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 handwriting 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 forever. “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