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It ran as follows:

“My Daughter,—My loving, tender-hearted girl. Now that
your own words encourage me with the assurance that my worst
fear was unfounded (the fear that my name was already blasted
to your young ears, and your father doomed by your young heart
to infamy),—now that I can appeal to you as to an impartial witness,
I will disclose the story of my life, and, while I prove to
you your parentage, will hope that my unprejudiced child, at least,
will believe, love and trust her father, in spite of a world's injustice.

“I will conceal nothing. I will plunge at once into those disclosures
which I most dread to utter, and trust to after explanation
to palliate the darkness of my tale.

“Mr. Graham is my step-father, and my blessed mother, long
since dead, was, in all but the tie of nature, a true mother to
Emily. Thus allied, however, to those whom you love best, I am
parted from them by a heavy curse; for, not only was mine the
ill-fated hand (O, hate me not yet, Gertrude!) which locked poor
Emily up in darkness, but, in addition to that horrid deed, I
stand accused in the eyes of my fellow-men of another crime,
deep, dark and disgraceful. And yet, though living under a ban,
wandering up and down the world a doomed and a broken-hearted
man, I am innocent as a child of all intentional wrong, as you
will learn, if you can trust to the truth of the tale I am about to
tell.

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“Nature gave and education fostered in me a rebellious spirit.
I was the idol of my invalid mother, who, though she loved me
with a love for which I bless her memory, had not the energy to
tame and subdue the passionate and wilful nature of her boy.
Though ungoverned, however, I was neither cruelly nor viciously
disposed, and though my sway at home and among my school-fellows
was alike indisputable, I made many friends, and not a single
enemy. But a sudden check was at length put to my freedom.
My mother married, and I soon came to feel, and feel bitterly,
the check which her husband, Mr. Graham, was likely to impose
upon my boyish independence. Had he treated me with kindness,
had he won my affection (which he might easily have done, for
my sensitive and impassioned nature disposed me to every tender
and grateful emotion), it is impossible to measure the influence he
might have had in moulding my yet unformed character.

“But the reverse was the case. His behavior towards me
was that of chilling coldness and reserve. He repelled with scorn
the first advance on my part, which led me, at my mother's instigation,
to address him by the paternal title,—an offence of which
I never again was guilty. And yet, while he seemed to ignore
the relationship, he assumed its privileges and authority, thus
wounding my feelings and my pride, and exciting a spirit of rebellious
opposition to his commands.

“Two things served to embitter my sentiments and strengthen
my growing dislike for my overbearing step-father. One was the
consciousness of my utter dependence upon his bounty; the other,
a hint, which I received through the mistaken kindness of a domestic
who had always known the family, that Mr. Graham's dislike
to me had its origin in an old enmity between himself and
my own father,—an honorable and high-minded man, whom it
was ever my greatest pride to be told that I resembled.

“Great, however, as was the warfare in my heart, power rested
with Mr. Graham; for I was yet but a child, and necessarily subject
to government. Nor could I be deaf to my mother's entreaties
that, for her sake, I would learn submission. It was
only occasionally, therefore, when I had been, as I considered,
most unjustly thwarted, that I broke forth into direct rebellion; and

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even then there were influences ever at work to preserve at least
outward harmony in our household. Thus years passed on, and,
though I did not learn to love Mr. Graham more, the force of
habit, the intense interest afforded by my studies, and a growing
capability of self-control, rendered my mode of life far less
obnoxious to me than it had once been.

“There was one great compensation for my trials, and that
was the love I cherished for Emily, who responded to it with
equal warmth on her part. It was not because she stood between
me and her father, a mediator and a friend; it was not because
she submitted patiently to my dictation, and aided me in all my
plans. It was because our natures were made for each other,
and, as they grew and expanded, were bound together by ties
which a rude hand only could snap and rend asunder. I pause
not to dwell upon the tenderness and depth of this affection; it
is enough to say that it became the life of my life.

