BEVERLY AND JOANNA.
In the Temple, near the hour of dawn, on the morning of the 24th of December, 1844.
"Fallen!"
Yes, fallen! nevermore to press the kiss of a pure mother upon the lips of her innocent child. Fallen! never more to meet her husband's gaze, with the look of a chaste and faithful wife. Fallen!—from wifely purity, from all that makes the past holy, or the future hopeful—fallen, from all that makes life worth the having,—fallen! and forever!
"Fallen!"
Oh, how this word, trembling from her lips—wrung from her heart—echoed through the stillness of the dimly-lighted chamber.
She was seated on the sofa, her noble form clad in the white silken robe—her hands clasped—her golden hair unbound—her neck and shoulders bare: and the same light hanging from the ceiling, which disclosed the details of that luxurious chamber—carpet, chairs, sofa, mirror, and the snow-white couch in a distant recess—fell upon her beautiful countenance, and revealed the remorse that was written there. There was a wild, startled look in her blue eyes; her lips were apart; her cheek was now, pale as death, and then, flushed with the scarlet hues of unavailing shame.
He was reclining at her feet; his arm resting on the sofa; his face upturned—his eyes gazing into hers. Clad in the costume of the white monk—a loose robe of white cloth, with wide sleeves, edged with red—Beverly Barron toyed with his flaxen curls, as he looked into her face, and remarked her with a look of mingled meaning. There was base appetite, gratified vanity, but no remorse in his look.
And the light fell on his florid face, with its sensual mouth, receding chin, wide nostrils, and bullet-shaped forehead, encircled by ringlets of flaxen hair—a face altogether animal, with scarcely a single ray of a higher nature, to light up or refine its grossness.
"Fallen!" cried Joanna; and clasped her hands, and shuddered, as if with cold.