“Francis!” she said in a low voice,
“are you well? are you strong? that is,
well enough and strong enough to converse
with me about your affairs? I

[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]

had proposed to defer this conversation
until you had recovered your usual
strength. But, if you can converse now,
it will be all the better.”

I silently took her hand, but she withdrew
hers; and, crossing the apartment,
took some papers from the drawer of a
bureau. Then she came back again, and
seated herself near, on the edge of the
bed.

“Since you were first taken ill, this
man, your relative—,” (she pointed to
the name of Porgy, which appeared on
the back of a paper,) “and myself have
been, by the appointment of the court,
joint trustees of your estate. Here is
an account of my stewardship—” She
placed the paper, covered with writing
in her own hand, in my grasp. “As for
him, he has done his best to obtain possession
of your property. I have had
one continued battle with him for five
years. He was here this morning. He
fears that you have recovered your
health, and knows that, once recovered,
you will call him to account. Therefore,
he affects to believe that you are still—
still—” she did not say insane—“still
far from well, and wishes to consign you
to the Asylum again. Now, here are all
the papers, which show the exact position
of your affairs. As soon as you
can hold a pen, petition the court that
you may be reinstated in possession of
your property. And—”

“And so,” I interrupted her, “you do
not believe that I am still insane?”

She regarded me earnestly with her
expanded eyes. “I do not. All that
you need is physical strength, and that
will soon return.”

I could not help laying my hand gently
on her arm.

“Well! suppose me reinstated into
my property,—you will reinstate me in
the happiness which I enjoyed five years
ago?”

Her gaze fell. “As soon as all is well
with you,” she said, in a low voice, “I
will take my child and leave you; my
shadow shall not once cross your pathway—”

“Then you are guilty?” I said, bitterly.

“Innocent before heaven, Francis!”
was her reply, given firmly, and with an
unfaltering gaze.

“I did not, then, on that fatal sum
mer night, five years ago, see you in the
arms of another man, resting on his neck,
your forehead warmed by his kisses?
It was all a dream, then?”

“It was no dream,” and her face grew
paler. “But, Francis! hear me once for
all! Albert Monroe was the only son
of the gentleman in whose family I found
a home. He loved me, but I never loved
him—in any light—save as a brother.
A short time before I left my New-England
home to come to New-York in
search of my lost brother, Albert departed
on a long voyage—to China, I
believe, as supercargo of a merchantship.
News came of his death—news
which had every appearance of truth,
and which was believed by his family
and myself. And when, on that fatal
night, I saw him, whom I thought long
since dead, standing near me, appearing
like a ghost, without a word or sound to
announce his coming, it was surprise,
mingled with affection for a long-lost
brother, which brought me, for a moment,
and a moment only, to his arms.
Had you seen all, you would have seen
me, as soon as I recovered my self-possession,
retreat from his arms, and
in answer to his reproaches about my
marriage, you would have heard me
command him to leave the room and the
house. This, Francis! is the simple
truth.”

Her firm accent, her clear, unfaltering
look, the expression which hung
upon every line of her beautiful face, all
confirmed her words. But still, there
was a doubt, a latent bitterness in my
heart.

“And then you are not married again?”
I said. She did not answer me with
words, but with a look—a look which
said more than words, and which I cannot
describe. Her lips were, for the
moment, compressed, and her eyes flashed,
as though her soul was in their
glance. Then she turned her face away,
and a single tear rolled down the half-averted
cheek, glittering there like a
star.

“When you are well again”—her voice
was scarcely audible—“I and my child
will leave you.”

“That is, you will leave the murderer
to the full enjoyment of his wealth and
his remorse?” I said.

“Murderer!” and she fixed her eyes

[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]

full upon me. “Have you not heard
that Albert Monroe recovered, and is
now a thousand miles away, in the enjoyment
of all that worldly prosperity
can offer?” These words made my
brain reel; a starving wretch, suddenly
informed of his accession to a fortune of
a million dollars, could not have been
bewildered with a madder joy than now
bounded through my veins.

“Albert Monroe living!” I ejaculated,
and sank back upon the pillow, while
every fibre of my being was filled with
gratitude—unutterable thankfulness to
God. A cloud was lifted from my soul.
Like a prisoner suddenly led forth from
the dungeon in which for years not one
ray of light had visited him, I felt myself
blinded by the sunshine which all
at once shone in upon my darkened
soul.

After a long pause, in a low voice I
spoke,—“Freed from the remorse which
haunts the murderer, and placed once
more in possession of my estates, why
will you leave me, Eugenia?”