“At length my mother died. I was at that time—sorely
against my will—employed in Mr. Graham's counting-house,
and still continued an inmate of his family. And now, without
excuse or even warning, my step-father commenced a course of
policy as unwise as it was cruel; and so irritating to my pride,
so torturing to my feelings, and so maddening to my hot nature,
that it excited and angered me almost to frenzy. He tried to
rob me of the only thing that sweetened and blessed my existence—
the love of Emily. I will not here recount the motives
I imputed to him, nor the means he employed. It is sufficient to
say that they were such as to change my former dislike into bitter
hatred,—my unwilling obedience to his will into open and
deliberate opposition.

“Instead of submitting to what I considered his tyrannical interference,
I sought Emily's society on all occasions, and persuaded
the gentle girl to lend herself to my schemes for thwarting her
father's purposes. I did not speak to her of love; I did not
seek to bind her to me by premises; I hinted not at marriage;
a sense of honor forbade it. But, with a boyish independence,
which I have since feared was the height of folly and imprudence,
I sought every occasion, even in her father's presence, to

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manifest my determination to maintain that constant freedom and
familiarity of intercourse which had been the growth of circumstances,
and could not, without force, be restrained.

“At length Emily was taken ill, and for six weeks I was debarred
her presence. As soon as she was sufficiently recovered to leave
her room, I constantly sought and at last obtained an opportunity
to see and speak with her. We had been together in the
library more than an hour when Mr. Graham suddenly entered,
and came towards us with a face whose harshness and severity I
shall not soon forget. I did not heed an interruption, for the
probable consequences of which I believed myself prepared. I
was little prepared, however, for the nature of the attack actually
made upon me.

“That he would accuse me of disobedience to wishes which he
had hinted in every possible way, and even intimate more plainly
than before his resolve to place barriers between Emily and myself,
I fully expected, and was ready with my replies; but when
he burst forth with a torrent of unqualified and ungentlemanly
abuse,—when he stormed and raved, imputing to me mean, selfish
and contemptible motives, which had never for a moment influenced
me, or even occurred to my mind,—I was struck dumb
with surprise, impatience and anger.

“But this was not all. It was then, in the presence of the pure-minded
girl whom I worshipped, that he charged me with a dark
and horrid crime,—the crime of forgery,—asserting my guilt
as recently discovered, but positive and undoubted. My spirit
had raged before,—now it was on fire. I lifted my hand, and
clenched my fist. What I would have done I know not. Whether
I should have found words to assert my innocence, fling back the
lie, and refute a charge as unexpected as it was false,—or
whether, my voice failing me from passion, I should have swept
Mr. Graham from my path, perhaps felled him to the floor, while
I strode away to rally my calmness in the open air,—I cannot
now conjecture; for a wild shriek from Emily recalled me to myself,
and, turning. I saw her fall fainting upon the sofa.

Forgetting everything then but the apparently dying condition
into which the horror of the scene had thrown her, I sprung

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forward to her relief. There was a table beside her, and some bottles
upon it. I hastily snatched what I believed to be a simple
restorative, and, in my agitation, emptied the contents of the
phial in her face. I know not what the exact character of the
mixture could have been; but it matters not,—its effect was too
awfully evident. The deed was done,—the fatal deed,—and
mine was the hand that did it!

“Brought suddenly to consciousness by the intolerable torture
that succeeded, the poor girl sprung screaming from the sofa,
flung her arms wildly above her head, rushed in a frantic manner
through the room, and finally crouched in a corner. I followed,
in an agony scarce less than her own; but she repelled me with
her hands, at the same time uttering piercing shrieks. Mr. Graham,
who for an instant had looked like one paralyzed by the
scene, now rushed forward like a madman. Instead of aiding
me in my efforts to lift poor Emily from the floor, and so far from
compassionating my situation, which was only less pitiable than
hers, he, with a fierceness redoubled at my being, as he considered,
the sole cause of the disaster, attacked me with a storm of
jeering taunts and cruel reproaches, declaring that I had killed
his child. With words like these, which are still ringing in my
ears, he drove me from the room and the house; a repulsion
which I, overpowered by the misery of contrition and remorse,
had neither the wish nor the strength to resist.

