I will not go with thee;
I will instruct my sorrows to be proud.--_King John_.
On the next morning, Vinal learned that his wife was ill, and confined
to her room in her father's house. On the day following, he was told
that she was no better; but on the third morning, a letter, in her
handwriting, was given him. He opened it, and read as follows:--
I heard all. I have learned, at last, to know you. These were your bad
dreams! This was the cloud that overshadowed you! No wonder that your
eye was anxious, your forehead wrinkled, and your cheek pale. To have
led that brave and loyal heart through months and years of
anguish!--to have buried him from the light of day!--to have buried
him in darkness and despair, if despair could ever touch a soul like
his! And there he would have been lost forever, if you had had your
will,--if a higher hand had not been outstretched to save him. One
whom you dared not meet face to face; one as far above your sphere as
the eagle is above the serpent to which he likened you! You have
taught me how sin can cringe and cower under the anger of a true and
deeply outraged man. That I should have lived to hear my husband
called a villain!--and still live to tell him that the word was just!
My husband! You are _not_ my husband. It was not a criminal, a
traitorous wretch, whom I pledged myself to love and honor. You have
insnared me; you have me, for a time, safely entangled in your meshes.
The same cause which led me to this yoke must withhold me from casting
it off. I cannot imbitter my father's dying moments. I cannot bring
distress and horror to his tranquil death bed. For his sake, I will
play the hypocrite, and stoop to pass in the world's eye as your wife.
For the few weeks he has to live, I will lodge, if I must, under your
roof; I will sit, if I must, at your table; but when my father is
gone, let the world impute to me what blame it will, I will leave you
forever. You need not fear that I shall expose your crimes. If _he_
could spare you, it does not become me to speak. Live on, and make
what atonement you may; but meanwhile there is a gulf between us wider
than death.
EDITH LESLIE.
An accident, arising out of her very devotion to Vinal, had made known
his secret to her. In the anteroom which led from the side passage of
the hotel to his apartment, and through which, on the morning of his
interview with Morton, she had intended to pass on her way out, was a
table, covered with books and engravings, with which the invalid had
been amusing his leisure. The sight of them reminded her that she had
promised to get for him a series of German etchings, which he had
expressed a wish to see. She seated herself, to write a request to the
friend who had them, that he would send them to the hotel. Her hand
was on the bell, to call the servant, when the peculiarly emphatic and
earnest manner with which Vinal greeted some new visitor caught her
attention. The door had sprung ajar on the lock; the speakers were
very near it, and Morton's tone was none of the softest. She remained
as if charmed to her seat; and every word fell on her ear as clearly
as if she had stood in the same room.