Frederick Brandon eagerly obeyed the summons
of his mistress. He was fortunate in finding the lovely
invalid alone. The meeting was evidently designed
for him. She was still feeble, and apparently quite
as great a sufferer in mental respects as ever. She
received him in her chamber in tears and silence.
He grasped her hand and held it without speaking.
Thus, for a while, they both remained, both seeming
equally reluctant to begin the work of explanation, and
waiting, as it were, for some happy inspiration to

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shape the course of an interview which promised to
be full of embarrassments. The reluctance of Frederick
arose entirely from his sympathy for her situation.
He dared not add to her distress by urging his
own anxieties. She felt the delicacy of his consideration,
and, at length, though with a very decided effort,
she began the conference—

“Frederick!—”

“Dear Marie!”

She proceeded:—

“I have summoned you, dear Frederick, to an
interview which could not always be deferred. However
painful to myself, I owe it to you to come to an
explanation with you. In giving you my heart, as I
have done irrevocably, and in consenting to be your
wife—I gave you a right to know all that concerns
me, and all with which my heart is troubled. And
yet, I shrink—oh, Frederick, how I shrink and tremble
at the necessity which compels me—though my
heart breaks under it—to tell you that we must rend
apart and forever the links which bind us, and which
every feeling of my soul would only persuade me, in
spite of all necessities, to bind and rivet more surely
and more tenderly than ever!”

“Marie—dear Marie—oh! wherefore this necessity?”

“Ah! you may well inquire. I shall speak fearlessly
now. It is with no shame, dear Frederick,
that I confess to loving you, as I never thought to
love mortal man; as I never loved mortal man before.
You will—you must—believe me; even though I make

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this avowal at the very moment when I implore you
to forget me; and when I propose that we should
sever the sweet ties that we so fondly strove to unite
forever.”

Seeing that she paused, Frederick replied:—

“I can only wonder, but not answer you, dear
Marie. To believe in your love for me, is absolutely
necessary to the feeling which I entertain for you.
It is too precious a faith for me to surrender easily.
I will not make vain professions, Marie; but, in truth,
you must be well assured that no affection in my
bosom rivals in any sort the devotion which it brings
to you. It is for you to say, why, with both hearts
thus united and devoted, there should be a necessity
for tearing them asunder. What is this necessity—
what this terrible mystery which is to prevail against
our hopes and happiness?”

“Terrible, indeed! most terrible! Were it not so,
dear Frederick, would I have the courage, the heart,
the strength for this!”

“Marie—I cannot doubt that you have been the
victim to a great terror! I have witnessed your fright—
your agonies—and the overwhelming affliction which
left you insensible for hours in these arms!”

“Was it in your arms that I lay then, Frederick?”
she asked tenderly.

He answered by pressing her hand within his, and
the tears then gushed from her eyes as from a fountain
suddenly relieved. For a few moments he was silent,
subdued by a sympathy which he found it difficult to
keep from the exhibition of a feminine weakness like

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her own. But the strength of the man prevailed.
He resumed—

“I knew your courage, Marie—your energy, resolve,
and spirit; and yet I saw how suddenly and
how completely they were prostrated and overthrown.
I can conceive how great must have been your terror;
but I see not why it should operate against that union
which might secure you against any such annoyance
or suffering hereafter.”

“Ah! if it could! If it could!” was her reply.

“And why should it not? Do you suppose, dear
Marie, that, once mine—my wife—any ruffian would
dare, or daring would escape?”

“Hush! hush!” she exclaimed, looking round her
with shows of expectation and terror in her countenance:
“Forbear, Frederick, you know not what you
say, or whom you threaten. Oh! I know your
strength and courage. I well know that, under your
guardianship, no mortal would ever venture to wrong
or to offend me. But it is no mortal danger that I
dread! Frederick, do you not believe that the spirits
of the dead may reappear on earth—may seek
those whom they have known—may speak words of
rebuke and warning and terror to the living—may
threaten and denounce—may decree, as in my case,
that hearts shall be torn asunder, and hopes be trampled
into nothing—hopes, the fondest and sweetest
that ever dawned upon the soul of woman!—Frederick,
do you believe all this?”

He remained silent as she paused, closely observing
her features, which were almost convulsed; her lips

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white and trembling—her eyes glaring rather than
gazing into his own—yet, with such a strange union
of fondness with terror—such devotion with such
despair—that his own heart beat with increasing passion
(rather than with such fears as her words might
have inspired) to behold the affection which was so
evident in hers. His silence disquieted her.

“Speak!” she cried; “speak to me, dear Frederick,
and tell me if you believe these things.”

“Marie—to answer you, I must be calm! I see
that this mystery is somewhat deeper than I had
reason to believe it. Let me entreat you to be
soothed—do not hurry yourself; yet tell me all your
secret, before you demand my answer!”

“Oh! I must speak hurriedly if I would speak at
all! Frederick, dear Frederick—that Egyptian—”

“Ha!”

