CHAPTER VI.
THE RESIDENCE OF DR. POMEROY--NATHAN BLADESDEN AND ELEANOR HILL--A KNEELING WOMAN AND A RIGID QUAKER--THE RUIN THAT A LETTER HAD WROUGHT--A PARTING THAT SEEMED ETERNAL--CARLTON BRAND ALIVE ONCE MORE, AND A GLANCE AT THE FATAL LETTER.
It sometimes happens, in this world which fast people consider dull andslow, that events crowd themselves very closely, both as to time and space.Within a very limited section, in a period covering scarcely more than anhour, we have seen a complication of occurrences, affecting many persons,sufficient to occupy many hours in the recital. And yet the storehouses ofevent and circumstance have not yet been at all closely ransacked; and thatJune-day has yet much to reveal, affecting some of the persons alreadyintroduced, and others who have not yet come into the field of observation.
The spot at which the conflict between Carlton Brand and Richard Comptonoccurred, it will be remembered, was at the intersection of the highwayleading down to the Schuylkill at Market Street, by a blind road which ranback southwardly through the wood,--and that the request of the lawyer toCompton that he would open the gate admitting to that blind road, was madeby the farmer the occasion of that quarrel and fight which we have seenterminate so singularly.
Following that blind road half a mile through the wood, southward towardsthe Darby road, the visitor descended the little range of high land crownedby the wood, crossed a wide meadow with the frogs sunning themselves on thebanks of the little brooks that ran beneath the bridges of the causeway,and the blackbirds singing in the low clumps of elder-bush that grew besidethem, and found himself, on the other side, rising another slight hillockand at the back gate of the residence of Dr. Philip Pomeroy.
This was a house of modern construction, and of a completeness betokeningthe wealth of the owner; standing near the crown of the hillock, with thegarden at the back sloping away towards the meadow (a bad slope, thattowards the north, all the agriculturists in the section averred); handsomeshrubbery in the broad yard lying before the pillared front or south faceof the house; and a good many fine trees of inconsiderable age, with thepine everywhere predominant, promising abundant shade in coming years, bothin front and at the rear. The continuation of the blind road which crossedthe meadow, extended past the house on the west side, immediately besidethe pickets of the yard enclosure, and running across to the Darby roadafforded access to both the great highways, with only short distances oftravel, and at the price of opening an occasional gate, which merelyanswered the purpose of stretching the cramped limbs of the rider. Somepersons, who knew the extensive practice of Dr. Pomeroy, were disposed towonder that he had not located himself immediately on one of the greatroads, with no necessity for traversing by-ways to reach them; whileothers, who better knew the peculiarities of his will, believed that hismotive was a fancy for being comparatively isolated and a little baronial.Whether he really had any motive whatever in selecting the location, exceptthe desire of pleasing himself, is a matter of very little consequence.
There was a light buggy, drawn by two magnificent horses, standing at apost in the road, very near the house, at a little after noon on that day;and within the house certain developments were at the same moment beingmade, so illustrative of the depth to which human depravity can descendwhen the rein is given to all base and unholy passions, that the pen of thenarrator, who is merely attempting a feeble recital of actual occurrencesin the real life of to-day, pauses at the task before it, the fact being socertain that the circumstances about to be recorded will be supposed tohave sprung from the disorder of an unscrupulous imagination, instead ofbeing the fruit of sad research and knowledge that would be avoided if sucha thing was possible.
The middle portion of the front of the doctor's residence, immediately overthe somewhat narrow portico, was a sitting-room of small dimensions,tastily furnished; while out of it opened a little bed-room, the whitecurtains and snowy bed-drapery of which, seen in glimpses through the door,suggested maiden purity and peace or that bridal rest which should be quiteas pure and holy. The sitting-room had at that moment two occupants; andthe picture presented was such as no looker-on would have been likely toforget while he lived.
