THE WIFE'S CONFESSION.

Constance did reveal all to her husband, faithfully and clearly, as if she herself had been a third party, all of her history—her struggles, temptations, and inner wickedness, up to the time of that fatal marriage. Sometimes she wept, sometimes she besought him to give her a merciful judgment, and pleaded her own cause piteously. Even that marriage she extenuated, and could not yet see that, thinking her husband dead, it was not, in some sort, an act of heroism, a desperate effort to save her father.

"William, my father was once a good man, and might have been a great man," she said.

"He is good, now, but broken in all his hopes; but his wife, my mother—oh, she must have been selfish and vain as I was only a little time ago. He trusted her as you trusted me, but she led him downward. This man Church, in some way, attained a strong influence over her, and through her, my honest, confiding father, became as I did afterward, a tool and a victim. He was an engraver of wonderful skill, as you know. Church employed my father, reporting himself as the agent of a Banking House in New York; paid him in money struck off from his own forged plates; traced the money back and kept it in evidence against him, as a deliberate counterfeiter.

"My poor father had studied for the ministry, and only took up engraving from the force of his own genius, and as a means of earning a little more money than a country clergyman could command. Church saw that he was not to be trusted to carry out a fraud, and led him into that cruel net, in order to make sure of his silence. It was in this way that my father became the slave of Church.

"The time came when my father suspected that some evil use was being made of his genius. Then this wretch owned the truth, and revealed the wicked plot by which he had been, unconsciously, made the participant of a great sin. Church had expected to bind him down to his interests, forever, by the power he held, but my father broke loose from him, gave up his parish, and fled to the covert of a great city, taking my mother and her child with him.

"In the midst of this trouble, my mother died. I was a little thing then, so young that I cannot remember her death, but I know what care he took of me, how he worked night and day, for my support, dressed me with his own hands, and prayed over me, before I went to sleep, at the close of each day. Oh William, it is not my father's fault, if it went wrong in the end.

"William, you saw him, one night, at his duties as a city missionary, and can believe that he never gave up the hopes of doing some good, as a minister, while I was doubting him, and thinking such evil things, because he left me alone; you know how he spent his nights, after many a hard day's work.

"You remember when Church first came among us. I cannot go on—to think of that period kills me. He brought that old proof against my father. He seized upon me when we were flying to you, made me believe that you were dead, and in the insanity of my terror and grief made me his wife.

"From the very first, I disliked this man, William. From the time that he forced me to marry him, I hated him; when I had lived with him a year, and found how worthless was everything he could give me, this feeling grew into absolute loathing. At this time, I found your letter, and learned that in our hideous marriage, he had added fraud to compulsion; that you, my husband—my own true husband, were alive.

"Oh William, if you had hated me, if you had loathed me, as I loathed him, the sight of my distress would have touched you with pity. I cannot tell you how I suffered; how I detested myself, and went mad with a wild, wild wish to come after you, throw myself at your feet and beg you to have compassion on my wretchedness, for I loved you, William! Oh, do not shrink away from me! I did! I did!"

William Sterling covered his free with both hands, and shook from head to foot.

"I broke down, then; during the whole year, I had been struggling for happiness, as drowning men beat the waters in a storm. It was all a wild, whirling stream, full of vanity, triumph, and unutterable desolation. I broke down utterly; the disease that is killing me, clutched upon my lungs like a vulture. That morning I awoke with blood upon my lips; it has been there often and often since."

Sterling uncovered his face and looked down upon the poor woman with tears in his eyes. It was hard to be angry with a creature so utterly broken, and prostrate.

"Thank you, oh William, I do thank you for that look," she said, beginning to cry, "bear with me while I tell you all, then try and pity me a little.

"I told that bad man, what I had discovered—told him how dearly I loved you, how bitterly I hated him, how determined I was never on this earth to be his wife, again, in anything but the hated name. I was very brave then, but he broke me down with threats against you. I think he would have followed on your track and killed you, had I left his house.

"I went home to my father, and told him the truth; that I had been married to you, was then your wife. But what could he do for me, my poor oppressed father. It was something that one other human being knew how wretched I was, even though he was powerless to help me.

"One thing I had not told Church, and that was the absolute fact of my marriage to you. That would have made me his slave, and I knew it. But I never forgot it; no, not for one moment. From that hour, heart and soul, I rejected him. His roof sheltered me; his wealth surrounded me with luxuries that I had learned to detest, but he knew well how abhorrent his very presence was to me. That I could tell him without endangering you, and it was a little satisfaction. William, out of that man's crimes I, at last, won my freedom. When he married me I thought it was from all absorbing love, for I was a vain, arrogant girl, and set a high value on my poor attractions.

"The man was so eager to win me, so fiercely resolute, that I could give him no other motive. But a time came when I knew that it was as much avarice as love. The man wanted a safe tool in his wife by which to grasp more evil wealth.

"One night I discovered with horror, followed by a fierce sense of triumph, that all the wealth which tempted me had been obtained by a fraud on the Government, and that he had craftily made me an accomplice. I had the proofs in my hand. I held him in my power. He threatened you, (the miserable wild beast,) and I had him caged in a prison. He is there yet, sentenced for fifteen years, and he knows that I put the shackles on his hands. When the whole world looks black before me, I think of that and rejoice.

