“That I dare not do,” replied she, with a tremble.
“Then I cannot shew you the picture,” said I.
“Would money move you?” said she.
“Not unless gold could cut or dissolve steel,” replied I.
“Ah, then, I am miserable indeed!” she said. “I would not for the whole world that my friends, who are of rank, should know that the miniature of their relative had been found in the possession of a forger.”
“I see no occasion for that coming out,” said I; “the picture is of no use at the trial, and I can prevent every chance of such a circumstance obtaining publicity.”
“Oh, Heaven bless you for the words!” she cried. “Can I trust you?”
“Yes,” said I; but becoming again official, and not relishing the idea of being done by a female, I could not help adding, “But if you can have faith in my promise as regards the picture, why do you doubt me as respects the original?”
“I cannot—I dare not,” she ejaculated, as she held the veil more firmly. “Adieu! I trust to your pity for one who truly deserves compassion.”
And my mysterious visitor departed. I never heard or saw more of her; but I have since frequently thought of that lovely face, as portrayed no doubt truthfully in the miniature, and formed numerous conjectures:—the disappointed hopes, it might be, of early affection,—the bleeding heart, brooding in secret over the shame of such a connexion,—or, stranger still, the misplaced sympathy of a woman’s love clinging with mistaken tenacity to the unworthy object, notwithstanding the disgraceful crime of which he had been convicted,—these and many others have often passed across my mind as the mysterious visit occurred to me. Nor is it possible to contemplate this affair without wondering at the fatality of the youth, with beauty if not rank in his power, and yet preying on the portions of children.