Are we the victims of circumstance,
or are we, in every case, the authors of
our own fortune, or of our own ruin?
the causes of our own misery and crime?
A question hard to answer—and yet
which a myriad times ten thousand
hearts have died in attempting to solve.

Are there none who, from no fault of
their own, are suddenly hurled from a
life of calm innocence into an abyss of
shame that has no hope; of crime that
has no lower deep?

Are there none who, without a single
effort of their own, with no dark circumstance
to grapple with, not one temptation
to avoid, rise to the highest point
of what the world calls success, and die
at least in peaceful beds, rich in wealth
and honors?

Fate and free will are problems never
to be solved this side of the grave, but
for myself, from the depths of my agony,
I cannot crush the cry which rises to
my lips, “What was there in my childhood,
all purity and innocence, to deserve
the unutterable misery of my after
life?” But to my history:

When I awoke again—but I cannot
proceed. There are crimes done every
day, which the world knows by heart,
and yet shudders to see recorded even
in the most carefully veiled phrase. But
the crime of which I was the victim was
too horrible for belief. Wareham the
criminal, my own mother the accomplice,
the victim a girl of fifteen, who had been
reared in purity and innocence afar from
the world.

When I awoke again—for the potion
failed to kill, I found myself in my room
and Wareham by my side, surveying me
as a ghoul might look upon the dead
body which he has stolen from the
grave. The phial given to me by the
maid did not contain a fatal poison, but
merely a powerful anodyne, which sealed
my senses for hours in sleep, and,
combined with the re-action of harrowing
excitement, left me for days in a
state of half-dreamy consciousness. I
awoke—my sight was dim, my senses
dulled, but I knew that I was lost,
lost! Oh, how poor and tame that
word, to express the living damnation
of which I was the victim! The events
of the next twenty-four hours I can but
vaguely remember. I was taken from
the bed, arrayed in the bridal costume,
and then led down stairs into the parlor.
There was a marriage celebrated there
(as I was afterwards told). Yes! it was
there that a minister of the Gospel, book
in hand, sanctified with the name of
marriage the accursed bargain of which
I was the victim—marriage, that sacrament
that makes of home, God's holiest
altar, the truest type of heaven—marriage
was in my case made the cloak of
an unspeakable crime.

I can remember that I said some
words which my mother whispered in
my ear, and that I signed my name to a
letter which she had written. It was
the letter which Ernest received, announcing
my attention to visit Niagara.
As for the letter which I had written to
him on the previous day, it never went

[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]

farther than from the hands of Caroline
to those of my mother. I was hurried
into a carriage, Wareham by my side,
and then on board of a steamboat, and
have a vague consciousness of passing up
the Hudson river. I did not clearly recover
my senses until I found myself at
Niagara Falls, leaning on Wareham's
arm, and pointed at by the crowd of
visitors at the Falls as “the beautiful
bride of the millionaire.”

From the Falls, we passed up the
Lakes, and then retraced our steps, visited
the Falls again, journeyed to Montreal,
and then home by Lake Champlain
and the Hudson river. My mother did
not accompany us. We were gone
three months, and as the boat glided
down the Hudson, the trees were already
touched by autumn. As the boat drew
near Tapaan bay I concealed myself in
my state-room. I dared not look upon
my cottage home.

We arrived at home towards the close
of a September day. My mother met
me at the door, calm and smiling. She
gave me her hand—but I pushed it
quietly away. Wareham led me up the
steps. I stood once more in that house,
from which I had gone forth like one
walking in her sleep. And that night,
while in our chamber, Wareham and
myself held a conversation, which had
an important bearing on his life and
mine.

I was sitting alone in my chamber,
dressed in a white wrapper, and my hair
flowing unconfined upon my shoulders;
my hands were clasped and my head
bent upon my breast. I was thinking
of the events of the last three months—
of all that I had endured from the man
whose very presence in the same room
filled me with loathing. My husband
entered, followed by Jenkins, who placed
a lighted candle, a bottle of wine, and
glasses on the table, and then departed.

“What! is my pretty girl all alone,
and in a thinking mood?” cried Wareham,
seating himself by the table and
filling a glass with wine. “And pray,
my love, what is the subject of your
thoughts?”

And, raising his glass to his lips, he
surveyed me from head to foot with
that gloating gaze which always gave a
singular light to his eyes. His face was
slightly flushed on the colorless cheeks.
He had already been drinking freely,
and was now evidently under the influence
of wine.

