do was to forget you. If you were infatuated by my unlucky
beauty, I loved devotedly on my side. The well-born gentleman who

had sacrificed everything for my sake, was something more than
mortal in my estimation; he was--no! I won't shock the good man

who writes this by saying what he was. Besides, what do you care
for my thoughts of you now?

If you had only been content to remain as I left you--or if I had
not found out that you were in love with Miss Eyrecourt, and were

likely to marry her, in the belief that death had released you
from me--I should have lived and died, doing you no other injury

than the first great injury of consenting to be your wife.
But I made the discovery--it doesn't matter how. Our circus was

in Devonshire at the time. My jealous rage maddened me, and I had
a wickedadmirer in a man who was old enough to be my father. I

let him suppose that the way to my favor lay through helping my
revenge on the woman who was about to take my place. He found the

money to have you watched at home and abroad; he put the false
announcement of my death in the daily newspapers, to complete

your delusion; he baffled the inquiries made through your lawyers
to obtainpositive proof of my death. And last, and (in those

wicked days) best service of all he took me to Brussels and
posted me at the door of the English church, so that your lawful

wife (with her marriage certificate in her hand) was the first
person who met you and the mock Mrs. Winterfield on your way from

the altar to the wedding breakfast.
I own it, to my shame. I triumphed in the mischief I had done.

But I had deserved to suffer; and I did suffer, when I heard that
Miss Eyrecourt's mother and her two friends took her away from

you--with her own entire approval--at the church door, and
restored her to society, without a stain on her reputation. How

the Brussels marriage was kept a secret, I could not find out.
And when I threatened them with exposure, I got a lawyer's

letter, and was advised in my own interests to hold my tongue.
The rector has since told me that your marriage to Miss Eyrecourt

could be lawfully declared null and void, and that the
circumstances would excuse _you_, before any judge in England. I

can now well understand that people, with rank and money to help
them, can avoid exposure to which the poor, in their places, must

submit.
One more. duty (the last) still remains to be done.

I declare solemnly, on my deathbed, that you acted in perfect
good faith when you married Miss Eyrecourt. You have not only

been a man cruelly injured by me, but vilely insulted and
misjudged by the two Eyrecourts, and by the lord and lady who

encouraged them to set you down as a villainguilty of heartless
and shameless deceit.

It is my conviction that these people might have done more than
misinterpret your honorable submission to the circumstances in

which you were placed. They might have prosecuted you for
bigamy--if they could have got me to appear against you. I am

comforted when I remember that I did make some small amends. I
kept out of their way and yours, from that day to this.

I am told that I owe it to you to leave proof of my death behind
me.

When the doctor writes my certificate, he will mention the mark
by which I may be identified, if this reaches you (as I hope and

believe it will) between the time of my death and my burial. The
rector, who will close and seal these lines, as soon as the

breath is out of my body, will add what he can to identify me;
and the landlady of this house is ready to answer any questions

that may be put to her. This time you may be really assured that
you are free. When I am buried, and they show you my nameless

grave in the churchyard, I know your kind heart--I die, Bernard,
in the firm belief that you will forgive me.

There was one thing more that I had to ask of you, relating to a
poor lost creature who is in the room with us at this moment.

But, oh, I am so weary! Mr. Fennick will tell you what it is. Say
to yourself sometimes--perhaps when you have married some lady

who is worthy of you--There was good as well as bad in poor Emma.
Farewell.

_Number Two--From The Rev. Charles Fennick to Bernard
Winterfield._

The Rectory, Belhaven.
Sir--It is my sad duty to inform you that Mrs. Emma Winterfield

died this morning, a little before five o'clock. I will add no
comment of mine to the touching language in which she has

addressed you. God has, I most sincerely believe, accepted the
poor sinner's repentance. Her contrite spirit is at peace, among

the forgiven ones in the world beyond the grave.
In consideration of her wish that you should see her in death,

the coffin will be kept open until the last moment. The medical
man in attendance has kindly given me a copy of his certificate,

which I inclose. You will see that the remains are identified by
the description of a small silver plate on the right parietal

bone of the skull.
I need hardly add that all the information I can give you is

willingly at your service.
She mentions, poor soul, something which she had to ask of you. I

prefer the request which, in her exhausted state, she was unable
to address to you in her own words.

While the performances of the circus were taking place in the
next county to ours, a wandering lad, evidently of deficient

intelligence, was discovered, trying to creep under the tent to
see what was going on. He could give no intelligible account of

himself. The late Mrs. Winterfield (who was born and brought up,
as I understand, in France) discovered that the boy was French,

and felt interested in the unfortunate creature, from former
happy association with kind friends of his nation. She took care

of him from that time to the day of her death--and he appeared to
be gratefully attached to her.

I say "appeared," because an inveterate reserve marks one of the
peculiarities of the mentalaffliction from which he suffers.

Even his benefactress never could persuade him to take her into
his confidence. In other respects, her influence (so far as I can

learn) had been successfully exerted in restraining certain
mischievous propensities in him, which occasionally showed

themselves. The effect of her death has been to intensify that
reserve to which I have already alluded. He is sullen and

irritable--and the good landlady at the lodgings does not
disguise that she shrinks from taking care of him, even for a few

days. Until I hear from you, he will remain under the charge of
my housekeeper at the rectory.

You have, no doubt, anticipated the request which the poor
sufferer wished to address to you but a few hours before her

death. She hoped that you might be willing to place this
friendless and helpless creature under competent protection.

Failing your assistance" target="_blank" title="n.协作；援助；帮助">assistance, I shall have no alternative, however I
may regret it, but to send him to the workhouse of this town, on

his way, probably, to the public asylum.
Believe me, sir, your faithful servant,

CHARLES FENNICK.
P.S.--I fear my letter and its inclosures may be delayed in

reaching you.
Yesterday evening, I had returned to my house, before it occurred

to me that Mrs. Winterfield had not mentioned your address. My
only excuse for this forgetfulness is, that I was very much

distressed while I was writing by her bedside. I at once went
back to the lodgings, but she had fallen asleep, and I dared not

disturb her. This morning, when I returned to the house, she was
dead. There is an allusion to Devonshire in her letter, which

suggests that your residence may be in that county; and I think
she once spoke of you as a person of rank and fortune. Having