Nearly in the centre of the room stood a gentleman some years past middleage, large framed and with large hands, tall and commanding in figure,unexceptionably dressed in garments betraying the Quaker cut, and with thatair of undeniable respectability which no pretence can ever imitate,conveyed by every motion of the man and every fold of his garments. He wasdark-eyed and with features a little prominent; and years had made aperceptible mark on the smoothness of his face, at the same time that theyhad heavily grayed his neat side-whiskers and dashed heavy masses of grayamong the still-curling locks that clustered upon his head. A merchant orbanker, evidently, from manner and general appearance--and one to whom theidea of dishonorable conduct and the thought of a disgraced reputationwould be alike unendurable. With a face in which sorrow seemed to bestruggling with anger, this man stood holding a letter clenched in hisright hand, and looking down upon something at his feet. That something wasa woman.
The woman was kneeling, with hands clasped in entreaty, hair shakenpartially loose, face streaming with tears, and her whole system so shakenby the sobs convulsing it that the most dangerous form of hysterics mightbe very likely to follow that excitement. Even when kneeling it was to beobserved that her figure was tall, finely moulded and upright--that herface was fair, pleasant, and notably handsome, though the features were toosmall, the dark eyes mournful, and the general impression created that ofconfiding helplessness very likely to degenerate into dangerousweakness--that her hands were long, taper and delicate, as beseemed herfigure--that her brown hair was very full, rich, silken and glossy--andthat she had probably numbered some five-and-twenty summers. Formed to beloved, protected and shielded from every harm, and certain to return forthat love and protection the most unreserved affection and the mostunquestioning obedience; and yet kneeling there with that upon her facewhich told a tale of the most cruel outrage quite as plainly as thequivering lips could speak it!
Much has been said of the sadness of the spectacle when a strong man weeps,as compared to the same exhibition of feeling by a woman. It is equally sadwhen a woman is seen kneeling to any other power than that of her God! Itseems man's province, given alike by nature and the laws of chivalry, tobend his proud knee in other aspects than that of devotion; and even whenhe is showing that prostration his eye may be glowing with the consciouspride of the future conqueror; but what except the most abject shame or themost overwhelming sorrow, can be shown when the delicate limb of womanhoodkisses the green sod or the floor beneath her tread? To save by pitifulentreaties a perilled honor--to beg through blinding tears and chokingsobs the restoration of that honor lost, that can often so easily be givenback to her by the hands of the tyrant who will not hear her cry--toimplore the concealment of a shame too heavy to bear--to plead for theforfeit life of some one dearer than the very pulses beating in her ownbosom--to moan for the restoration of some object of love and protection,her babe perhaps, reft from her and her heart and her arms left alikeempty--ay, to wail for the boon of a crust that shall chase starvation fromthe thin lips of herself or her child and keep them yet a little longer asclinging sufferers upon the earth,--these have been the compelling motivesso often bending the knee of woman since the earliest day of recorded time.And yet not one of all the long array of unchronicled martyrs has beenbowed under a deeper wrong than was that day made manifest, or uttered amore piteous appeal than that day went up to heaven!
"Oh, do not cast me off!--do not desert me, Mr. Bladesden!" wailed a voicethat would have been marvellously sweet and tender had it not been brokenand roughened by grief, while her poor hands wrung and agonized themselvesin sad sympathy with the writhings of her cowering form. "Do not take awayfrom me my last hope of knowing one hour of peace before they put me intothe coffin! I am no worse to-day than I was yesterday! Oh, do pity and saveme, even if you cannot love me any lon
ger!"
"I do pity thee, Eleanor Hill, and I should like to save thee if I could!"answered a voice rich, full and strong, with only an occasional tremor inits intonation, and the Quaker phraseology seeming to accord peculiarlywith the voice as well as the general appearance of the man. "But thou hastdeceived me, and the plain people--"
"Oh, no, I did not deceive you, Mr. Bladesden," the poor girl interrupted."Do let me speak! Do let me try if I cannot move your heart to believe thatI have never willingly done wrong--that I have never been intentionallywicked!"