“You have a fine bust, my girl,” he
continued, as though he was repeating
the `points' of a horse—“a magnificent
arm, a foot that beats the Medicean Venus
all hollow, and limbs,” (he paused
and sipped his wine, protruding his nether
lip, which now was scarlet red,)
“such limbs! I like the expression of
your eyes, there's fire in them. And
your clear brown complexion, and your
moist red lips, and”—he sipped his wine
again—“altogether an elegant-built female.”

And he rose and approached me. I
also rose, my eyes flashing and my bosom
swelling with suppressed rage.

“Wareham, I warn you not to touch
me,” I said in a low voice. “For three
months I have been your prey. I will
be so no longer. Before the world you
may call me wife, if you choose—you
have bought the right to do that,—but
I inform you, once for all, that hence
forth we are strangers. Do you understand
me, Wareham? I had as lief be
chained to a corpse, as to submit to be
touched by you.”

He fell back startled, his face manifesting
surprise and anger, but in an instant
his gaze was upon me again, and
he indulged in a low burst of laughter.

“Come, I like this! It is a pleasant
change from the demure, pious-girl
of three months ago, into the full-blown
tragedy queen,”—he sank into a chair
and filled another glass of wine. “Be
seated, Frank, I want to have a little
talk with my pet.”

I resumed my seat.

“You give yourself airs under the impression
that you are my wife—joint
owner of my immense fortune—my rich
widow in perspective. Erroneous impression,
Frank. I have a wife living in
England.”

The entirely malignant look which
accompanied these words, convinced
me of their sincerity. For a moment I
felt as though an awful weight had
crushed my brain, and by a glance at
the mirror, I saw that I was frightfully
pale. But, recovering myself by a strong
exertion of will, I answered him in these
words:—

“Gentlemen who allow themselves

[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]

more than one wife at a time, are sometimes
(owing to an unfortunate prejudice
of society) invited to occupy a department
in the State Prison.”

“And so you think you hold a rod
over my head?” He drank his wine.
“But I have only one wife, Frank. The
gentleman who married you and me, was
neither a clergyman nor officer of the
law, but simply a convenient friend.
Our mock marriage was not even published
in the papers.”

Every word went like an icebolt to
my heart. I could not speak. Then as
his eye glared, with a mingled look of
hatred and of brutal passion, he sipped
his wine as he surveyed me, and continued:

“You used the word `bought,' some
time ago. You were right. `Bought'
is the word. You are simply my purchase.
In Constantinople these things
are easily managed. They keep an open
market of fine girls there; but here we
must find an affable mother and pay a large
price—sometimes even marry the dear
angels. I met your mother in Paris
some years ago, and have been intimately
acquainted with her ever since. When
she first spoke of you, you were a child,
and I was weary of the world—jaded,
sick of its pleasures—by which I mean
its women. An idea struck me! What
if this pretty little child, now being educated
in innocence and pious ways, and
so forth, should, in the full blossom of
her beauty and piety—say at the ripe
age of sixteen—become the consoler of
my declining years? And so I paid the
expenses of your education (your father
consenting that I should adopt you;
but very possibly understanding the
whole matter as well as your mother),
and you were accordingly educated for
me. And when I first saw you three
months ago, it was your very innocence
and pious way of talking which gave an
irresistible effect to your beauty, and
made me mad to possess you at all hazards.”

It is impossible to depict the bitter
mocking tone in which these words were
spoken.

“I settled this mansion, the furniture
and so forth, upon your mother, with
ten thousand dollars. That was the
price. You see how much you have cost
me, my dear.”

“But I will leave your accursed mansion”—
I felt, as I spoke, as though my
heart was dead in my bosom,—“I am
not chained to you in marriage. I am
at least free.” I started to my feet and
moved a step toward the door.

“But where will you go? Back to
your elderly clerical friend, with every
finger levelled at you, and every voice
whispering, `There goes the mistress of
the rich Englishman!' Back to your
village lover, to palm yourself upon him
as a pure and spotless maiden?”

I sank into the chair and covered my
face with my hands.

“Or will you begin the life of a poor
seamstress, working sixteen hours a day
for as many pennies, and at last take to
the streets for bread!”

His words cut me to the quick. I saw
that there was no redemption in this
world for a woman whose innocence has
been sacrificed.

“But think better of it, my dear!
Your mother shall surround you with
the most select and fashionable company
in New-York; she shall give splendid
parties; you will be the presiding genius
of every festival. As for myself, dropping
the name of husband, I will sink
into an unobtrusive visitor. When you
see a little more of the world, you will
not think your case such a hard one after
all.”

My face buried in my hands, I had not
one word of reply. Lost—lost! utterly
lost!