Without further preliminary, he pushed back his chair, tore the envelope open, and set out to read the missive through.
“Dear Mr. Hetzel: I received a very kind note from you last night, and I should have answered it at once, only I had so much to say that I thought it would be better to wait till morning, in order to begin and finish it at a sitting. The lights are turned off here at nine o’clock: and therefore if I had begun to write last evening, I should have been interrupted in the midst of it; and that would have rendered doubly difficult what in itself is difficult enough.
“I have much to explain, much to justify, much to ask forgiveness for. I am going to bring myself to say things to you, which, a few days ago, I believed it would be impossible for me to say to any living being, except my husband; and it would have been no easy matter to say them to him. But a great change has happened in the last few days. Now I can not say those things to my husband—never can. Now my wretched failure of a life is nearly ended. I am going to a prison where, I know very well, I shall not survive a great while.
“And something, which there is no need to analyze, impels me to put in writing such an explanation of what I have done and left undone in this world, as I may be able to make. Perhaps I am prompted to this course by pride, or if you choose, by vanity. However that may be, I do feel that in justice to myself as well as to my friends, I ought to try to state the head and front of my offending so as to soften the judgment that people aware only of my outward acts, and ignorant of my inner motives, would be disposed to pass upon me. I have ventured to address myself to you, instead of to Mrs. Hart, out of consideration for her. It would be too hard for her to have to read this writing through. You, having read it, can repeat its upshot to her in such a manner as to make it easier for her to bear. I know that you will be willing to do this, because I know that both she and I have always had a friend in you.
“For my own assistance, let me state clearly beforehand the points upon which I must touch in this letter. First, I must explain why, having a blot upon my life—being, that is to say, who I am—I allowed Arthur Ripley to marry me. Then I must go on to perform that most painful task of all—tell the story of the death of Bernard Peixada and Edward Bolen. Next, I must justify—what you appear to misunderstand, though the grounds of it are really very simple—the deep resentment which I can not help cherishing against your bosom friend, my husband. Finally, I must give the reasons that induced me to plead guilty of murder an hour ago in court.
“But no. I have put things in their wrong order at the outset. It will not be possible for me to explain why I consented to become Arthur’s wife, until I have given you the true history of Bernard Peixada’s death. I must command my utmost strength to do this. I must forget nothing.
“I must force myself to recount every circumstance, hateful as the whole subject is. I must search my memory, subdue my feelings, and as dispassionately as will be possible, put the entire miserable tale in writing. I pray God to help me.
“I am just twenty-six years old—ten months younger than Arthur. My birthday fell while he and I were at New Castle together—August 4th. How little I guessed then that in ten days every thing would be so altered! It is strange. I trusted him as I trusted myself. I could not conceive the possibility of his deceiving me. He seemed so sincere, so simple-minded, so single-hearted, I could as easily have fancied a toad issuing from his mouth, as a lie. Yet all the time—even while we were alone together there in New Castle—he was lying to me. That whole fortnight—that seemed so wonderfully serene and pure and light—was one dark falsehood. Even then, he was having my career investigated here in New York, behind my back. And I—I had offered to tell him every thing. Painful as it would have been, I should have told him the whole story; but he would not let me.
“He preferred to hear Benjamin Peixada’s—my enemy’s—version of it. Even now, when I have—plenty—to remind me of the truth, even now, I can scarcely believe it.
“But I must not deviate. As I was saying, I am twenty-six years old. More than six years ago, when I was nineteen, nearing twenty, my father said to me one day, ’Mr. Peixada has done us the honor to ask for your hand in marriage. We have accepted. So, on the eighth of next August, you will be married to him.’