Her face was very beautiful, but very
sad, as she answered me:

“Because, Francis, there will always
be a doubt, a suspicion in your innermost
heart. Even while pressing me to
your arms, and gazing upon the face of
our child, you will be haunted by a fear
which you cannot banish or control—
that your wife has been false to you.
You have a noble nature, Francis, but in
its depths lurks one element, which, at
times, poisons and overshadows your
whole nature—an element which I can
scarcely call by name, but which may be
called doubt, fear, suspicion! It is,
therefore, well—” and that something
in her look which, when first I saw her,
I could not analyze, now came over her
face,—“It is, therefore, well that we
should live apart; we will think kindly
of each other, and the slightest portion
of your immense wealth will suffice for
me and our child. You will be happier
when I am away, and when my presence
no longer brings a doubt that harrows
your inmost soul.”

While she spoke I gazed upon her
earnestly, thinking of the time when I
had first met her, of the first happy
year of our marriage, of the day when
our child first blossomed into being; and
felt my love for her roll back in a flood
in all its force upon my heart. But I
said calmly—as calmly as I could—“You
have spoken my fate, Eugenia!”—and
turned my face from the light.

Not another word passed between us;
after a long pause she rose, and I heard
her footsteps die away.

That day, I sent for an able lawyer,
and, after a long interview with him, succeeded
in putting measures afoot, which
in a few days, spite of Porgy and all
doubts, would place me once more a sane
man in possession of my estates.

Three days passed, and although often,
while I seemed to be asleep, I felt upon
my brow the pressure of Eugenia's hand,
her kiss upon my lips, and felt unutterable
joy at the consciousness that she
was near me, still not a word passed
between us.

But my child often—yes! nearly
always—was near me, and in my arms,
loving me as though she had seen me
every hour since her birth.

O how like peace from God to a heart
chafed by the bitterness of life—its hard
experience, its broken friendships, its
loves buried in treachery or death—
comes the vision of the face of a sinless
child.

And how like bitterness from the deeps
of hell comes the thought that, one day,
that fair young face, lovely as those child-faces
which long ago smiled in the Savior's
embrace, will be hardened in every
outline by the iron hand of experience,
wearing on the cheek the feverish flush
of this world's loves and hates, and burning
in the eyes with the light of this
world's passions, or the glare of its despairs!

The third day I was strong again; my
mind was clear, and every pulse was full
of strength and life. Dressing myself in
the apparel which I had worn five years
before, I looked in the glass, and found
that, although it was seamed with wrinkles,
and crowned by dark hair streaked
with gray, upon its every outline there
was the calm manhood which a noble
resolution imparts.

I had taken my resolution, and said I
to myself—“This day, as sure as the sun
shines, I will fulfil it.” My lawyer came
early in the morning; and, after a long
interview in my chamber, departed, first,
however, leaving in my hands papers
which re-established me in possession of

[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]

my estates. The petition of my wife,
conjoined with that of Porgy, (for this
good gentleman had, by my lawyer, been
brought or frightened into acquiescence,)
had been answered by the proper court,
and I was once more myself, owner of
something more than half a million of
dollars.

After the lawyer left, I took my hat
and cane, and descended to the sitting-room
of my wife, through whose opened
window were seen the leaves quivering
in the sunshine, and the broad Hudson
glittering like molten gold. There was
a lady there—the same whom I had seen
the night of my return—the governess
of my child. I requested her to call
Eugenia, and was presently alone in that
quiet room, through whose window on
the fatal night, I had looked and been
driven mad by what I saw.

Seated on the sofa, hat and cane in
hand, I anxiously awaited the appearance
of Eugenia.

My resolution was taken, and although
it was fixed, still I felt agitated as the
moment of its execution drew near.

At last Eugenia came, dressed in white,
her rich black hair gathered plainly aside
from her face. Surpassingly beautiful,
she was very pale, and looked at me with
surprise in her clear deep eyes.

“Sit by me for a moment, Eugenia,” I
said as calmly as I could, “I wish to say
a few words to you.”

She sat down on the sofa near me, her
hands crossed in front of her form, her
eyes gazing not upon me, but on the
leaves without, bathed in sunshine, and
her glossy hair touched by the softened
ray which came through the closed curtains.
Beautiful as a queen, and trembling
as a child.

“I wish to say a few words to you,
and I wish you to listen to me calmly.
Will you?”

“I will,” was her faint response.

“I have discovered that, during my
five years' sickness—nay, call it madness—
instead of plunging into the gay
world, and gathering the enjoyments
offered by almost boundless wealth, you
preferred to be true to the memory of a
madman; and, yes! came often to sit
for hours and days a silent watcher by
the madman's couch. This you did, Eugenia,
and never told me of it.” I paused,
but her gaze was still fixed on the flowers,
which, without the window, trembled in
the morning sun. “Why did you not
tell me of it, Eugenia, on my return?”

Her voice was scarcely audible as she
replied,—“It was not worth while. In
taking care of your property, I simply
did my duty to our child. In watching
by you in your sickness, I endeavored
to make some atonement for the suffering
which I had caused you.

