“You know my early history, Frederick, as much
of it as need to be known in connection with my present
narrative. You are aware that, when a mere
child, I was condemned to marry a man twenty years
older than myself, and for whom I had no feelings
but indifference and fear. At first, this feeling was
indifference only; and in the end it became dislike as
well as fear. I was quite too young when I married,
properly to understand the obligations of marriage,
of its peculiar interests, its duties and desires. Had
I known, the marriage vows never would have crossed
these lips, in relation to the person who was then

[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]

decreed to be my husband. I was taken from school,
almost from the baby-house and doll, to become a
bride. My poor mother, of whom I would say no
evil, was one of those persons, of whom the world
always has its multitude, who regard wealth as the
something all compensative, for which any sacrifice is
justifiable. She knew not any affections that could be
put in opposition to the show and splendor which it
promised; and, believing that I had beauty and
talents, her chief solicitude was to find for them a
market. Of her purposes I knew nothing, until the
moment when I learned that she had procured for me
a purchaser. In this light I certainly did not regard
him then. Col. de Berniere I had frequently beheld
before, but I had never bestowed a single thought
upon him. His person I knew by sight, but I had
always regarded him with indifference. I thought no
more of marrying than I thought of him, and had no
definite conception of the condition until after I had
become a wife. I had been accustomed to submit
implicitly to the will of my mother, and I did so on
this occasion, as on all others, with but little inquietude
or doubt. She bade me prepare to receive Col.
de B. as a husband, long before he had been at any
pains to persuade me that he was a lover. Required
to marry him, the indifference which I had felt for
him before, he soon contrived to ripen into a stronger
sentiment of aversion. This feeling, which I did not
seek to subdue, it became the business of my mother's
life to rebuke and to conceal. She silenced all my
childish complaints; she schooled my love into

[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]

submission; she trampled down every resistance that my
young heart ventured to offer to her will. I went to
the altar with fear and tremblings which were ominous.
But my fears were of a vague character, and I
did not certainly dream of the dreadful tyranny under
which I was about to fall. At that early dawn of my
misfortunes, it was dislike and doubt which I felt,
rather than dread or apprehension. Any conjectures
of what the future was really to produce, were totally
absent from my mind. But I was soon tutored by a
stern experience. I cannot go through the details of
this experience. I dare not. How I suffered, how
vain were my appeals, how equally vain my performances—
my submission, my resignation, the entreaties
which I offered, the efforts which I made to disarm the
brutality of my master, or to bear partially his yoke.
Col. de Berniere was at once the most scornful and
the most suspicious of living men. He quarrelled
with all his own friends, and mine. He drove them
from his house. With more than one of them did he
fight, under no provocation but that suggested by his
own brutal humors—by jealousy and intoxication;
and, on each occasion of his quarrel with others, I was
compelled to endure my portion of his caprice and
violence. My hope was not allowed to grow. My
spirit was broken in repeated conflicts, in which even
the most complete submission did not disarm the tyranny.
I seldom left the house, and never cared to
leave it, as I was sure of the most cruel abuse when I
returned. My mother soon became aware of my situation.
She knew not half, but quite enough to make

[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]

her expostulate, with maternal interest and warmth.
Alas! She soon found that though she had the power
to bind, and had fatally exercised it, she no longer
possessed the power to loose. Her expostulations increased
the evil. He drove her from his dwelling with
ignominy, and not only denied her entrance, but denied
that I should seek or see her. For three months
did I submit to this cruel denial, until she fell sick.
Her illness proved fatal in the end; but when I heard
how dangerously ill she was, I stole away to her bedside,
just in time to receive her dying prayer and
breath in my bosom. I fondly fancied that this event,
which had taken from me the nearest relative I had
on earth, would commend me somewhat to the pity of
my master. I never dreamed that I should receive
censure and abuse for a disobedience to his commands,
at so extreme a juncture; and hastened home to entreat
his attendance at my mother's house, and his
care of her remains till buried. I met him in the
great passage below, and in few words, but with many
tears, I told him my painful news, and made my humble
request. He had been drinking—I am now prepared
to do him the justice to believe that he knew
not well what I had related—understood nothing, perhaps,
but the simple fact that I had visited the house
which he had interdicted. He seized me by the hair
of my head. He smote me to the earth. He left me
where I had fallen, insensible, with the blood gushing
from my mouth and nostrils, and hurried forth once
more, not to seek the house of mourning, but to join
certain comrades in a midnight revel.”