"Can thee deny what is in this letter, Eleanor Hill?" asked the Quaker,his voice trembling, in spite of himself, a little more than it had beforedone. Then he added, with something very like a sob in his throat, thatseemed strangely at variance with the general calmness of his demeanor: "Iam rich, Eleanor--very rich, men say; and yet I would give half of all thatI have won in these many years that have made my hair gray, if I could seethee lay thy hand upon thy heart and look up in my face and say: 'The manwho writes this writes falsehood!'"
"I cannot--oh, God, you know that I cannot, Mr. Bladesden!" sobbed the poorgirl. "It is true in word, and yet heaven knows how false it is in spirit."
"Thee should not appeal to heaven so much, Eleanor, and thee should risefrom thy knees, for I will believe thee just as quickly in the one positionas the other, and the friendly people make their yea yea and their nay nay,without taking the name of the Father every moment between their lips."
Eleanor Hill managed to rise from her knees and stagger to her feet; buther position was not the less humble afterward, for she stood grasping theback of a chair with both hands for support, and with her head bowed downin such abject shame and humility that the change of posture seemed ratherto have been taking on an added degradation than putting one away.
"See, I have done as you told me to do!" she said, without looking up. "Iwould be so obedient to you, always, if you would only take me away fromthis misery and shame. Oh, why would he injure me so cruelly--me to whom heshould have been merciful, now, if there was any mercy in his nature!"
"Can thee say that Doctor Philip did not do right, if, as thee says, hewrote this letter?" asked the Quaker, keeping his eyes steadily upon thecrouching woman, and making no motion to change the distance between them."Thee had deceived me, and he knew it. He was sure, perhaps, that thee hadnot told me all, and--"
"I told you, months ago, when you first spoke of making me your wife, Mr.Bladesden," said the poor girl, with one momentary lifting of the bowedhead and one transient flash of womanly spirit--"that I could not give youa whole heart--that my life had been very unfortunate, and that if Iconsented to marry you, you must promise never to ask me one question of mymiserable past. Do you remember that I did?"
"Thee did tell me so much, Eleanor," answered the Quaker. "But thee onlyindicated misfortune--not guilt."
"I have _not_ been guilty--I was never guilty!" spoke the girl, themomentary flash of womanhood not yet extinguished. "You will not let meappeal to heaven, Mr. Bladesden, yet I must do so once more. I call uponthe all-seeing God to punish me with even worse grief and shame than I havealready borne, if there has ever been one guilty wish in my mind towardsthat man or any other--if I have not been forced or deceived into every actwhich makes you despise me to-day."
The Quaker turned away, the letter still in his hand, and walked toward thewindow. He lifted the other hand to his brow and seemed to brush awaysomething that troubled him; and he yet retained that position towards thegirl, as he said, after the pause of a moment:
"I believe thee speaks the truth, Eleanor Hill."
"You do believe me! Oh, thank you for that mercy, if no more!" and the poorgirl had stepped forward, caught his disengaged hand in both hers andlifted it to her lips, before he could prevent her. Then something in hismanner, as he turned, seemed to chill her again to the heart, and she fellback silent to the support of the chair.
"I believe thee so far, and yet thee deceived me."
"How _could_ I tell you all, Mr. Bladesden? How _could_ I publish my ownshame? Oh, why was I ever born!" and the voice had sunk low again, and thespirit seemed crushed quite as completely as before.
"Thee blames Dr. Philip, and yet Dr. Philip was a better friend to me thanthee was; for thee would have allowed me to bring disgrace upon my name,and he would not."
The proverbial worm turns when trodden upon. Eleanor Hill had little nativespirit, and she had been the veriest worm of the dust throughout all thatterrible interview; but this last deadly stab at the vitals of her faith,given in laudation of her destroyer, seemed too much for human endurance,and there was yet one spark of spirit left in the very ashes of disgrace.
"Nathan Bladesden," she said, standing fully erect, and anger usurping theplace of shame in her face, "I am satisfied! I will kneel to you nomore--beg you for mercy no more! If you are base enough to defend the manwho could write that letter, and to call his action honorable, I wouldrather crawl out into the road and beg my bread from door to door, than tocall you husband; and I thank heaven even for that letter which has savedme from a worse man than Philip Pomeroy!"
