"But the consciousness of deceiving her, and the perpetual dread of that wretched debt always hovering round me, insensibly soured my temper, and wore upon my spirits. But this only called forth the depth of her affection. She was never weary of pleasing me, and my very fretfulness rendered her more sweet and patient. It was beautiful to see," he continued with emotion, "how she schooled her naturally fiery and uncurbed temper, to bear my sour complaint, or peevish rebuke. Beautiful to see how little it humbled her when she was most patient; and what a sweet, and gentle, and loving wife, the spoilt child of wealth had become, at my bidding. But, let me spare myself the agony of remembrance. A greater trial was yet in store for her; for we had scarcely been married six months, when her father died. I had by that time become so deeply in debt, that, though I hated myself for it, I felt relieved by the news which fell so heavily on my wife.
"If the clouds we so much dread, are often big with blessing—how often is the sunshine only the fore-runner of the storm?
"In a few days I had cause to know this; for I found, when affairs were inspected, that, instead of being, as I expected, possessed of thousands, I was again the heir of a ruined man. And, even worse, ruined myself; for it was only upon this tacit expectation that I had obtained credit, and creditors would soon press upon me. I knew, now, that all hope was gone. Ah, wretch that I had become, simply, perhaps, because, I had despised the common-place business of money matters.
"Almost mad with the intelligence I had just learned, I rushed home to insult my innocent wife, with the knowledge of her parent's disgrace. Heaven forgive me, I must have been mad, or I could not have done it.
"I well remember it was morning, and I found my way, I scarce knew how, to her dressing-room—she was weeping—but when I entered, she tried to dry her tears. I was, however, past control, and bitterly did I reproach her for the deception, I alleged she had practised upon me—taunting her with angry violence. At first, she seemed stunned, by what she learnt from my wretched complaints—but then, as if suddenly stung to the quick, she retorted on me, accusing me, with bitter calmness, of having loved her for her expected fortune. I hardly know what I replied—but bad enough it was, I know—I, passionate and abusive; she, cold and contemptuous—and then, with a bitter curse, I left the house.
"I hurried out of town; any where to forget myself—some where to the country; it did not signify where. The cool air refreshed me, and nature called me to better feelings, for, happily, passion is of short duration—it told me, as I lingered amongst its beauties, of our happy honeymoon—it told me how, from that time, I had declined in my kindness to the wife whom I believed I loved better than self, and how, through all the trying months which had followed, she had preserved an unvarying meekness of temper, till that one day, when, galled beyond endurance, she had ventured to oppose passion to passion. Such sweetness might well atone for this single act of opposition—and spent with rage, and half repentant, I resolved to return and forgive her, though in a dignified manner; and to offer her my continued love and protection, if she desired to accompany my flight abroad, which I felt certain she would be too willing to do.
"There was a stillness about my house when I returned, which I was not surprised to find, for it was a house of sorrow—yet I had not noticed it so much before—I was late, as I intended, hoping to find my wife frightened and penitent—yet she did not come to meet me—no one did but my man, who asked me, with the tone of one accustomed to a sharp answer, 'if I intended waiting dinner for his mistress?' I hastily replied in the affirmative—and concealing my alarm, I hurried to the room where I had left her. A note lay upon her dressing-table, and, in the haste with which I opened it, something fell jingling to the ground. The note itself contained a few lines, written in a decisive tone, expressive of farewell, and telling her determination of renouncing, at once, my protection and my name. I stooped to pick up what had fallen—it was her wedding ring—that ring which, in happier days, we had so delighted to look upon, because the pledge of a faith which, it seemed, she could so easily cast aside.
"Let me pass over that dreadful day of stupefaction, and bitter repentance, at the end of which I found myself in prison, for all care for liberty had passed from me when she went—and I had not even tried to fly. You see," he continued, perceiving that Lucy listened with breathless attention, "that I was, thus, prevented from instituting any enquiry; and, indeed, I felt glad to hide myself from her eyes, for how could I wish her to acknowledge me in a prison—I believe I was completely humbled, and when I say that, I say a good deal—and that I was truly so, must be seen by the candour with which I have unveiled my meanness. Tell me, do you not pity me?"
Lucy made no reply.
He continued, in a more agitated voice—