To one end I am pledged. I will avenge my father’s murder, if it is in my power. I will bring his murderer to justice, if it is in my power. Help me if you can, and if after you peruse this strange narrative, every word of which is as faithful and true as though an angel, instead of an erring mortal, wrote it, you can still believe in me, still have faith in me, I shall bless you all my life, as I shall love you all my life, whether you remain faithful to me or not.
To my own heart, buoyed as I am with hope, stricken down as I am with despair, it seems treason to me to doubt; but all belief and faith, human and divine, would fall into a dark and hopeless abyss if it did not have some image, human or divine, to cling to; and I cling to you! You are my hope and my anchor!
I will not attempt to describe, as dimly I comprehend it now, the character of the woman who has brought all this misery upon me. She is fair and beautiful to look upon; innocence appears to dwell in her face; her eyes meet yours frankly and smilingly; her manners are the manners of a child; her voice is as sweet as the voice of a child. Were she and I to appear before a human tribunal, accused of a crime of which she was guilty and I innocent, she would be acquitted and I condemned.
I am in your hands. Judge me quickly. If you delay, and say, “My faith is not shaken,” I am afraid I should not be satisfied, because of your delay. In hope, as in despair,
I am, for ever yours,
Frederick.
[CHAPTER XXX.]
BECKY’S REPLY TO HER LOVER’S STATEMENT.
My Dearest,—It is now very near morning, within an hour of the time I am expected to rise. I have been up all night, and having read the story of your life from beginning to end, have re-read some portions again and again, so that they shall be fixed permanently in my mind. How I love and pity you! To say, as you desire me to say, that my faith is not shaken, is but a poor expression of my feelings towards you. My faith is strengthened, my love is strengthened, my hope is strengthened. Sitting in my little cupboard of a bedroom, with Fanny sleeping peacefully in my bed—yes, my dear, my poor little friend is with me again; I found her, the night before last, fainting for food at the street door of No. 119—sitting here, in the presence of that poor human waif, with my candle nearly burnt out, and the dim light of morning just beginning to dawn, it seems to me as if a star is shining upon me, instilling into my heart a wonderful faith and courage.