Life and society are both full of terrible struggles. Perhaps there is noconflict of them all, more enduring in its character, or more racking tothose necessarily engaged in it, than that which is fought by those whotake the Sermon on the Mount as their declared pattern, and attempt tocarry out the principles it enunciates. To forgive when smitten isGod-like; but, oh, how difficult for any mere man! To love an enemy is aninjunction coming down to us from a higher and purer source than that whichgave the philosophy once taught in the Groves of Academe; but, oh, howimpossible for any man to do in reality, until he has been baptized withfire! While others have waged this conflict desultorily and in isolatedinstances, for nearly three centuries, the Quakers have waged it as a sect,entitling themselves alike to wonder and admiration. They have practised anon-resistance unaccountable to the fiery children of the world, and starkmadness on any other supposition than that there is really a specialprotecting Hand over those who heed the peaceful injunction. They havetriumphed alike in society and in savage life, when the strong hand failedand the maxims of worldly wisdom became powerless. And on the faces of themen and women of the sect, to-day--beneath the broad hat of the Friend,under the close gray bonnet of his wife, on brow and cheek of the Quakermaiden with her softly-folded hair, and even in eye and lip of the youngman subjected to temptations which have power to fever and wreck allothers,--in all, there is the record of a long line of men at peace withGod, themselves, and the world, as easily read and as unmistakable as arethe traces of toil, unrest, and consuming passion on the countenances ofthose who have fought through the world with the defiant heart and thestrong hand. They have met despisers as well as foes, outside of their owncharmed circle; but they have also met admirers. And to-day there are menwho could not and who would not take up their cross of self-control andoccasional self-denial so long and so patiently carried,--but who cannotand will not refuse to them the tribute of heart-felt admiration, and whooften heave fruitless sighs towards that land of mental peace from whichthey are themselves excluded, because they neither share its blood nor knowthe tongue of its speech.
But the Quaker has not conquered without struggling, and he has not alwaysconquered at any sacrifice. Twice, the old men of the Revolution used totell us, the _Pater Patriae_ was known to vent words of even profaneanger--once, when the Continental troops failed him on the day of LongIsland, and again, when Lee disappointed his just expectations and almostbroke his line of battle at Monmouth. These were the two great exceptionsproving the rule of his habitual self-command and his religious purity ofspeech; and the occasional outburst of anger in the Quaker blood may beheld to illustrate the same self-control--to prove its abiding existence bythe weight of the shock which momentarily throws it into confusion.
The face of Nathan Bladesden showed, as Eleanor Hill spoke the last wordsalready recorded, a mental conflict to which he was eviden
tly littleaccustomed. The calm cheek flushed, the smooth brow corrugated, and thedark eye was for the moment so nearly fierce that the purity of the Quakerblood might well have been doubted. And when she had finished, the lips ofthe merchant uttered words, at which words themselves and their tone thespeaker would equally have shuddered half an hour before:
"Doctor Philip Pomeroy is an infernal scoundrel--unfit to live! He deservesto be killed, and I could kill him with my own hands!"
"Ha!" It was something like a cry of joy from the lips of the poor girl."Oh, I am so glad! You know this man--you hate him--you have only beentrying me--you----" and her brow and cheeks glowed with excitement as shelooked up in the Quaker's face. Then her eyes fell again, for she did notread there what she had been led to expect by his words. There was anger,but no pity; and even the anger was dying out under the strong habit ofself-control, as rapidly as the momentary glow of a slight conflagrationgoes down under the dense volume of water poured upon it by the engine.
"Thee mistakes me, Eleanor Hill!" he said. "I may follow the evil ways ofthe world's people so far as to hate the bad man who has ruined thee, but Ihave been speaking to thee in all earnest. I have not been 'trying thee,'as thee calls it. I pity thee, truly, and would help thee, but--"
"But in the only way in which you _could_ help me, Nathan Bladesden, bylifting me out of this horrible pit in which my feet are sinking lower andlower every day in defiance of all my struggles and all my prayers--youdesert me and leave me to perish. I understand you at last, and God helpyou and me!"
