Nothing more was said until we reached the cottage. Mrs. Porterfield
and the physician met us at the entrance. We had come too late!
She was dead. They had found her so when they despatched the
servant in quest of me; but they were not certain of the fact, and
the servant was instructed to say she was only very ill. The physician
was called in as soon as possible; but had declared himself, as
soon as he came, unable to do anything for her. He had bled her;
and, before our arrival, had already pronounced upon her disease.
It was apoplexy!
"Apoplexy!" I exclaimed, involuntarily. Kingsley gave me a look.
"Yes, sir, apoplexy," continued the learned gentleman. "She must
have had several fits. It is evident that she was conscious after
the first, for she appears to have endeavored to reach the door.
She was found at the entrance, lying upon the floor. When I saw
her, she must have been lifeless a good hour." [The reader will be
reminded of the melancholy details in the ease of Miss Liuulon-L.
E. L.-whose fate is still a mystery.] He added sundry reasons, derived from her appearance, which he
assured us were conclusive on this subject; but to these I gave
little heed. I did not stop to listen. I hurried to the chamber,
closed the door, and was alone with my victim, with my wife!
My victim!--my wife!
I stood above her inanimate form. How lovely in death--but, oh!
how cold! I looked upon her pale, transparent cheeks and forehead,
through which the blue lines of veins, that were pulseless now,
gleamed out, showing the former avenues of the sweet and blessed
life. I was disarmed of my anger while I gazed. I bent down beside
her, took the rigid fingers of her hand in mine, and pressed my
lips upon the bloodless but still beautiful forms of hers.
I remembered her youth and her beauty--the glowing promise of her
mind, and the gentle temper of her heart. I remembered the dear
hours of our first communion--how pure were our delights--how perfect
my felicity. How we moved together as with one being only--beside
the broad streams of our birthplace--under the shelter of shady
pines--morning, and noon, and in the star-lighted night--never once
dreaming that an hour like this would come!
And she seemed so perfect pure, as she was so perfect lovely! Never
did I hear from her lips sentiment that was not--not only virtuous,
but delicate and soft--not only innocent but true--not only true
but fond! Alas! so to fall--so too yield herself at last! To feel
the growth of rank passion--to surrender her pure soul and perfect
form to the base uses of lust--to be no better than the silly harlot,
that, beguiled by her eager vanity, surrenders the precious jewel
in her trust, to the first cunning sharper that assails her with
a smiling lie!