“O! the terrible night and day that succeeded! I can give
you no idea how they were passed. I wandered out into the
country, spent the whole night walking beneath the open sky,
endeavoring to collect my thoughts and compose my mind, and
still morning found me with a fevered pulse and excited brain.
With the returning light, however, I began to realize the necessity
of forming some future plan of action.

“Emily's sad situation, and my intense anxiety to learn the
worst effects of the fatal accident, gave me the strongest motives
for hastening, with the earliest morning, either openly or by
stealth, to Mr. Graham's house. Everything also which I possessed,—
all my money, consisting merely of the residue of my
last quarter's allowance, my clothing, and a few valuable gifts

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from my mother,—were in the chamber which I had there occupied.
There seemed, therefore, to be no other course for me
than to return thither once more, at least; and having thus
resolved, I retraced my steps to the city, determined, if it were
necessary in order to gain the desired particulars concerning
Emily, to meet her father face to face. As I drew near the
house, however, I hesitated, and dared not proceed. Mr. Graham
had exhausted upon me already every angry word, had threatened
even deeds of violence, should I ever again cross his threshold;
and I feared to trust my own fiery spirit to a collision in which I
might be led on to an open resistance of the man whom I had
already sufficiently injured.

“In the terrible work I had but yesterday done,—a work of
whose fatal effect I had even then a gloomy foreshadowing,—I
had blighted the existence of his worshipped child, and drawn a
dark pall over his dearest hopes. It was enough. I would not,
for worlds, be guilty of the added sin of lifting my hand against
the man who, unjust as he had been towards an innocent youth,
had met a retaliation far, far too severe.

“Still, I knew his wrath to be unmitigated, was well aware of
his power to excite my hot nature to frenzy, and resolved to
beware how I crossed his path. Meet him I must, to refute
the false charges he had brought against me; but not within
the walls of his dwelling, the home of his suffering daughter. In
the counting-house, where the crime of forgery was said to have
been committed, and in the presence of my fellow-clerks, I would
publicly deny the deed, and dare him to its proof. But first I
must either see or hear from Emily; before I met the father at
all, I must learn the exact nature and extent of the wrong I had
done him in the person of his child. For this, however, I must
wait, until, under cover of the next night's darkness, I could
enter the house unperceived.

“So I wandered about all day in torment, without tasting or
even desiring food or rest, the thought of my poor, darling, tortured
Emily ever present to my wretched thoughts. The hours
seemed interminable. I remember that day of suspense as if it
had been a whole year of misery. But night came at last,

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cloudy, and the air thickened with a heavy fog, which, as I
approached the street where Mr. Graham lived, enveloped the
neighborhood, and concealed the house until I was directly opposite
to it. I shuddered at the sight of the physician's chaise
standing before the door; for I knew that Dr. Jeremy had closed
his visits to Emily more than a week previously, and must have
been summoned to attend her since the accident. Finding him
there, and thinking it probable Mr. Graham was also in the
house at this hour, I forbore to enter, but stood effectually concealed
by the cloud of mist, and watching my opportunity.

“Once or twice Mrs. Ellis, the housekeeper, passed up and
down the staircase, as I could distinctly see through the sidelights
of the door, which afforded me a full view of the entryway;
and presently Dr. Jeremy descended slowly, followed by
Mr. Graham. The doctor would have passed hastily out; but
Mr. Graham detained him, to question him regarding his patient,
as I judged from the deep anxiety depicted on my step-father's
countenance, while, with one hand resting on the shoulder of this
old friend of the family, he sought to read his opinion in his face.
The doctor's back was towards me, and I could only judge of his
replies by the effect they produced on the questioner, whose haggard,
worn appearance became more fearfully distressed at every
syllable that fell from the honest and truthful lips of the medical
man, whose words were oracles to all who knew his skill.