"Thee knows I cannot marry thee, Eleanor Hill, after what has passed," saidthe Quaker, apologetically.
"I know nothing of the kind, Nathan Bladesden!" answered the girl, no tearsin her eyes now, and her words short and even petulant. "You have nothingto do with my past, any more than I with yours, to come to the truth of thematter! You know, in your own soul, that had you despised the malice ofthat serpent in human shape, and kept the engagement you had made with me,no man on earth would have owned a more faithful or a more loving wife. Butyou have cast me off, degraded me even lower than before in my own sight,made me kneel to you as I should only have kneeled to my Father in heaven;and this is the end."
"Eleanor--" the Quaker began to say; but the girl interrupted him.
"Please don't say another word to me! I understand you, now, and I know myfate. Let me have that letter, and do not speak any more in the streets, ofthe shame of a woman whom you once professed to love, than is absolutelynecessary; and I shall never ask another favor of you in this world."
"Eleanor Hill, thee is doubting my honor!" said the Quaker, alikeforgetting that such idle words as "honor" were only supposed to belong tothe "world's people," and that his voice was becoming so low and brokenthat he could scarcely make himself understood.
"You have done more than doubt mine!" answered the girl, bitterly. "Youhave told me, in so many words, that because I had been cruelly wronged andoutraged by a man who should have cared for me and protected me, I had no'honor' left. We begin to understand each other."
A moment of silence, the girl weeping again but not convulsively as before;the Quaker with his hand upon his brow and his eyes hidden. How materiallythe situation had changed within a few minutes, since Eleanor Hill waskneeling with clasped hands and tearing out her heart with sobs. Yetanother moment of silence, and then the merchant said:
"I am going away, Eleanor. Has thee nothing more to say to me?"
"Not another word, Mr. Bladesden!" answered the girl, through her setteeth. The Quaker raised his head, looked at her face for one moment, andthen slowly moved towards the door, still looking towards her. She made nomovement, as he seemed to expect that she would do, and as it seemedpossible that some changed action on his part might depend upon her doing.
"Farewell, Eleanor!" The Quaker stood in the door, hat in hand.
"Good-bye, Mr. Bladesden!" The girl still remained on the other side of theroom, as if either too much stupefied or too indignant to make any nearerapproach. The next moment Nathan Bladesden had left the room and descendedthe stairs; and within two minutes after, seated alone in the buggy, behindhis span of fast horses, he was bowling along towards the Darby road,apparently driving at such speed as if he would willingly fly as fast aspossible away from a scene where his manhood had been severely tested andnot found proof in extremity.
For an instant after the departure of the Quaker, Eleanor Hill stood erectas he had last seen her. Both hands were pressed upon her heart, and itmight have seemed doubtful whether she had nerved herself to that positionor lacked power to quit it. Then her eyes fell upon the letter whichBladesden, when she requested him to leave it, had dropped upon a chair;and at the sight the spell, whatever it was, gave way. The poor girldropped upon her knees before another chair which stood near her, with acry of such heart-breaking agony as must have moved any heart, not utterlycalloused, that listened to it,--dashed her hand into her long, dishevelledhair with such a gesture as indicated that she would madly tear it out bythe roots in handfuls, then desisted and broke out through moans and sobsinto one of those prayers which the purists believe are seldom or neverforgiven by the heaven to which they are addressed--a prayer for immediatedeath!
"Oh God!--let me die! Do let me die, here and at this moment! I cannotlive and be so wretched! Let me die!--oh, let me die!"
Whether unpardonable or not, the prayer was certainly impious; for next tothat last extremity of crime which any man commits when he dismisses hisown life, is his crime when he becomes a suicide in heart and wish, withoutdaring to use the physical force necessary for that consummation. Despairis cowardice; the theft of time is a sin that no amendment can repay; andthe robbery of that time which heaven allots to a human life, whether inact or thought, is something over which humanity well may shudder.
