I re-opened my office and resumed my customary seat at the table.

But I sat only to ruminate upon things and thoughts which, following

the track of memory, diverted my sight as well as my mind, from

all present objects. I saw nothing before me, except vaguely, and

in a sort of shadow. I had a hazy outline of books against the

wall; and a glimmering show of papers and bundles upon the table.

I sat thus for some time, lost in painful and humiliating revery.

Suddenly I caught a glimpse of a packet on the table, which I did

not recollect to have seen before. It bore my name. I shuddered to

behold it, for it was in the handwriting of my wife. This, then,

was the writing upon which she had been secretly engaged, for so

many days, and of which Mrs. Porterfield had given me the first

intimation. I remembered the words of Julia when she assured

me that it was intended for me--when she playfully challenged my

curiosity, and implored me to acknowledge an anxiety to knew the

contents. The pleading tenderness of her speech and manner now rose

vividly to my recollection. It touched me more now--now that the

irrevocable step had been taken--far more than it ever could have

affected me then. Then, indeed, I remained unaffected save by the

caprice of my evil genius. The demon of the blind heart was then

uppermost. In vain now did I summon him to my relief. Where was

he? Why did he not come?

I took up the packet with trembling fingers. My nerves almost failed

me. My heart shrank and sank with painful presentiments. What could

this writing mean? Of what had Julia Clifford to write? Her whole

world's experience was contained, and acquired, in my household.

The only portion of this experience which she might suppose unknown

to me was her intercourse with Edgerton. The conclusion, then, was

natural that this writing related to this matter; but, if natural,

why had I not conjectured it before? Why, when I first heard of

it, had the conclusion not forced itself upon me as directly as it

did now? Alas! it was clear to me now that I was then blind; and,

with this clearness of sight, my doubts increased; but they were

doubts of myself, rather than doubts of her.

It required an effort before I could recover myself sufficiently to

break the seal of the packet. First, however, I rose and reclosed

the office. Whatever might be the contents of the paper, to me it

was the language of a voice from the grave. It contained the last

words of one I never more should hear. The words of one whom I

had loved as I could never love again. It was due to her, and to

my own heart, that she should be heard in secret;--that her words--whether

in reproach or repentence--whether in love or scorn--should fall

upon mine ear without witness, in a silence as solemn as was that

desolate feeling which now sat, like a spectre, brooding among the

ruins of my heart.




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