“I needed, therefore, no further testimony to force upon me the
conviction that Emily's fate was sealed; and, as I looked with
pity upon the afflicted parent, and shudderingly thought how
immediate had been my agency in the work of destruction, I felt
that the unhappy father could not curse me more bitterly than I
cursed myself. Deeply, however, as I mourned, and have never
ceased to repent, my share in the exciting of that storm wherein
the poor girl had been so cruelly shipwrecked, I could not forget
the part that Mr. Graham had borne in the transaction, or forgive
the wicked injustice and insults which had so unnerved and
unmanned me as to render my hand a fit instrument only of
ruin; and as, immediately after the doctor's departure, I watched
my step-father also come down the steps and walk away, and saw,

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by a street-lamp, that the look of pain had passed from his face,
giving place to his usual composed, self-complacent and arrogant
expression, and understood, by the loud and measured manner in
which he struck his cane upon the pavement, that he was far from
sharing my humble, penitent mood, I ceased to waste upon him a
compassion which he seemed so little to require or deserve; and,
pitying myself only, I looked upon his stern face with a soul which
cherished for him no other sentiment than that of unmitigated
hatred.

“Do not shrink from me, Gertrude, as you read this frank confession
of my passionate, and, at that moment, deeply-stirred
nature. You know not, perhaps, what it is to hate; but have you
ever been tried as I was?

“As Mr. Graham turned the corner of the street, I approached
his house, drew forth a pass-key of my own, by means of which I
opened the door, and went in. It was perfectly quiet within, and
no person was to be seen in any of the lower rooms. I then
passed noiselessly up stairs, and entered a little chamber at the
head of the passage which communicated with Emily's room. I
waited here a long time, hearing no sound and seeing no one. At
length, fearing that Mr. Graham would shortly return, I determined
to ascend to my own room, which was in the next story, collect
my money, and a few articles of value, which I was unwilling
to leave behind, and then make my way to the kitchen, and gain
what news I could of Emily from Mrs. Prime, the cook, a kind-hearted
woman, who would, I felt sure, befriend me.

“The first part of my object was accomplished, and I had descended
the back staircase to gain Mrs. Prime's premises, when I
suddenly encountered Mrs. Ellis coming from the kitchen, with a
bowl of gruel in her hand. This woman was a recent addition to
the household, introduced there a few weeks before as a spy upon
my actions, and intolerable to me on that account. She was well
acquainted with all the particulars of the accident, and had been a
witness to my expulsion from the house. She stopped short on
seeing me, gave a slight scream, dropped the bowl of gruel, and
prepared to make her escape, as if from a wild beast, which I

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doubt not that I resembled; since wretchedness, fasting, suffering
and desperation, must all have been depicted in my features.

“I placed myself in her path, and compelled her to stop and
listen to me. But before my eager questions could find utterance,
an outburst from her confirmed my worst fears.

“ `Let me go!' she exclaimed. `You villain! you will be putting
my eyes out, next!'

“ `Where is Emily?' I cried. `Let me see her!'

“ `See her!' replied she. `You horrid wretch! No! she has
suffered enough from you. She is satisfied herself now; so let
her alone.'

“ `What do you mean?' shouted I, shaking the housekeeper
violently by the shoulder, for her words seared my very soul, and
I was frantic.

“ `Mean?' continued she. `I mean that Emily will never see
anybody again; and, if she had a thousand eyes, you are the last
person upon whom she would wish to look!'

“ `Does Emily hate me, too?' burst from me then, in the form
of a soliloquy rather than a question.

“The reply was ready, however. `Hate you? Yes,—more
than that; she cannot find words that are bad enough for you!
She mutters, even in her pain, “cruel!—wicked!” and so on.
She even shudders at the sound of your name; and we are all
forbidden to speak it in her presence.'

“I waited to hear no more, but, turning, rushed out of the
house.

“That moment was the crisis of my life. The thunderbolt had
fallen upon and crushed me. My hopes, my happiness, my fortune,
my good name, had gone before; but one solitary light had,
until now, glimmered in the darkness. It was Emily's love. I
had trusted in that,—that only. It had passed away, and with
it my youth, my faith, my hope of heaven. I was a blank on the
earth, and cared not whither I went, or what became of me.

