It might have been supposed, that now fully conscious of his infamy, I would have deserted him at once and left Seymour to his fate. In seducing me into a private marriage, he had practised a cruel imposition; and in persuading me, under false assurances, to quit my father’s house and share his felon fortunes, his conduct had been base and savage beyond all pardon. Yet, some secret yearning of my heart, whispered that he should not be abandoned; and though Smith, the branded criminal, was before me, I could not forget how ardently I had once loved the gay and fascinating Seymour. I had sacrificed myself to him at the altar; my vow of duty and obedience was recorded, and I desperately resolved to share his fate—wretched as that fate must be.
The remainder of my sad history is but a detail of sorrow and misfortune. I dare not dwell upon it—if I did, my brain would madden. Before six months elapsed after my evasion from the village, news reached England that the frigate into which William had entered a volunteer, in the ardour of pursuit, had become embayed upon the coast of France, and, attacked at fearful advantage, she had been fought with desperate valour to the last, and had gone down with England’s unconquered banner flying at her mast-head, and with the greater portion of her gallant crew. In the return of the killed, my brother’s name was found.
Need I tell you that his brave boy’s loss—his daughter’s base desertion—were more than the old man could bear? They broke my father’s heart; and a few months since—(she paused, gasped as if something choked her utterance, and then in a hollow whisper, added)—he died! Who was his murderess?
I must end these sickening disclosures. For a year, my outcast husband and myself wandered over the country, under the assumed name of Montague. We joined a company of strollers, and in our erratic course of life we crossed the sea. No criminal, I sincerely believe, felt deeper contrition for his manifold offendings than my felon husband. The sting of remorse struck him to the heart; he pined away; and cold, and wet, and hunger, completed what mental suffering had begun, he fell into a rapid consumption—and it was quite evident to me that he was hurrying to the only haven of repose reserved for him—the grave.
He died; but death to the outcast was a boon. Faithful to the last, I remained until his parting sigh escaped. These hands closed his eyes; and I saw him interred as a pauper in the most neglected corner of an obscure churchyard. Had he no mourner? Yes; he had one. I forgot his crimes, and all the misery he had wrought me; and the outcast’s deserted grave was sprinkled with the tears of the woman he had betrayed.
The fosterer was deeply affected. He pressed the poor mourner’s hand, and strove to cheer and comfort her.
“Julia!” he said, “What do you intend to do? Where do you purpose going? May I protect you?”
She raised her eyes, and gave him a look of gratitude, but shook her head.
“Are you returning home, Julia?”
“I am indeed about to seek a home,” she replied, with a long deep sigh. “It must be sought beside my father’s grave; and that once found, I’ll die there! Hush! footsteps are approaching; and now to resume a weary journey, and—a last one!”