“Was Colonel de Berniere—”

She fell back gasping. Frederick supported her
head, and his lips were pressed tenderly upon her
brow. She pushed him from her.

“I forget! I forget! Oh, Frederick, this was forbidden.
My love for you was forbidden. I am conmanded
to fling every mortal affection from my heart—
to deny you—to deny myself—to forego all hopes
of human happiness—every dream that ever spoke to
me of joy on earth!”

“And who could deny you this? What is the
power to decree in this sort—to pass such a doom, to
utter such a judgment?”

“He it was—the Egyptian! He said it! He!

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The spectre of my deceased husband. He knew all!
He told me all! Our vows, our engagements, our
meetings, when neither of us dreamed that eye beheld
us—in the dim shadows of the evening, and we had
no doubt of our security, and no feeling but that of
bliss!”

“And yet, Marie, all this knowledge might be possessed
by mortals like ourselves! Excellent friends
may have been upon the watch—jealous rivals—
slanderous and suspicious neighbors! A shrewd
guesser, with some slight knowledge, might plausibly
conjecture more; and you remember, dear Marie,
that, believing this Egyptian to be myself, you spoke
freely to him of this very matter.”

“Oh, were these all! But he knew more—he told
me more. Told me, Frederick, of things of which you
knew nothing. Laid bare to me secrets of my own
soul—miserable secrets, such as I fondly imagined
were safely locked up in the closest places of my own
bosom.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, alas! and this brings me to another painful
necessity. These secrets, Frederick, shall be yours
also. You shall see how much I love you—how
entirely—even at the moment when I feel called upon
to expose such secrets as may perhaps change your
affection into loathing!”

“Never, Marie!”

“Ah! we shall see! I will show you things which
I had thought never to breathe even to yourself; and
which, probably, but for this event, I had carried with

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me to the grave unspoken. But I owe you all that
is in my heart, though it humbles me to the earth to
be compelled to lay bare the story of its wretched
crimes and weaknesses!”

“Crimes, Marie!”

“Alas! Crimes! For the meditated crime is for
us a crime already committed, Frederick. It is
enough that the heart should entertain the guilt; it
needs not that the hand should execute it also. I
have been guilty, in purpose, of a dreadful crime;
and though my hand forebore the meditated act, it is,
nevertheless—I feel it so—a crime to be repented of
in ashes and in sackcloth; a crime to make me quite
unworthy an affection such as yours!”

“Alas, my Marie! If these high standards of
self-judgment must prevail, who is worthy? I have
my crimes also, Marie.”

“But not like mine, Frederick. Hear me, for I
shall relate the whole, and tell it truly. I will withhold
nothing.”

“Nay, Marie, speak not, I entreat you. I would
rather not know. If we are to be torn asunder—
which I will not yet suffer myself to believe—I would
prefer holding you enshrined in my memory—as you
already are in my affections—as the pure and perfect
being that I thought you first.”

“But this is now impossible, Frederick! Have I
not already declared myself guilty? Your thought
will brood over this confession, and you will suspect
me of crimes of another sort than the real. It is
needful that I should tell you all. You must listen

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for my sake. It is needful that I should show cause
for my faith in this terrible visitation; and for the
submission with which I receive its commands.”

Long and sad was the interval of silence which
succeeded before she spoke again. She sunk back
upon the couch and covered her eyes with her hands,
as if to shut out from contemplation the necessity
before her, and to recover the needed strength for
the task which she had declared her resolution to
perform. Frederick, meanwhile, with his elbow resting
upon the pillow, had shaded his eyes also. He
was in deep and anxious contemplation—suffering
greatly from misgiving of various kinds, and brooding
upon what he had already heard. He had already,
in some degree, prepared his mind; and his future
purposes had also, though vaguely and entirely a
shadow, been presented to his vision. At length the
silence was broken by his companion. Marie de
Berniere raised her head and gently laid her hand on
the wrist of her lover. He still remained silent, his
eyes tenderly fixed upon her, with a sort of paternal
sadness—that seemed to deplore the self-delusion of
the beloved object—fatal to itself—yet against which
he had no argument of strength for safety. His
eyes declared fully his belief that she labored under
a delusion; yet showed the sorrows of one who,
at the same time that he felt this conviction, lacked
the necessary means of making his conviction hers.
She discerned the meaning in his glance.

“You think me a foolish creature, Frederick—
deceived by my own fears and superstitions. I wish I

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could persuade myself to think as you do. Believe
me, I have nothing but pain and sorrow in the task
before me; and nothing but hopelessness in the future
which lies beyond. And next to my prayer for
pardon, is that which implores that the penance be a
short one. But hear my story—hear me, and decide.
I shall unfold it all; and hope, at least, that when
you have heard my sufferings, you will see some little
apology for my guilt. If it should forfeit me the
love you gave me, at least it will not rob me of your
pity.”

He took her hand tenderly within his own, and
she began her narrative as follows:—