“From that moment I ceased to be myself. Then fell upon me
the cloud in which I have ever since been shrouded, and under
the shadow of which you have seen and known me. In that
instant the blight had come, under the gnawing influence of which

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my happy laugh changed to the bitter smile; my frank and pleasant
speech to tones of ill-concealed irony and sarcasm; my hair
became prematurely gray, my features sharp, and oftentimes
severe; my fellow-men, to whom it had been my noblest hope to
prove some day a benefactor, were henceforth the armed hosts of
antagonists, with whom I would wage endless war; and the God
whom I had worshipped,—whom I had believed in, as a just and
faithful friend and avenger,—who was He?—where was He?—
and why did He not right my cause? What direful and premeditated
deed of darkness had I been guilty of, that He should thus
desert me? Alas!—greatest of all misfortunes,—I lost my
faith in Heaven!

“I know not what direction I took on leaving Mr. Graham's
house. I have no recollection of any of the streets through which
I passed, though doubtless they were all familiar; but I paused
not, until, having reached the end of a wharf, I found myself gazing
down into the deep water, longing to take one mad leap, and
lose myself in everlasting oblivion!

“But for this final blow, beneath which my manhood had fallen,
I would have cherished my life, at least until I could vindicate its
fair fame; I would never have left a blackened memory for men
to dwell upon, and for Emily to weep over. But now what cared
I for my fellow-men? And Emily!—she had ceased to love, and
would not mourn; and I longed for nothingness and the grave.

“There are moments in human life when a word, a look, or a
thought, may weigh down the balance in the scales of fate, and
decide a destiny.

“So was it with me now. I was incapable of forming any plan
for myself; but accident as it were, decided for me. I was
startled from the apathy into which I had fallen by the sudden
splashing of oars in the water beneath, and in a moment a little
boat was moored to a pier within a rod of the spot where I stood.
At the same instant I heard quick footsteps on the wharf, and,
turning, saw by the light of the moon, which was just appearing
from behind a heavy cloud, a stout, sea-faring man, with a heavy
pea-jacket under one arm, and an old-fashioned carpet-bag in his
left hand. He had a ruddy, good-humored face, and as he

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approached, and was about to pass me and leap into the boat,
where two sailors, with their oars dipped and ready for motion,
were awaiting him, he slapped me heartily on the shoulder, and
exclaimed, `Well, my fine fellow, will you ship with us?'

“I answered as readily in the affirmative; and, with one look in
my face, and a glance at my dress, which seemed to assure him of
my station in life, and probable ability to make compensation for
the passage, he said, in a laughing tone, `In with you, then!'

“To his astonishment,—for he had scarcely believed me in
earnest,—I sprang into the boat, and in a few moments was on
board of a fine bark, bound I knew not whither.

“The vessel's destination proved to be Rio Janeiro; a fact
which I did not learn, however, till we had been two or three days
at sea, and to which, even then, I felt wholly indifferent. There
was one other passenger beside myself,—the captain's daughter,
Lucy Grey, whom, during the first week, I scarcely noticed, but
who appeared to be as much at home, whether in the cabin or
on deck, as if she had passed her whole life at sea. I might,
perhaps, have made the entire passage without giving another
thought to this young girl,—half child, half woman,—had not
my strange and mysterious behavior led her to conduct in a
manner which at first surprised, and finally interested me. My
wild and excited countenance, my constant restlessness, avoidance
of food, and apparent indifference to everything that went on
about me, excited her wonder and sympathy to the utmost. She
at first believed me partially deranged, and treated me accordingly.
She would take a seat on deck directly opposite mine, look in my
face for an hour, either ignorant or regardless of my observing her,
and then walk away with a heavy sigh. Occasionally she would
come and offer me some little delicacy, begging that I would try
and eat; and as, touched by her kindness, I took food more readily
from her hand than any other, these little attentions became at
last habitual. As my manners and looks grew calmer, however,
and I settled into a melancholy, which, though equally deep, was
less fearful than the feverish torment under which I had labored,
she became proportionately reserved; and when, at last, I began to
appear somewhat like my fellow-men, went regularly to the table,

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and, instead of pacing the deck all night, spent a part of it, at
least, quietly in my state-room, Lucy absented herself wholly
from that part of the vessel where I passed the greater portion of
the day, and I seldom exchanged a word with her, unless I purposely
sought her society.