[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]

Here Frederick Brandon, with a fierce ejaculation,
started to his feet and paced the apartment. A pause
ensued. He drew nigh, resumed his seat beside her,
and took her hand silently within his own. He
schooled himself with a firmness perfectly astonishing;
for his heart was like a volcano, ready to flame and
overflow. She continued:—

“How long I lay in this condition, stunned, stupefied,
or in convulsions, I know not. For weeks I
scarcely knew anything, but, in the mean time, a dead
infant was born, prematurely sent into the world, and
perishing under the brutality which nearly proved
fatal to myself. Of all this I knew nothing. Nature
had kindly accorded to my mind a degree of insensibility
which perhaps saved my life. Had I been conscious,
anger, indignation—rage that was impotent—
would have destroyed me. As it was, when my senses
returned to me, and I could remember all that had
taken place, the awfullest of passions possessed my
soul. A terrible feeling took possession of my bosom,
and here, O Frederick, my crime begins. Before
this period, I can really accuse myself of little that
could be considered guilt—childish follies there were
doubtlessly enough. I was a child, and frequently an
erring one. I had been guilty of a weakness rather
than a crime, when I took the solemn vows of marriage
at the altar; and this weakness was one to be excused
under the circumstances; for how, with such a will as
my mother possessed, could I think of exercising a
will of my own? But I had been dutiful and submissive
to my husband. I gave up all my friends, all

[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]

society, at his requisition; and it was only when my
parent lay on her dying couch that I ever disobeyed
his commands. To the period when he smote me to
the ground, I feel that I have few causes of self-reproach—
regarding my duties as a wife and daughter.
But from that dreadful moment, Frederick!—Then!
Then!”—

She paused, and Brandon was conscious that her
hand, which had previously lain upon his own, now
grasped his fingers convulsively. He looked into her
face. The eyes were shut and the lips quivering. He
began to be alarmed. “Marie!” he exclaimed, in
accents of apprehension.

“Nay, Frederick, fear nothing. I am only trying
to muster all my strength. Turn your eyes away,
dear Frederick. Humble me not by your looks, while
I am unfolding the dreadful purposes which have once
possessed my soul. Oh! how rapidly in that day did
I then think and resolve! With what a faculty did
memory bring before mine eyes the long history of my
sufferings and sorrows; all that I had lost—all that
I had sacrificed—all that I had endured. Never did
such an array of bitter, dreadful, and humiliating experiences
rise before one poor human imagination,
without maddening the mind, and setting all the passions
in a flame—all concentrating, as it were, in one.
A dark desire for revenge—for escape from my thraldom—
seized upon my soul! I felt called by my
mother's voice, night and day, to take the life of my
tyrant. The fancy became a fixed desire in my mind.
More than once I thought to seize upon a knife and

[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]

stab him as he sat before me at the table. I secreted
a knife for this purpose. I was haunted by the memory
of that fierce and cruel woman in Scripture, who
drove the nail into the head of the man who sought
the hospitality of her dwelling. I secreted a nail,
intending to emulate her crime. But it was in proof
that conscience was busy to keep me from the deed,
that I was continually seeking to change the mode of
its execution. I abandoned all these modes. I remembered,
finally, that there was a deadly poison in
the house, which he himself had employed to rid the
garden of the cats which infested it. I knew where
this poison was kept. It was convenient; in that very
closet. It was a dark whitish powder, the name of
which I did not know. `Poison for cats' was the inscription
upon it, and I had heard him remark that a
few grains only would prove fatal to any life. I procured
this powder, and secreted it for days—so tenaciously
did this deadly purpose harbor in my mind!
At length, I absolutely mixed it in a bottle of the wine
which I that day expected him to drink.”