But Eleanor Hill's impious prayer had no answer--at least no answer exceptthe denial found in the breath of life which still fluttered from hernostrils and the blood which seemed to flow in torture through the poorframe sympathizing with the mind within. The aspiration was scarcely yetdead upon her lips when there was a footfall on the floor behind her; andshe sprung up with one wild desperate hope darting through her brain, thatthe stern judge had at last relented after leaving her presence--that hehad proved himself capable of a great sacrifice and returned to extricateher feet from the pit into which she was so irretrievably sinking. But thathope died on the instant, another and if possible a madder one taking itsplace; for before her, as she turned, stood Carlton Brand, though sodisfigured and changed in appearance that any one except the most intimateof acquaintances might have been excused for doubting his identity.
The young lawyer had always been noted for a neatness of personalappearance approaching to dandyism without reaching that mark; and only anhour before, in face and garb, he would have attracted attention in anycircle, from the perfection of every appointment. Now, his face was bruisedand swollen; his eyes were bloodshot and fiery; one lappel of his coat wastorn from the collar; his coat and his nether garments were soiled anddusty; his hat was crushed and out of shape; and every detail of hispresence seemed to be marred in corresponding proportion. A roughpeasant's or a highwayman's disguise for a masquerade, would scarcely havechanged him more than he had been changed, without the least premeditation,by that little rencontre with Dick Compton, to which we have already beenunbidden witnesses. Absorbed as poor Eleanor Hill was in her own situation,she could scarcely suppress a scream when she saw the aspect of a man whoalways appeared before her so differently; and there was fright as well asconcern in her voice as she said:
"Why, Carlton Brand! Good heaven!--what _has_ happened to you?"
"Much, Eleanor!" answered the lawyer, dropping into a chair with everyindication of weariness, and wiping his heated brow with a handkerchiefwhich showed that it had been soiled in removing some of the grime from hisclothing.
"Your clothes are torn--your face is swollen! Have you beenattacked?--beaten? Are you seriously h
urt?" inquired the girl, coming closeto him and laying her hand on his shoulder with the affectionate anxietywhich a sister might have shown. These women have no bounds to thatsympathy which alternately makes them angels and lures them on the road tobe fiends; and there is probably no true woman, who had ever been wife,sweetheart or mother, but would forget at least one pang of her pain on therack, in sympathy for some wronged and suffering person who approached her!
"Oh, no!" and Carlton Brand tried to laugh and made a miserable failure ofthe attempt, with his bruised face and swollen mouth. "Do not be alarmed,Eleanor. I have simply been in a little encounter with one of my neighbors,and--I scarcely know what has happened--I believe my clothes are torn and Isuppose that I am disfigured a little."
"Disfigured a little! Good heaven, I should think you were!" said the girl,coming still closer and looking into his face. As she did so, the eyes ofthe lawyer, not too bloodshot for sight if they were for grace of aspect,detected the swollen condition of her face, the fearful redness of hereyes, and the various symptoms which told through what a storm of shame andsorrow she had lately been passing. He started to his feet at once,grasping her hand:
"Eleanor, _you_ are worse hurt than myself! Tell me what has happened! Hashe been torturing you again?"
"Oh, yes," answered the poor girl--"worse than torturing me! I could bearhis personal cruelty, for I have grown used to it. But he has just made melose my last hope in life, and I have nothing left me but to die!"
"Your last hope?" echoed Carlton Brand. "What? Has Mr. Bladesden--"
"Mr. Bladesden has just been here," answered Eleanor Hill, choking down thegrief and indignation that were so painfully combating each other in herthroat, dropping her head as she had done a few minutes before in thepresence of the merchant, and holding out in her hand the crushed letterwhich Bladesden had dropped as he left the house. "Mr. Bladesden has justbeen here, and he brought this letter to read to me. It had been sent tohis store, and he received it this morning. You can see, after reading it,what hope in life he has left me!"
