“Dear Lucy,” said he, “you know I love you, but—but—”
“But what,” she exclaimed; “do not stammer—do not hesitate. Speak, and quickly!”
“Well, then,” he replied, “I love you and pity you; but I cannot make you my wife. Nay,” he continued, as the pale impress of hopeless agony stole over her features, “nay, do not look so terribly, Lucy; all will yet be well!”
As he spoke he advanced and took her hand within his own; but she withdrew it quickly, as though she had been touched by a scorpion.
“Yes, yes; all will be well for you, but not for me. Paul Weldon, how dearly, how deeply I have loved you I need not say, for I have proved it, and have been rewarded for it by treachery, disgrace, and despair. But enough of this; you have decided, so have I; and all that now remains is to say that I will pray to God, if He will listen to the prayer of the fallen, that you may never know such wo as you have caused me, and to entreat you, when you go forth into the world, that when you see the young and innocent, happy in their purity, you will spare them for my sake—that you will never whisper of love and joy when you meditate treachery and ruin! And now farewell. We shall never meet again on earth! Once more, farewell—forever!”
As she spoke she glided from the room. After standing, irresolute, a few moments, he seized his hat, and left the house.
That night sleep refused to visit his eyes. Hour by hour he paced his chamber, thinking of the ruin he had wrought, and upbraiding himself for his cruelty. The struggle between love and pride was again renewed, and this time the good angel was victorious, and he determined to atone for his previous injuries by such reparation as remained in his power. Resolving not to expose his new made resolution to his mother’s attacks, he intended to persuade Lucy to an immediate marriage. At daybreak he sought the rector of the parish, and having told his story, induced him to consent to perform the marriage service. From thence he hastened to the well-known cottage. Meeting Mrs. White at the door, he asked for Lucy, and was told that she had not risen; but as he seemed eager to speak to her, Mrs. White summoned the servant and bade her call her daughter. A moment later a shrill shriek was heard, and the girl rushed into the apartment, pale and breathless:
“O, madam, madam,” she exclaimed, “she is dead—she is dead!”
With a bound Paul sprang up the staircase, and then into Lucy’s chamber, followed close by her horror-stricken mother. There, on the bed, pale, cold and lifeless, lay fair Lucy White. A cup upon the table, and a bottle, labeled “laudanum,” betrayed the manner of her death. All these things Paul took in at a glance, and stood petrified with horror. The thought struck him that life might not yet be quite extinct, throwing aside the covering, he placed his hand above her heart; but it was cold and still; its pulses had ceased to beat. She was indeed—dead! He knelt beside the corpse, and, in his agony, called on Heaven to destroy him, accusing himself of having murdered the most fair and innocent of beings. The mother, roused from her anguish, learned, for the first time, that the dear child she mourned, had fallen from her purity and innocence. At first she would not believe the dreadful truth, and springing up, she caught the betrayer by the arm.
“Paul Weldon,” she exclaimed, “by all you hold sacred, I command you to tell me the truth: Was she innocent or guilty?”