Here she suddenly caught both of Brandon's hands
within her own, and bent round eagerly to look into
his face. As she beheld its expression, she cried—

“Oh! thanks! Thanks, my Frederick. I see you
do not loathe—you will not hate me?”

“Hate you? Ah Marie!”

“Yes, Frederick, I conceal nothing. In that closet
did I mix the fatal potion.”

He turned in the direction pointed out, fixed his

[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]

eyes curiously upon it, but said nothing. She continued—

“But God be praised, the voice of my heart at
length spoke audibly to my mind. I repented me, in
season, of the terrible thought. I thrust the deadly
purpose from my soul. I flung the poisoned liquid
from my hands almost as soon as I had mixed it. I
hurried to yonder window, and emptied the bottle into
the garden. Then, beside this couch, I threw myself
upon my knees, and implored the blessed Virgin for
succor to banish all such feelings from my breast. I
found the requisite strength in prayer. Never again
did I harbor a sinful purpose against him. Never did
a hair of his head come to harm through me.”

“Then what have you to fear, dear Marie; and
with what, above all, can your husband now reproach
you?”

“Alas! dear Frederick, who shall say when he is
received to mercy—when he is acquitted of his guilt—
and when his penance shall suffice for atonement?”

“Marie, this argument is not your own?”

“I confess it. It is the suggestion of Father
Paulo.”

Brandon smiled slightly, quietly remarking—

“It struck me as coming from a theologian.”

She proceeded—

“But it was the assurance of Col. de Berniere,
himself, that other sacrifices were required at my
hands before my atonement could be complete! This
is the decree which is brought, referring to the awful
crime which I meditated against him. For this, it is

[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]

required that I should deny you now—deny myself—
and rather shroud myself in a convent, devoted to
God, than to think of any other human love!”

“Ha! Impossible! How know you, Marie, that
this Egyptian was a spectre—that he was—?”

“Alas, Frederick! did he not show me those awful
features, but too well remembered, at once of death
and life?—features known too soon, and feared too
long, to be easily forgotten? Besides, Frederick, did
he not unveil to me my own terrible secret—the
meditated crime, which was to precipitate him from
life to judgment, and which my lips had never before
confided to any mortal keeping?”

She paused, and sank back upon the couch exhausted.
Brandon again rose from his seat and paced
the apartment in silence.

“You are sure, Marie,” after a pause, “that you
never once breathed this secret to any ear?”

“Oh, sure! Oh, sure! It was too terrible!
And now—”

Brandon approached and whispered to her. She
answered quickly—

“Ah! that was sin upon sin! I reserved that from
all the rest.”

She would have continued, but he arrested her.

“No more on this point, Marie; I have a reason
for it.”

She remained silent, and he continued to pace the
floor; his eye seeming to wander about the chamber
in a manner which at length struck the attention of
Marie de Berniere, and filled her with new anxieties.

[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]

But he motioned her to continue, and she suddenly
resumed—

“How could I question this visitation? I felt the
guilty consciousness of crime, and here came to me the
spectre of the one against whose life I entertained it.
He lays bare to me my criminal heart. He commands
me to deny myself to man and to society, and to live
only for penitence and God! How can I doubt this
mission? He reveals to me the secrets which none
but myself could know, of all the living, and thus
confirms his right to decree and to denounce. I must
submit to this decree. You see for yourself, dear
Frederick, that we must part—”

“A moment! but a moment!” was the response.
“Did this spectre—this Egyptian—unfold any particulars
of your meditated purpose? Did he only
state the fact, or did he exhibit such a knowledge of
details?—”

“All! all! It was in this very chamber that I
mixed the fatal potion—in that closet. There, said
he, could that closet but speak, which beheld you prepare
the poison—that mantle which saw you place
the bottle upon it, in readiness for the dinner-hour—
that casement from which you finally cast it forth—
those plants below which received it, or that pillow
which heard your ineffectual prayer for pardon! Oh,
Frederick, he knew every movement of my soul!”

