“How happy was my childhood!” it began. “I can scarcely remember a grief through all that sunny lapse of years. I dwelt in a beautiful abode, uniting the verandas and vine-covered porticoes of southern climes with the substantial in-door comforts of English luxury. The country around was romantic, and I grew up in its sylvan solitudes almost as wild and happy as the birds and fawns that were my companions.
“I was motherless. My father, on her death, had retired from public life, and devoted himself to her child. Idolized by him, my wildest wishes were unrestrained; the common forms of knowledge were eagerly accepted by me, for I had an intuitive talent of acquiring any thing which contributed to my pleasure; and I early discovered that, without learning to read and write, the gilded books and enameled desks in my father's library would remain to me only as so many splendid baubles; but a regular education, a religious and intellectual course of study, I never pursued. I read as I liked, and when I liked. I was delicate in appearance, and my father feared to control my spirits, or to rob me of a moment's happiness. Fatal affection! How did I repay such misjudging love!
“Time flowed brightly on, and I had already seen sixteen summers, when the little cloud appeared in the sky that so fearfully darkened my future destiny. In one of our charitable visits to the neighboring cottages, we formed an acquaintance with a gentleman who had become an inhabitant of our village; a fall from his horse placed him under the care of our worthy doctor, and he had hired a small room attached to Ashtree farm, until he recovered from the lingering effects of his accident. Handsome, graceful, and insinuating in his address, he captivated my ardent imagination at once. Unaccustomed to the world, I looked upon him as the very ‘mould of form;’ a new and blissful enchantment seemed to pervade my being in his presence and my girlish fancy dignified the delusion with the name of love? My father was delighted with his society; he possessed an inexhaustible fund of anecdotes and strange adventures, was an excellent musician, and had the agreeable tact of accommodating himself to the mood of the moment. He was a constant visitor, and at length became almost domesticated in our household. Known to us by the name of Corrie, he spoke of himself as the son of a noble house, who, to indulge a poetic temperament, and a romantic passion for rural scenery, had come forth on a solitary pilgrimage, and cast aside for a while what he called the iron fetters of exclusive society. How sweet were our moonlight ramblings through the deep forest glens; how fondly we lingered by the Fairies' Well in the green hollow of the woods, watching the single star that glittered in its pellucid waters! And, oh, what passionate eloquence, what romantic adoration, was poured forth upon my willing ear, and thrilled my susceptible heart!
“Before my father's eye he appeared gracefully courteous to me, but not a word or glance betrayed the passion which in our secret interviews worshiped me as an idol, and enthralled my senses with the ardency of its homage. This, he told me, was necessary for my happiness, as my father might separate us if he suspected that another shared the heart hitherto exclusively his own. This was my first deception. Fatal transgression! I had departed from the path of truth, and my guardian angel grew pale in the presence of the tempter. Winter began to darken the valleys; our fireside circle was enlivened by the presence of our accomplished guest. On the eve of my natal day, he spoke of the birth-day fetes he had witnessed during his Continental and Oriental rambles, complimented my father on the antique beauty and massy richness of the gold and silver plate which, rarely used, decorated the sideboard in honor of the occasion; and, admiring the pearls adorning my hair and bosom, spoke so learnedly on the subject of jewels, that my father brought forth from his Indian cabinet my mother's bridal jewels, diamonds, and emeralds of exquisite lustre and beauty. I had never before seen these treasures, and our guest joined in the raptures of my admiration.
“ ‘They will adorn my daughter,’ said my father, with a sigh, as he closed the casket, and retired to place it in its safe receptacle.
“ ‘Yes, my Helen,’ said my lover, ‘they shall glitter on that fair brow in a prouder scene, when thy beauty shall gladden the eyes of England's nobles, and create envy in her fairest daughters.’
“I listened with a smile, and, on my father's return, passed another evening of happiness—my last!
“We retired early, and oh, how bright were the dreams that floated around my pillow, how sweet the sleep that stole upon me as I painted the future—an elysium of love and splendor! [pg 394] I was awakened by a wild cry that rang with agonizing horror through the midnight stillness: it was the voice of my father. I sprang hastily from my couch, threw on a wrapper, seized the night-lamp, and hurried to his chamber. Ruffians opposed my entrance; the Indian cabinet lay shattered on the floor, and I beheld my father struggling in the fierce grasp of a man, who had clasped his throat to choke the startling cry. With maniac force I reached the couch, and, seizing the murderous hand, called aloud for help. The robber started with a wild execration, the mask fell from his face, and I beheld the features of Gilbert Corrie!...
“When I recovered consciousness, I found that I had suffered a long illness—a brain fever, caused, the strange nurse said, by some sudden shock. Alas, how dreadful had been that fatal cause! Sometimes I think my head has never been cool since; a dull throb of agony presses yet upon my brow; sometimes it passes away; my spirits mount lightly, and I can laugh, but it has a hollow sound—oh, how unlike the sweet laughter of by-gone days!...
“We were in London. My apartments were sumptuous: all that wealth could supply was mine; but what a wretch was I amid that scene of splendor! The destroyer was now the arbiter of my destiny. I knew his wealth arose from his nefarious transactions at the gaming-table. I knew my father was dead; the severe injuries he had received on that fatal night and the mysterious disappearance of his daughter had laid him in his grave. Gilbert Corrie was virtually his murderer, yet still I loved him! A passion partaking of delirium bound me to his destiny. I shrank not from the caress of the felon gamester—the plague-stain of sin was upon me—the burning plow-shares of the world's scorn lay in my path, and how was the guilty one to dare the fearful ordeal? For fallen woman there is no return; no penitence can restore her sullied brightness; the angel-plumes of purity are scattered in the dust, and never can the lost one regain the Eden of her innocence. The world may pity, may pardon, but never more respect; and, oh, how dreadful to mingle with the pure, and feel the mark of Cain upon your brow!...