"But oh, how I longed to flee from his house, then; but the excitement had made me worse; for a long time I was very, very ill. Besides, where could I go? to you? Oh, how I pined for one look of your face, one word from your lips! But I dared not come. I dared not ask you to forgive me. Tell me, tell me, now, if I had crept to your feet, would you have spurned me from them?"

"Oh, Heaven, it is useless to ask such questions, now!" exclaimed Sterling; "all that time I was working for you, waiting, longing for you. Then I thought you dead. So help me, Heaven! I saw you lying dead, or believed so. Would to God it had been the truth!"

"Oh if it had, if it only had!" moaned the poor woman, wringing her shadowy hands.

"Was that also a fraud?" demanded Sterling, gloomily.

"No, no! as I hope for salvation, no! The poor girl you saw was my cousin, a better person than I ever was. Little Rhoda helped to deceive you, but she was deceived herself; my cousin was so like me. Rhoda knew nothing of my marriage, nothing of my cousin's existence. To this day, she believes that it was my sick bed that she watched, my grave that she stood by in Greenwood. You did not wait to see my father, and he alone could have told you. Rhoda deceived herself."

"When my father came to me at last, and took me back to the old place, the whole Weeks family had left it. He told me of my cousin's death, and all that he had learned from Rhoda, about your presence in the house, that night. Then I understood that you thought me dead, and knowing nothing of my sin, might mourn for me as the innocent wife, that I could never, never be again. I was getting weaker and weaker all the time, and thought how sweet it would be when my poor broken-hearted father laid me in the grave that you should always think kindly of me. It was hard to live and feel that I was eternally dead to you, but I was very ill and had not the courage to make you hate my memory."

"But your father?"

"My poor father could not find the heart to resist me when I pleaded with him for silence. Do not blame him, how could he deny me when he knew that a little time would end everything."

"But this cousin, who was she?"

"My father had an only sister, who was left a widow with a child of my own age, and so like me, always, my father says that we could hardly have been told apart.

"After her mother died, she learned a trade, and partly earned her own living, poor thing! I believe father was afraid to have me with her, or let her know anything about our set—and I don't much blame him. So he stayed with her a good deal after my aunt died, and made a home for me—you know where and how. In this way, father had two lives. One calm, and sweet, and holy, with her, and that which led to perdition, with me.

"I discovered this girl at last. I wanted some one to make up a dress for me—it was after we were married—the dress was for that masquerade ball. While trying it on, we stood before the glass together, and I saw at once the wonderful likeness that there was between us. It frightened me a little, and I began to dislike this Constance Ellery. One night I saw my father go up to her room. Oh! how glad she was to see him! I went home and sat in wait for him, determined to know what it all meant. He told me then, for the first time, that I had a cousin.

"It was this girl who died in our rooms, William. She was so like me that even Rhoda Weeks thought that sickness had made all the change she saw; there was little need of deception afterward. They believed that I was dead, and told you so; all but my poor, poor father, who afterward allowed you to be deceived in order to save me."

"Oh, my God, it was a terrible deception. Cruel, cruel! What ruin it might have brought, what sorrows it will occasion!"

"I know it," answered the sick woman, humbly. "Do not reproach me, it was for your sake; to me life had become a burden terrible to endure; but I thought that you might be spared any portion of my misery and a knowledge of my disgrace."

"Wretched, wretched woman! do you know—can you guess the cruel evil that has sprung from this concealment?" cried the young man, giving way in the midst of his anguish.

"Yes, I know, William, Rhoda Weeks sent a letter to my father, telling him how poor Luke had died. In that letter, also, came news that scarcely left me alive; but love gave me strength to come here and tell you all. I arose from a sick bed, after reading that letter, made strong by terrible excitement.

"I went to my father, a broken down, patient old man, who was looking around for some good work that he could do, in atonement, before he died. A way had been graciously opened to him. Missionaries were wanted among the Indians. I was glad of that; I longed to get away from cities, where I had been so miserable, and die in the wilderness. I had but one hope on earth—to see you, tell the whole truth, and die. I knew that this was needful for your own salvation; that my coming would break up your life afresh, and bring sorrow to an innocent girl. It was a hard task—I almost prayed not to find you. Have patience, only a little patience. It will not be long—it will not be long!"

Constance closed her eyes in weariness, and Sterling could see great tears stealing through her long lashes, while the mouth, that had been so beautiful, quivered with inward pain.

"Leave her, now," said Mr. Hudson, in a low voice. "She is better alone with me."

Sterling wrung the old man's hand.

"Tomorrow I will come and take you home; my mother will gladly receive her."

Sterling spoke kindly, but with deep mournfulness; he compassionated that poor creature, but her coming filled his soul with trouble.

Hudson made only this reply:

"You are very kind, and God will bless you for it. Now let her rest."

Sterling went home at once, and told Mrs. Holt of the new calamity that had fallen upon them. He had no courage to see Dora, but wandered off into the prairies all night, a weary, wretched man.