“We experienced much stormy weather, however, which drove
me to the cabin, where she usually sat on the transom, reading, or
watching the troubled waves; and, as the voyage was very long,
we were necessarily thrown much in each other's way, especially
as Captain Grey, the same individual who had invited me to
ship with him, and who seemed still to take an interest in my
welfare, good-naturedly encouraged an intercourse by which he
probably hoped I might be won from a state of melancholy that
seemed to astonish and grieve the jolly ship-master almost as
much as it did his kind-hearted, sensitive child.

“Lucy's shyness, therefore, wore gradually away, and before our
tedious passage was completed I ceased to be a restraint upon
her. She talked freely with, or rather to me; for while, notwithstanding
her occasional intimations of curiosity, I maintained a
rigid silence concerning my own past experiences, of which I
could scarcely endure to think, much less to speak, she exerted
herself freely for my entertainment, and related, with simple
frankness, almost every circumstance of her past life. Sometimes
I listened attentively; sometimes, absorbed in my own
painful reflections, I would be deaf to her voice, and forgetful of
her presence. In the latter case, I would often observe, however,
that she had suddenly ceased speaking, and, starting from my
revery, and looking quickly up, would find her eyes fixed upon
me so reproachfully that, rallying my self-command, I would endeavor
to appear, and not unfrequently really became, seriously
interested in the artless narratives of my little entertainer. She
told me that until she was fourteen years old she lived with her
mother in a little cottage on Cape Cod, their home being only
occasionally enlivened by the return of her father from his long
absences at sea. They would then usually make a visit to the
city where his vessel lay, pass a few weeks in uninterrupted enjoyment,
and at length return home to mourn the departure of

[figure description] Page 473.[end figure description]

the cheerful, light-hearted sea-captain, and patiently count the
weeks and months until he would come back again.

“She told me how her mother died at last; how bitterly she
mourned her loss; and how her father wept when he came home
and heard the news; how she had lived on ship-board ever since;
and how sad and lonely she felt in time of storms, when, the
master at his post of duty, she sat alone in the cabin, listening to
the roar of the winds and waves.

“Tears would come into her eyes when she spoke of these things,
and I would look upon her with pity, as one whom sorrow made
my sister. Trial, however, had not yet robbed her of an elastic,
buoyant spirit; and when, five minutes after the completion of
some eloquent little tale of early grief, the captain would approach
unseen, and surprise her by a sudden joke, exclamation, or sly piece
of mischief, thus provoking her to retaliate, she was always ready
and alert for a war of wits, a laughing frolic, or even a game of
romps. Her sorrow forgotten, and her tears dried up, her merry
voice and her playful words would delight her father, and the
cabin or the deck would ring with his joyous peals of laughter;
while I, shrinking from a mirth and gayety sadly at variance
with my own unhappiness, and the sound of which was discordant
to my sensitive nerves, would retire to brood over miseries for
which it was hopeless to expect sympathy, which could not be
shared, and with which I must dwell alone.

“Such a misanthrope had my misfortunes made me that the
sportive raillery between the captain and his merry daughter, and
the musical laugh with which she would respond to the occasional
witticisms of one or two old and privileged sailors, grated upon
my ears like something scarce less than personal injuries; nor
could I have believed it possible that one so little able as Lucy
to comprehend the depth of my sufferings could feel any sincere
compassion for them, had I not once or twice been touched to see
how her innocent mirth would give place to sudden gravity and
sadness of countenance, if she chanced unexpectedly to encounter
my woe-begone face, rendered doubly gloomy when contrasted
with the gayety of herself and her companions.

“But I must not linger too long upon the details of our life on

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ship-board; for I have to relate events which occupied many
years, and must confine myself, as far as possible, to a concise
statement of facts. I must forbear giving any account of a terrific
gale that we encountered, during which, for two days and a night,
poor Lucy was half-frantic with fear, while I, careless of outward
discomforts, and indifferent to personal danger, was afforded an
opportunity to requite her kindness by such protection and encouragement
as I was able to render. But this, and various other
incidents of the voyage, all bore a part in inspiring her with a
degree of confidence in me, which, by the time we arrived in port,
was put to a severe and somewhat embarrassing test.

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