"Curse him! He deserves eternal perdition, and will find it!"
Carlton Brand had momentarily forgotten his own troubles in the evidentanguish of the young girl, just as a few moments before she had merged allthose sorrows in anxiety for his personal safety. He took the letter shehanded, smoothed out the crumpled folds made in it by the grasp of angerand shame, and read the damning words that follow--words so black anddastardly that one of the fiends from the lower pit might come back toearth to clear away from his name the suspicion that he had ever pennedthem. A few sentences of this _bona fide_ communication are necessarilyomitted, in an interest easily understood:
WEST PHILADELPHIA, _June --, 1863._
MR. NATHAN BLADESDEN:
SIR:--You are a merchant of respectability, as well as a member of the Society of Friends--a society for which I have the highest respect, although I do not happen to have been born a member of it. I should very much regret to see you made the victim of a designing woman, and linked for life to one who would bring disgrace upon your name and family. Report says that you are engaged to be married, or that you very probably may be so at an early period, to Miss Eleanor Hill, the ward for some years of Dr. Philip Pomeroy, and who is still resident in the house of that medical gentleman. I suppose that you know very little of the early history of the young lady, as, if you had known, you would never have allowed yourself to be entangled in that manner. Her father left her a few thousands of dollars in property, which she no doubt has the reputation of still possessing, while I have very good reason to know that it has really all (or nearly all) been used up in unfortunate speculations by different persons to whom she intrusted it, and that she is little else than a beggar, except as the Doctor offers her a home. As to her personal character, which is the thing of greatest consequence at the present moment,--Miss Hill was a very giddy girl, and many of her friends had fears for her future; but none of them foresaw what would indeed be the issue of the unfortunate situation in which she was placed. I am writing this letter, as you must be aware, for no purposes of my own, and simply to serve an honorable man who seems to have been tricked and cajoled by unscrupulous people. As a consequence, I must ask of you as a right which you cannot disregard, that you will not show this letter to Dr. Pomeroy, who might know enough of the direction from which such a revelation would be likeliest to come, to awaken his suspicion and put him in the way of injuring me. This promised, I now go on to state what you will never cease to thank me for communicating to you, if you are the high-toned man of honor that I suppose. Dr. Pomeroy is well known to be a man of somewhat violent passions; and though I believe that his conduct has been nearly spotless during his professional career, yet there are stains against him for which he is probably the sorriest of men in his calmer moments. Miss Hill, as I have said, was giddy and thoughtless, if no worse; and very soon after the death of her father, those who happened to see her in company with her guardian, noticed that she paid him attentions which showed a very warm personal attachment, while he received them as a bachelor man of the world could not very well avoid receiving such marks of regard from a young and pretty girl. How long this went on, I am not at liberty to say, even if I have any means of knowing: it is enough that, to my knowledge and that of more than one person with whom you are acquainted, the natural result followed. If there was any seduction, I should be puzzled to say on which side the art was used; but perhaps when you remember that the lady has, during all your acquaintance with her, (at least I presume so, from your continuing to visit her,) passed herself off on you as pure enough to be worthy of the honor of your hand, you may be able to form some idea whether she might not have been quite as much in fault as her partner in crime. I say "partner in crime," as I have no wish or motive to shelter Dr. Pomeroy. Perhaps I ought not to say more, and indeed my pen hesitates when I attempt to set down what I consider so lamentable, as well as so culpable. But I must go on, after going thus far. The secret of Miss Hill's remaining at the house of Dr. Pomeroy after her attainment of majority, is that a guilty attachment and connection has existed between them for not less than five years past, unsuspected by most persons who know them, but well known to myself and some others, at least one of whom has been the accidental witness of their crime. If you should think proper to tax her with this depravity, and she should choose to deny this statement, by way of convincing yourself whether this is a foul calumny or a bitter truth, ask her * * * * * * * * I hope and believe that you will take the warning that I have thus conveyed, and not give yourself any trouble to discover the writer, who does not conceal his name from any other motives than those which you can understand and approve.
A TRUE FRIEND.