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“Sorrow ends not when it seemeth done.”

There is a charm in simplicity of dress, a conviction of
which ought to be deeply impressed on the mind of every female.
It is confessed by all, that when they look at a beautiful
Madonna, by Raphael, where the silken hair, parted on the
forehead, falls in natural ringlets on either side the face, adorning
that which it shades. Yet, what fantastic forms have been
adopted by females between the time of Raphael, and that of
Emma Portland, who sat now before the hero of our story,
as she might have sat before Raphael or Guido, for a saint or a
muse.

But even the presence of beauty, taste, purity, and virtue,
could not long quiet the troubled spirit of Spiffard. The appearance
of his wife, as he last saw her, was as vividly present
to him, although but in his “mind's eye,” as that of Emma
Portland, and attracted more of his attention. He sat down.
The circumstances under which he had parted from Mrs.

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Spiffard; her figure so deplorably degraded; the words he
had uttered as he left her; all recurred. He became fearful
of he knew not what. His suspense became intolerable, and he
started up to proceed to his wife's chamber; but he had only
reached the door, and placed his hand on the lock, before he
stopped. He returned.

“Perhaps your cousin is asleep?”

“I have not heard her stirring.”

“You can steal softly into the room; my heavy tread might
awake her.”

Thus his fears would thrust another before him. It would
be well if she should be awake, for another to tell her that he
had returned—had inquired for her—intended to see her—
notwithstanding the word, “never.”

With cheerful alacrity Emma proceeded on her errand, and
with noiseless foot-fall. Spiffard sunk down on a chair, scarce
breathing, and endeavoured to catch the sound of her steps.
He heard her descending, and she entered the room.

“The door is locked, and I don't hear any movement
within.”

“Go up again, my dear; it is late; knock at the door.”

She went. He opened (and stood listening by) the parlour
door. He heard her knock at the chamber door. Breathlessly
he strove to catch a reply. He heard none. The
knocking was repeated; this time louder: and he heard Emma
call, “Cousin! cousin! cousin Spiffard!” But there was no
answer. Again the knocking was repeated, and the call upon
his wife; but no answer. He trembled, and again sank on a
chair. He heard the descending footsteps of Emma, who entered,
and having no cause to dread any sinister event, calmly
said, “My cousin sleeps uncommonly sound, as well as late,
this morning.”

These words sounded like a knell on the ear of the husband.
He unconsciously echoed, “sleep—sound,” and then hastily
inquired, “does your cousin usually lock her chamber door,
after I have gone out.”

“No, never. I never knew her to do it before. I have
been accustomed to enter and call her to breakfast,—you
know I am a restless one.”

Spiffard conquered his prostration of muscular power and
sprung suddenly from his chair. Almost before Emma ceased
speaking he was rushing up stairs, and ouly paused when he
had reached the chamber-door. It was a dreadful pause. He

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listened, though without hope. All was silent, and to his apprehension
it was the silence of death. He knocked, and
called, but received no answer.

“Mrs. Spiffard!—Mary!—My dear!—My dear Mary!—
If you hear, answer! Forgive the words I made use of when
I left you.”

His impatience had arrived at that height, that it was distraction.
He knocked louder. He attempted to force the
the lock.

Emma stood trembling in the room below.

At this crisis Mrs. Epsom entered the street-door, having
returned with her servant woman from market. Spiffard did
not heed, did not hear, the entrance of his wife's mother, and
the lock resisting his efforts, he called still louder for admittance.

Mrs. Epsom, hearing this clamour, demanded from the foot
of the stairs to know what was the matter; and Emma, encouraged
by her arrival, rushed out of the parlour. Her appearance
was so dissimilar to that which characterized her,
that Mrs. Epsom's alarm was increased, and she began to ascend
the stairs; but suddenly stopt, and descended, on hearing
the crash made by bursting open the chamber door. Knowing
the violent temper and habitually ungoverned passions of her
daughter, her vulgar imagination (and perhaps her vulgar experience)
suggested as the cause of the noise she heard, some
difference between husband and wife; and her dread of her
daughter's resentment, caused her to retrace her steps, and to
carry Emma back, with her, into the parlour, where, after
shutting the door, she began to question her.

The apprehensions of Spiffard, which had a few minutes
before deprived him of strength, now gave him a tenfold portion;
and by the exertion of his powerful muscles, urged by
fears that drove him to madness, he burst off the lock, and,
rushing to the bed, beheld the lifeless corpse of his wife.

The disheveled hair and disordered dress of their last interview
had disappeared. It was evident that deliberate preparation
had been made for the death-scene; and the corpse, but
that it was habited in the dress of the day and not in nightclothes,
and disposed on the surface of the bed, instead of
being covered, as the season required, for warmth, might have
been mistaken for a sleeper, at the first glance, by a stranger.
But the husband saw it was death, and doubted not.
His agony was extreme, but, after the first moment, his thought

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was to prevent knowledge of the cause. He listened. No
one was approaching. He saw a paper near the bed and a
phial. He eagerly seized upon these witnesses of suicide and
secreted them upon his person. This barely accomplished, he
heard the footsteps and voices of the females on the stairs.
Before he could decide whether to prevent their approach,
Mrs. Epsom and Emma entered the chamber.

The scene that followed is not for my purpose to describe,
if I could.

When Spiffard had an opportunity he read the contents of
the paper he had secreted.

“Let whoever finds this convey it, unread, if they value the
injunctions of the dead, to Mr. Spiffard or Miss Portland.

“I have been most unfortunate—more erring. I was never
taught my duty by my parents—parents? I had none. I was
never governed by them, and I only governed myself but to
accomplish some object I desired. From childhood I was indulged,
and saw around me scenes of passion and appetite indulged—
scenes of licentiousness applauded.

“Emma, the world I have lived in has been veiled from your
eyes: I will not withdraw the veil. You can pity, and even
love, the poor misled Maria.

“I have determined no longer to live enduring torments inflicted
by conscience, and misled by habits which I have
hitherto endeavoured in vain to counteract. I have endeavoured
to drown the recollection of guilt in madness. I have
justly incurred the contempt of my husband by the attempt.

“Mr. Spiffard, you have been misjudging in your treatment
of me. I forgive you. I have deceived you.

“I did hope that time might have quieted remorse. I did
hope that, by the aid of a husband, whose virtues I saw and
could appreciate, I might, in time, attain to a station in society
more congenial to my mind—my proud mind. I did hope to
have been a source of domestic contentedness, at least, to my
husband, although I had no warmer feelings towards him than
esteem. But I could not confide to him the errors (perhaps I
ought to give them a harsher title) of my former life; and I
have lived in constant dread of his discovering them. I have
at length been convinced that he does not confide in me. I
have no cessation from torment, but when, by breaking my

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promises to him, I render myself unfit for the society of my
husband; and then, for a moment's forgetfulness, I incur redoubled
torture for hours. Emma, from you I have, in some
measure, concealed my hours of degradation. Mr. Spiffard,
if this meets your eye first, hide it from the pure eye of Emma.
I will not live the thing I am. I have no hope. I have
been sinking lower—lower—from shame to deceit. I did intend
to reveal—but no. I forgive my mother! I ask forgiveness!”

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