“Mr. Belmont checked himself for he saw that his daughter had become greatly disturbed. She raised up partly from her pillow, while a rapid play of the muscles agitated her whole face. Before, however, she was able to articulate a word, she sunk back paler than ever. Two or three deep groans struggled up from her heart, and then all was still—still as death. Mr. Belmont looked for some time at the young, white face of his first-born and dearly beloved child, upon which the great destroyer had so suddenly set his seal, and then, answering groan for groan, turned from the withered blossom that lay before him, and again sought the silence and solitude of his own room.
“Two months subsequently to this, Erskine received a letter from Edgerton. It was in these words:
“ ‘My Dear Sir,—The work is done—and well done. I have succeeded fully in my plans. Your old flame has been with me in New York for a month. But she takes the matter rather too hard, and weeps eternally. I can’t stand this; and if she does not improve very shortly, shall abandon her. If it had not been for my wish to follow your instructions to the letter, I should have taken the eldest daughter instead of the mother, who is much more to my fancy. I have not yet heard any thing from Belmont, though I look every day for him to pounce down upon me; but I am not afraid of him. I suppose this affair will drive him half mad, for he was exceedingly fond of his wife. This I mention for your particular gratification. You may expect to see me in England by the next arrival. Whether I shall bring my lady-love along or not, I cannot say. It is, however, doubtful. Addio.
Edgerton.’
“The death of his oldest daughter, under circumstances of so much doubt and distress, added to the desertion of a beloved wife, wrought a great and melancholy change in Mr. Belmont. I only saw him a few times afterwards, and then it was at his own house, where I was called to visit as a physician. A few months had made the impression of years. His face was thin, and marked with strong lines; his countenance dull and depressed; his eyes drooping and sad. He moved about slowly, and spoke in a low, quiet, pensive voice.
“One cold night in November, some six or seven months after the afflictive events just described had occurred, Mr. Belmont, after laying awake for hours, trying in vain to sleep, arose from his bed, and going to the window, stood there for some time. The moon was shining brightly through the clear, frosty air, making every object distinctly visible. After standing at the window for some time, Belmont was about turning away, when his eye was arrested by a figure that came slowly along the main avenue through which we drove up to the house a little while ago. Sometimes it would stop for the space of a minute, and then move on again, until at length it stood in the clear moonlight, directly under his window. He then saw that it was a woman. Her head was bowed down at first, but soon she looked up, and the moonlight fell strongly upon her face. Belmont started with a low exclamation, and retreated from the window, and staggering back, sunk with a groan upon the bed, where he lay for nearly five minutes. He then arose, dressed himself, and descended with a deliberate air. On opening the hall-door, he perceived that the woman had sunk down upon the steps. She did not move at his approach.
“ ‘Catherine!’ he said, in as firm a voice as he could assume.
“But there was no motion—no reply.
“ ‘Catherine!’ But she did not answer.
“Stooping down, he placed his hand upon her, and then she looked up, and the moonbeams fell upon her face. Her lips were thin and tightly compressed; her pale cheeks deeply sunken; her eyes tearless, but, oh! how full of mingled penitence, humility, and hopelessness. She uttered no word, but lay upon the cold marble, at the threshhold of her husband’s mansion, with her eyes fixed upon his face, that, if not stern and angry, betrayed no sign of affection.