And her face grew paler, her bosom
heaved beneath its snowy vestment, but
still she did not turn her gaze upon me.

“Well,” I resumed, “well, Eugenia, the
past is with the past, and cannot be recalled
or changed. The present is with
us, and we must deal with things as they
are. It seems we cannot live together;
we must part.”

“We must part,” she echoed in a low
voice. “But you—you—will not—take
our child from me?”

I did not seem to note that last remark,
uttered with a quivering lip, but continued,—
“We cannot live under the same
roof. That is true. But it shall not be
said that I only came back to thrust
mother and child from these walls. No!
Eugenia, no! One will go forth; and
that one shall be myself; and I will go
forth alone, leaving you secure in possession
of my wealth, happy in the love and
presence of our child!”

And at the word, determined to fill
my resolution at all hazards, I rose, hat
and cane in hand, and moved a step
toward the door.

Eugenia rose with me, seized my hand
with both of hers and confronted me,
her eyes expanded and glittering, while
her face was perfectly colorless.

“Stop! For God's sake, stop!” she
gasped and wrung my hand.

But I took my hand from her. “Eugenia,
my determination is taken. Do not
try to change it. Believe it is best for
all of us!”

I pushed her gently aside, and, with a
rapid step, moved to the window, and in
a moment was in the open air.

I did not once look back, but, plunging
into the path which led through the
wood, walked rapidly on, banishing every
thought but this—“My determination is
taken—it is best for all parties—and it
is final.”

And under the boughs, rich with foliage;
over the path where sunlight and

[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]

shadow chased each other; over a carpet
of grass and flowers, I hurried on. There
was a point where, from the foot of an
aged oak, (encircled by a rude bench,)
you could obtain a glimpse of the Hudson
and the distant city. Here, for an
instant, I paused; and, gazing on the
distant waves, and upon the city's spires,
sank into a reverie upon my past and
future life.

My reverie was broken by the abrupt
rustling of a bough; by the low sound
of footsteps on the velvety sward. I
looked up; my wife stood before me,
pale as death, her hair unbound and waving
on her shoulders, while her bosom
heaved with agitation.

By her hand she led our child, who
sprang forward, her arms outspread, and
my name ringing on her lips. From her
agitation, Eugenia could not speak, but
stood silent and pale and trembling before
me. As for myself I could not help
sharing her agitation.

At length, she said a single word,
“Francis!” in a faint voice, and pointed
to the old mansion whose roof was visible
through the trees,—“that is our home!”

And she bent her head upon my
breast, and put her arms about my neck,
while our child clung to my knees.
“That is our home!”

And here—in the June sunshine, the
drapery of the foliage about us, as wife
clings once more to husband, child to
father—here let the curtain fall.

You may be sure that I did not go forth
alone, friendless into the wide world that
day, nor next day, nor any day. Let no
words attempt by description to mock
the unutterable joy of that moment
when trembed on my ear the sentence,
“That is our home!”

A few words more will bring my confessions,
as “A MAN OF THE WORLD,” to
a close.

It is Sabbath-day, and the summer
sun shines upon the distant spires of the
city. But we do not go to church in the
shadows of those distant spires; our
church is here, in the old mansion, in
our home. The sunlight trembles
through the vine-canopied window into
our quiet sitting-room. Eugenia, in the
bloom of her matronly beauty, sits by
me; upon her knees the open Bible, from
which she has just read a lesson of the
Gospel. And by me, as I write, stands
Mary, with ten summers shining from
her eyes—those eyes which repeat the
loveliness and purity of her mother.

In this calm moment, let me give a
passing word to certain actors in these
confessions. The poor girl by whose
hands Burley Hayne met his death, acquitted
perchance by a partial jury,
dwells once more in her New-England
home. Edward, once the “boy-burgler,”
is now the graduate of a well-known college.
Maria takes charge of my city
mansion.

As for myself, behold me! after all
my trials, seated in my home, crowned
with blessings of which I am all unworthy;
wife by my side, and child resting
on my arm.

“Come hither, Mary, child, and let me
look up in your face! May God's blessing
and your mother's goodness be
yours all the days of your life; and may—
and may—the spirit of Eva, from the
better land, stretch forth her arms to
guide and guard you, Mary!”

[Note by the Editor of these Papers.—It
will be perceived that the “Life of a Man of the
World” ends well, although perchance his mingled
crimes and virtues merited a darker termination.
He has told his story in his own way—a narrative
of real life, with all its lights and shadows, and
mingled impulses of good and evil. From this
strange life every reader can draw the proper moral.
Many a better man than Francis Van Warner,
(or the person whose real name is concealed under
this fictitious one.) has met with a worse fate in
the living world around us; and many a worse man
has existed in the same living world, committing
all his faults without one ray of his virtues.]