The eye of Brandon brightened, and he muttered
to himself—

“Every movement of your person, rather. The

[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]

spectre only proves that he knows too much!” She
did not distinguish what he said.

“Speak to me, Frederick! Oh! speak,” was the
exclamation of Marie de Berniere. “See you not
that it is all hopeless?”

She knew not well what she said herself. But as
he continued to walk the floor in silence, her agony
of soul became too great for endurance, and raising
herself from the couch, with a strength which was due
wholly to her excited feelings, she darted forward and
seized him by the arm, arresting his further movement
almost by violence. He took her tenderly in
his embrace, and carried her back to the couch.
When she was again composed, he began—

“It is not to be expected, dear Marie, that I, who
have loved you so long and so fervently, should give
you up without a struggle. I have built too fondly,
too profoundly, on your love for me, to be satisfied to
forego, in a single moment, every hope, every dream
of delight, which my fancy has been painting for my
heart! A long future is before me—is probably before
us both. We are both young, and I dare not
doubt that affection in you, which I feel so earnest in
myself. Are we both to live, and live desolate?
Shall the long years, in prospect, be uncheered by
any sunshine? Shall no love blossom and brighten
for our future? Must the years move on wearily and
slowly—cold, unlighted from those sources of happiness,
of which blessed glimpses have been vouchsafed
to us already—and which the benevolent Father of
mankind seems never to have denied to any of his

[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

creatures? Can I easily persuade myself, or suffer
you to believe, that He has especially denied to us
what He accords usually to all. I cannot bring myself
to this. You must give me time to reconcile my
thoughts to this necessity—to school my heart to this
privation—to accommodate my nature to this cheerless
future of isolation which is to make us both prematurely
old.”

“Ah, Frederick, but this isolation need not be
yours! You are young and ardent. You will be reconciled
to my loss. Other women will compensate
you.”

“Never! dear Marie,” was the sad, but subdued
reply. “I am no changeling. My heart yields
slowly to the charms of others, and becomes fixed as
soon as it becomes fond. Believe this assurance. I
will not asseverate. It is not my wont. But, I say
to you, on the honor of a heart that has long been
satisfied to seek yours only, that if I lose you I can
gain no other—will seek no other. I must bury myself
in the solitude of our old forests, and, perhaps,
become useful, or useless, where I no longer expect
to become happy. Suffer me, then, for a while, the
selfish struggle against your isolation. Give me time
to examine our mutual situation, and only permit me
to see you, at occasional periods, alone. You may
deny me your hand—you may refuse to make me
happy;—this may be the final decision; but, in the
mean time, permit me, sometimes, should I desire it,
to see you and speak with you. This privilege will
not prejudice your determination; and, when you

[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]

reflect, Marie, upon the sacrifice you call upon me to
make, this, probably, is quite as little as you could
grant.”

“Alas! Frederick, is this wise in you to ask?
Will it be wise in me to grant? Will not such meetings
be adverse to our mutual peace?”

“And is the doom before us now so very favorable
to our mutual peace, Marie?” was the somewhat reproachful
answer.

She was silent.

“At all events,” said he, “suffer me to see you to-morrow,
and once or twice afterwards. In the mean
while I will devote all my thoughts to the consideration
of what you ask, and what I am required to surrender.”

He pressed tenderly the hand which she gave him;
and when he had disappeared, a passion of tears relieved,
temporarily, the sorrows of the poor heart,
that, suffering grievously before, was compelled, in
secret, to admit that its worst miseries were never
felt till now.