"Alas! such is indeed the case!" said Clarence, mournfully. "And now, aunt, I am about to ask you to perform a duty which will perhaps lacerate your bosom—revive a thousand bitter reflections—"
"I understand you, Clarence," interrupted Mrs. Torrens, subduing her emotions as much as possible, and speaking in a comparatively tranquil tone: "you require from my lips a true and faithful narrative of all that has occurred since you left London with your beautiful bride? Well—that narrative shall be given. Sit down by me—and listen: but, in so listening, you will only receive fresh proofs of my black turpitude! For systematically and coolly—not in the excitement of moments when evil passions were more powerful than reason—have I perpetrated those crimes which now weigh so heavily upon my soul!"
Clarence took a chair by his aunt's side, and prepared to hear her story with an earnest but mournful attention.
His aunt then related to him the particulars of the dreadful conspiracy which had been devised by herself, the late Sir Henry Courtenay, and Mr. Torrens against the honour of Rosamond; and Clarence now learnt for the first time that Mr. Torrens had only consented to his marriage with Adelais in order to get them both out of the way, so that the younger sister might be completely in the power of those who had thus leagued against her happiness and her virtue.
"Although I deplore that such motives should have been the favouring circumstances which led to my union with Adelais," said Clarence, "yet I rejoice that my charming and adored wife is safely removed by the fact of that marriage from the power of such a monster of a parent."
Mrs. Torrens sighed profoundly, and then entered upon those details which explained to her nephew how she became acquainted with Mr. Torrens—the whole particulars of the murder of Sir Henry Courtenay, as she herself had heard them from the lips of Mr. Torrens—the forgery of the cheque, to which crime that individual was privy—the way in which she had compelled him to marry her—and the flight of Howard, the attorney, with the produce of the crime for which she was now in a felon's gaol.
"And you believe that Mr. Torrens is really innocent of the black deed imputed to him?" said Clarence, inquiringly—for he was now anxious to ascertain whether the tale which he had just heard in explanation of that mysterious event, would correspond with the proclamation of Mr. Torrens' innocence which was to be that day made to the world, according to the assurances given on the preceding morning by Esther de Medina.
"I am confident that the account given by Mr. Torrens, and which I have now related to you, is correct," answered Mrs. Torrens: "for," she added, after a few moments' hesitation, "when once we understood each other—when once our hands were united—there was no necessity to maintain any secrets from each other. We plunged headlong into crime, hand-in-hand—and felt no shame in each other's presence. Besides, he had no motive to perpetrate such a deed: on the contrary, he deprived himself of a friend whose purse was most useful to him."
"True!" observed Clarence, struck by the truth of this reasoning.
"In respect to myself," resumed the unhappy woman, "I have made up my mind how to act. I shall not aggravate my enormity by denial: I shall plead guilty to the charge of forgery—and without implicating that wretched man on whom the charge of murder now presses with such a fearful weight of circumstantial evidence. No—I shall not mention him in connexion with that deed of mine; so that if he escape from the cruel difficulty in which he is now placed, no other accusations, beyond those of his own conscience, may injure his peace."