made her peace with Heaven, you
say. So be it, then,--let her die in peace. She has told you
that she loved me? Did she tell you how I loved, how I
worshipped her?--What is the punishment for those who betray,
if those who are betrayed suffer as I have done! She has told
you she is innocent; she has told you she is belied: has she
told you that I found her prostrate at the feet of that man,
who you say is now mad and dying?--that man, who it has almost
maddened me not to kill,--whom it has almost killed me to
spare--Go, go, Mr. Lacy!--pray for her--pray with her; but do
not ask _me_ to forgive her."

"Have you not heard me, Mr. Middleton? Have you not understood
me? I repeat to you, solemnly and earnestly, with all the
conviction that a minute acquaintance with the sad history of
her life can give, that your wife is not guilty of the crime
which you impute to her; and that she has only loved you too
passionately; only feared you too much. The pride, the
sternness of your character, acted fatally upon a nature like
hers. Beware, that, even now, God does not look down upon you
both, and judge _you_ the betrayer, and _her_ the betrayed.
_One_ hour's indulgence, _one_ moment's confidence, might have
brought her to your feet, to confess, not a crime, but a fact,
'which has been a covering to her eyes all the days of her
life;' an accident which, in a fatal hour of weakness, she
concealed; an accident which threw her into the power of those
who, in hatred, or under the impulse of a guilty passion,
sought to blight her peace, and ruin her virtue. That love
which you doubt, in the place of a higher principle, saved her
from guilt, and only left her a prey to the most protracted
agony. Read this letter--it is from the man who vainly sought
to gain her love, by wringing her heart--read this
journal--read this confession of many sins, of many fears, of
much sorrow; but own, as you read it, that her love to you was
wonderful, and passing the common love of woman; and then come
to forgive, and be forgiven, ere God takes to himself the
being whom you once swore at the altar to keep, to comfort,
and to cherish, until death parted you."

Edward Middleton made no answer to this solemn address. He
appeared stunned and bewildered. He stretched out his hand in
silence for the papers which Mr. Lacy held;--he wrung his
hand, and took leave of him. He watched his carriage out of
sight, and then locked the door, and remained alone for m