Incarnation of the thing itself exhibited by her.

At first he did not take his eyes from the papers; when he raised them, he

was struck by the wretchedness manifest on her altered cheek; for a moment

he forgot his own acts and fears, and asked with consternation--"Dearest

girl, what is the matter; what has happened?"

"Nothing," she replied at first; "and yet not so," she continued, hurrying

on in her speech; "you have secrets, Raymond; where have you been lately,

whom have you seen, what do you conceal from me?--why am I banished from

your confidence? Yet this is not it--I do not intend to entrap you with

questions--one will suffice--am I completely a wretch?"

With trembling hand she gave him the paper, and sat white and motionless

looking at him while he read it. He recognised the hand-writing of Evadne,

and the colour mounted in his cheeks. With lightning-speed he conceived the

contents of the letter; all was now cast on one die; falsehood and artifice

were trifles in comparison with the impending ruin. He would either

entirely dispel Perdita's suspicions, or quit her for ever. "My dear girl,"

he said, "I have been to blame; but you must pardon me. I was in the wrong

to commence a system of concealment; but I did it for the sake of sparing

you pain; and each day has rendered it more difficult for me to alter my

plan. Besides, I was instigated by delicacy towards the unhappy writer of

these few lines."

Perdita gasped: "Well," she cried, "well, go on!"

"That is all--this paper tells all. I am placed in the most difficult

circumstances. I have done my best, though perhaps I have done wrong. My

love for you is inviolate."

Perdita shook her head doubtingly: "It cannot be," she cried, "I know that

It is not. You would deceive me, but I will not be deceived. I have lost

you, myself, my life!"

"Do you not believe me?" said Raymond haughtily.

"To believe you," she exclaimed, "I would give up all, and expire with joy,

so that in death I could feel that you were true--but that cannot be!"

"Perdita," continued Raymond, "you do not see the precipice on which you

stand. You may believe that I did not enter on my present line of conduct

without reluctance and pain. I knew that it was possible that your

suspicions might be excited; but I trusted that my simple word would cause

them to disappear. I built my hope on your confidence. Do you think that I

will be questioned, and my replies disdainfully set aside? Do you think

that I will be suspected, perhaps watched, cross-questioned, and

disbelieved? I am not yet fallen so low; my honour is not yet so tarnished.

You have loved me; I adored you. But all human sentiments come to an end.

Let our affection expire--but let it not be exchanged for distrust and

recrimination. Heretofore we have been friends--lovers--let us not

become enemies, mutual spies. I cannot live the object of suspicion--you

cannot believe me--let us part!"

"Exactly so," cried Perdita, "I knew that it would come to this! Are we not

already parted? Does not a stream, boundless as ocean, deep as vacuum, yawn

between us?"

Raymond rose, his voice was broken, his features convulsed, his manner calm

as the earthquake-cradling atmosphere, he replied: "I am rejoiced that you

take my decision so philosophically. Doubtless you will play the part of

the injured wife to admiration. Sometimes you may be stung with the feeling

that you have wronged me, but the condolence of your relatives, the pity of

the world, the complacency which the consciousness of your own immaculate