he shall again agree to do it, and shall perform his
promise.

“I have just learned where he is by means of a
gentleman who, for some purpose of his own, has
been endeavouring to find him out. About the
same time I ascertained, by mere chance, that you,
my only friend, were in the same part of the country.
The coincidence seemed to point the course
I should pursue. I would gladly have your counsel,
and have determined to secure to myself all the
benefits of it, by doing nothing that you do not approve.
I have accordingly directed James to find
you out, and hand you this letter. He carries one
also to Montague, which contains a demand of a
suitable provision for my poor mother, and of such
aid as may enable James to resume his studies and
qualify himself for a profession. Is this exacting
too much? Of that I constitute you sole judge.
If you disapprove the measure altogether, send
James back as he goes. If you approve it, then I
must ask that your justice and honour may preside
over what is done. Your knowledge of the past,
and of Montague's present condition, will make you
the best judge of what it is suitable he should do.
In making this demand, I do not propose to continue
to hold the rod over him. It might seem too
much like retaining the means of future and indefinite
exaction. I have accordingly placed in
James's hands a second communication, the receipt
of which will enable Montague to recover the
packet. This last will be delivered when you

direct it, and not before; and I have to ask that
you will direct it when that which is right in your
judgment that Montague should do is done, or so
promised as to secure performance. Poor James
knows nothing of the nature of his errand. It is
not right he should. He knows nothing of Montague's
history. If he did, instead of sending him
in quest of the wretch, I would try to put the solid
globe between them. He is mild and gentle, and
softhearted as a girl; but he is sensitive, honourable,
and brave; and the fierceness of his indignation,
when once excited, is fearful.

“Do I, then, ask too much, when I beg that you
will yourself see Montague, and hand him the first
letter, which James will give you; and that, when
he shall have done what is right, you will direct
James to deliver to him the parcel with which he
is charged. You will perceive that it is not my
wish that this poor boy shall understand anything
of what is done, lest by possibility he might come
to the knowledge of what might drive him to acts of
desperate revenge. The least wrong or insult to me
he would repel and punish at the hazard of his life.

“I am sensible that I have asked no ordinary
service. But I ask it of one whom I once knew
as George Balcombe. If that noble and generous
being no longer exists, and another bears his form
and name, this letter is not to him. Let it be given
to the flames, and let the smoke of it ascend to Him
who has promised to hear the cry of the desolate
and oppressed. I have no right to suppose that

time, which changes all things else, has wrought
no change in you. But of one thing I am sure.
You can never be so far changed as to add to the
wretchedness you cannot relieve. If you cannot
aid, you will neither injure nor betray the unfortunate