the time
when he had first met and loved her. Even as Faust had entered into the
purity and serenity of Gretchen's chamber, out of the coarseness and
profligacy of Auerbach's cellar, so he, leaving behind him the wild
life of his youth, had entered into the peace and quiet of a domestic
home. The old feverish life with Rosanna Moore, seemed to be as
unsubstantial and chimerical, as, no doubt, his union with Lillith
after he met Eve, seemed to Adam in the old Rabbinical legend. There
seemed to be only one way open to him, by which he could escape the
relentless fate which dogged his steps. He would write a confession of
everything from the time he had first met Rosanna, and then--death. He
would cut the Gordian knot of all his difficulties, and then his secret
would be safe; safe? no, it could not be while Moreland lived. When he
was dead Moreland would see Madge and embitter her life with the story
of her father's sins--yes--he must live to protect her, and drag his
weary chain of bitter remembrance through life, always with that
terrible sword of Damocles hanging over him. But still, he would write
out his confession, and after his death, whenever it may happen, it
might help if not altogether to exculpate, at least to secure some pity
for a man who had been hardly dealt with by Fate. His resolution taken,
he put it into force at once, and sat all day at his desk filling page
after page with the history of his past life, which was so bitter to
him. He started at first languidly, and as in the performance of an
unpleasant but necessary duty. Soon, however, he became interested in
it, and took a peculiar pleasure in putting down every minute
circumstance which made the case stronger against, himself. He dealt
with it, not as a criminal, but as a prosecutor, and painted his
conduct as much blacker than it really had been. Towards the end of the
day, however, after reading over the earlier sheets, he experienced a
revulsion of feeling, seeing how severe he had been on himself, so he
wrote a defence of his conduct, showing that fate had been too strong
for him. It was a weak argument to bring forward, but still he felt it
was the only one that he could make. It was quite dark when he had
finished, and while sitting in the twilight, looking dreamily at the
sheets scattered all over his desk, he heard a knock at the door, and
his daughter's voice asking if he was coming to dinner. All day long he
had closed his door against ev