"You cannot wonder, Gertrude, that in my feeble condition I was hardly capable of realising at the time, far less of retaining, any distinct recollection of the circumstances that followed my father's words. A few dim pictures, however, the last my poor eyes ever beheld, are still engraved upon my memory and visible to my imagination. My father stood with his back to the light, and from the first moment of his entering the room I never saw his face again; but the countenance of the object of his accusation, illumined as it was by the last rays of the golden sunset, stands ever in the foreground of my recollection. His head was thrown proudly back; conscious innocence proclaimed itself in his clear, calm eye, which shrunk not from the closest scrutiny; his hand was clenched, as if he were vainly striving to repress the passion which proclaimed itself in the compressed lips, the set teeth, the deep and angry indignation which overspread his face. He did not speak—apparently he could not command voice to do so; but my father continued to upbraid him in language cutting and severe, though I remember not a word of it. It was fearful to watch the working of the young man's face, while he stood there listening to taunts and enduring reproaches which were believed by him who uttered them to be just and merited, but which wrought the youth to a degree of frenzy which it was terrible to witness. Suddenly he took one step forward, slowly lifted the clenched hand which had hitherto hung at his side. I know not whether he might then have intended to call Heaven to witness his innocence of the crime, or whether he might have designed to strike my father; for I sprang from my seat prepared to rush between them, and implore them for my sake, to desist; but my strength failed me, and, with a shriek, I sunk back in a fainting fit.
"Oh, the horror of my awakening! How shall I find words to tell it?—and yet I must! Listen, Gertrude. He—the poor, ruined boy—sprung to help me; and, maddened by injustice, he knew not what he did. Heaven is my witness, I never blamed him; and if, in my agony, I uttered words that seemed like a reproach, it was because I was too frantic, and knew not what I said!"
"What!" exclaimed Gertrude, "he did not——"
"No, no! he did not—he did not put out my eyes!" exclaimed Emily; "it was an accident. He reached forward for the eau-de-cologne, which he had just had in his hand. There were several bottles, and in his haste he seized one containing a powerful acid which Mrs. Ellis had found occasion to use in my sick-room. It had a heavy glass stopper—and he—his hand being unsteady, and he spilt it all——"
"On your eyes?" shrieked Gertrude.
Emily bowed her head.
"Oh, poor Emily!" cried Gertrude, "and wretched, wretched young man!"
"Wretched indeed!" ejaculated Emily. "Bestow all your pity on him, Gertrude, for his was the harder fate of the two."
"Oh, Emily! how intense must have been the pain you endured! How could you suffer so, and live?"
"Do you mean the pain from my eyes? That was severe indeed, but the mental agony was worse!"