I seized it, and, bending eagerly over the light, read my name upon it. My hand trembled so that I could hardly open it. Within the first paper there was a letter; my eyes glanced hurriedly over it, but from another wrapping something dropped, one sight of which served to make me grasp the table for support, and drop the letter on the floor.
"What is it?" cried my companion, starting forward, and picking up my letter, leading me to a chair.
"Read it to me—I can't—I don't understand," I faltered, putting back the letter in his hand. He looked at me hesitatingly a moment, then read it aloud:
"I promised you freedom. Well! I have been a coward not to have given it to you sooner; but when you read this, there will be such a gulf between us, that you may well grant a little pity to the cowardice that only feared death as a separation from you—that only clung to life as sweetened by your love.
"It is trite to tell you of my love—to tell you to be happy—to say I forgive the coldness that you strove to hide—and to ask forgiveness for the pain I have given you. You know all this—better, much better than at this dreadful hour I can tell you—and though you can never know in its fullness the agony that the parting inflicts on me, there is no need that you should realize it: I have done enough to make you miserable already. Forget all this black dream; it will soon be over, and be again the happy girl I found you.
"But one thing more. Would you know who it is to whom you had affianced yourself—to whose life you had promised to unite yours—whose name you had promised to bear? It is a good name—mon ange—an ancient name—an honorable! Ask your proud host if it is not; ask him if there is a better in the country, or one that a woman need be prouder to bear. It is no new name to your ears; it is Rutledge; the only name I have any claim to, though, perhaps, my host would say that was but a slender one: did his sister lose the ancient and honored name she was born with, when she lost her honor, when she stepped down from her high place, and stooped to sin? Or did she drag down that name with her in her fall? Did it cling to her, like a robe of mockery and scorn, only making her shame the greater; did it descend with the heritage of infamy, to the child of her shame? Or did it die with her, and has her neglected grave the only right to bear the record of it? Ask our host—he can tell you more of it than I. But tell him I am not inclined to dispute it with him: I am not as proud of the name as he; tell him I loathe—I execrate it! I could almost wish to live to show him my contempt for it—to show him what a low wretch could share with him his inheritance and his pride. If he doubts it—if he questions whether the same blood runs in our veins, show him the only souvenir I have to leave you—the picture of my father. Ask him if he remembers Alice Rutledge's lover. He will not need more damning proof; it came to me like a message from the dead—it may go to him as such. Tell him that a murderer wrenched it from his victim's dying grasp; that it has struck awe to his guilty soul at every glance; that it has hurried him on to perdition. But if he longs to be more certain, show him these two letters; one that I have worn next my heart for years—the other, that I found between the leaves of a forgotten book in this ghastly room.
"The God whom you believe in bless you, and, if he has the right—forgive me!
"VICTOR."
"I don't understand—what does he mean—where has he gone?" I said, wildly, pressing my hand to my head. "I am so bewildered, I can't think. Oh! don't look so awfully! There must be some mistake. You can't believe that—that—oh! heaven help me!"
My companion did not speak; my eyes searched his blanched face in vain for comfort—a wild impulse seized me; I grasped the candle in my hand, and, with a hasty look around the apartment, hurried to the bed and drew aside the curtains.