calm of those summer evenings, beneath the shadow of the lime-tree! A happiness enhanced by the dangers which menaced it—by the despair in which it was inevitably to end.
“Let me hurry on. It was the night before the wedding. The forthcoming marriage had been published throughout the town. Sick with terror, Margaret met me beneath the tree—fell weeping upon my bosom. Once more the avowal of my passion poured from my lips. My love blinded—maddened me. I rose against my doom. We fled—if, indeed, it was not rather an abduction than a flight—for Margaret had lost consciousness in conjuring me by all I held sacred—by our love—to save her. A priest of the Catholic church, whose faith I hold, consecrated our marriage. We made for the coast, and quitted England, purposing never to return.
“Had I done rightly; or had human frailty leavened my conduct, poisoned my love? Should I not have considered her more, and myself less? She had youth, beauty, the prospect of extraordinary wealth—few women possessed equal advantages. Through my act, these had been lost to her. She had yoked herself with a poor adventurer. She had withdrawn herself from an engagement, in the world’s eyes voluntarily entered upon. She had incurred the ceaseless anger of her father. And this my doing! Yet, could I have acted otherwise? I, who loved her!
“We were pursued, and overtaken at Abbeville, on our road to Paris. I returned with General Galton to Calais. We fought on the sands at low tide. We exchanged three shots. I was struck in the wrist of my right hand. The bone was splintered, and after suffering the most exquisite pain, it became necessary for me to have a very painful operation performed on my arm. For many weeks I was a prey to a brain fever of a most severe character. On my recovery, I found myself at Brussels, tended by Margaret, my wife. Nothing could exceed her affectionate care. Subsequently our story became known in Brussels, and drew upon us an unpleasant amount of attention: we moved to Dresden.
“And now a misfortune we had hardly foreseen, and could not avert, came upon us. This was the want of money. Margaret possessed no means in her own right, although presumptive heiress of the whole of her father’s vast property. Our sole income, therefore, was comprised in a small annuity to which I was entitled under my mother’s marriage settlement; and which, fortunately, it had not been possible to involve in the difficulties of my father’s estate. Our fortune, Heaven knows, was small enough, still it had probably been sufficient, living as obscurely and inexpensively as we were. But at this time began irregularities in the remittances, by reason of the chicanery of one of the trustees charged with the payment of the annuity. Sir John Monckton had solemnly renounced his daughter, had sworn never to forgive, or even to see us more; he carefully alienated the whole of his property from Margaret. His anger knew no bounds—his former love for his child was now changed to an insatiable hate. It seemed to have become an object of his life to oppose us in every way, to drive us to extremities. I had written to every friend I had, or thought I had, hoping to obtain an appointment under one of the continental embassies. But Sir John’s interest effectually prevented this. To all my applications I received an unvarying reply. I had made an enemy of a man too powerful to be opposed, and the consequences must be upon my own head.
“Our situation daily became worse. To purchase the means of subsistence, Margaret was compelled to effect a sale of her jewels. Formerly I had possessed some skill as an artist—with this maimed arm, what did that avail now? Margaret had great gifts as a musician. She endeavoured to obtain pupils. For a time she succeeded, but many on becoming further acquainted with her history, expressed an unaccountable aversion to employing her. I earned some small sums by teaching English, but still insufficient to supply the requirements of our most modest household.
“One day I returned home later than usual. I had been out many hours in the vain quest of employment. To my joy I found a letter from England. I broke the seal with eagerness, and read with a trembling hope which died away into despair as I concluded. The letter was from a relative, and was written in terms colder even than usual. I had implored a remittance. None was forwarded, the letter bade me hope for none, and urged me, as the only way of appeasing the anger of Sir John Monckton, and so of obtaining a cessation of his persecution, to part from my wife, and return alone to England. You cannot imagine the harsh way in which this recommendation was pressed upon me, while on the other hand, if I rejected this counsel, I was hidden to do the best I could for myself, for no one else would ever aid me. I was sick with fatigue and disappointment I yielded to a weak feeling of despair.
“‘Why did I ever marry,’ I cried in the extremity of my folly. ‘Was it for this—for ruin and death?’
“I knew not that my words had been overheard.
“On my return on the following day I found awaiting me a note in pencil in the handwriting of Margaret.
“‘Do as they will. It is in vain to struggle further. We must part. I love you too well to be the cause of further suffering to you. I love you as I have ever loved you, but we must part—it is best so—never to meet again. Think of me as one who is dead, and love me as though Heaven had taken me from you. They cannot wrong you for that. God bless you, dearest. I will ever pray so. Farewell—for ever.
“‘Margaret.’”
His voice trembled and broke. He gave way to a grief which would not be subdued. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed audibly.
“She was gone,” he said at length. “She was gone, and I have never seen her since. It is now fifteen years since she left me.”
“And you have sought her?” I asked.
“From that hour until now. I made inquiries throughout Dresden, but I could learn nothing