Alone with the dying Teresa. “Take comfort,” said the good chaplain, regarding her with tenderness and compassion. “Ease your breast by a full confession, and then, if your repentance is sincere, doubt not Heaven's goodness and mercy. Our blessed Saviour will not desert you.”

On this, Teresa knelt down before him, and, though he strove to raise her, she would not quit the humble posture.

“Prepare yourself for a dreadful relation, reverend sir,” she said, clasping her hands. “I had the best and kindest of husbands, who studied my every wish, and strove in every way to make me happy. I persuaded him I was happy; but I deceived him. The yoke I had put on was unsupportable.

“An evil spirit seemed to have taken possession of my breast. I strove to dismiss the wicked thoughts that assailed me; but they came back again and again, and with greater force than before.

“I had not a fault to find with my husband—he was kindness itself. Yet I sought to get rid of him by poison. It was long before I could make up my mind to the dreadful act; but I was ever brooding upon it.

“At last I obtained the poison, minute doses of which would kill without exciting suspicion. But not till my husband was attacked by some slight illness did I administer the first dose.

“He grew worse. But it seemed only a natural increase of the malady, and the symptoms excited no suspicion whatever in his medical attendant, the progress of the poison being so slow and insidious. Moreover, I was constantly with my victim, and acted as his nurse.”

The good chaplain covered his face with his hands, and a short pause ensued, which was broken by Teresa.

“And now comes the astounding part of my narration,” she said. “I can scarcely credit my own hardness of heart. As I saw this kind and excellent man, who loved me so dearly, gradually wasting away—literally dying by inches—I felt no compunction—none! I counted the days he could live.”

Here there was another pause, and the guilty woman had to summon up resolution before she could proceed.

“To free myself from my marriage fetters was only part of my scheme,” she said. “My greedy spirit would not be content without my husband's property, and this I felt certain I could secure. He doted upon me. I had obtained his entire confidence. I knew his inmost thoughts. He had quarrelled with his son. I aggravated the dispute, and took care to prevent a reconciliation, which could have been easily effected had I so desired it.

“My ascendancy over my infirm husband was now so great that he acted upon all my suggestions; and by hints cunningly thrown out, I easily induced him to make a will in my favour, persuading him I would carry out his wishes in regard to his son and daughter.”

“Did no suspicion cross him?” inquired the chaplain.

“Not till the last night of his life,” she replied. “But I think it did then. If he suspected me, he never taxed me with my guilt.”

At this moment a sudden change came over her, and she gazed strangely into the vacancy.

“What troubles you?” inquired the chaplain.

“I thought I saw my husband standing there!” she replied, with a shudder.

“'Tis fancy. Proceed with your confession. You have more to tell?”

“I have,” she replied, with a fearful look. “The dark tragedy was over. Intoxicated by the power and wealth I had acquired, I contrived to stifle remorse. I kept Mildred constantly with me. Her presence seemed to shield me, and I sought to make some amends by befriending Chetwynd.

“But vengeance was pursuing me, though with slow feet. My punishment was accomplished in an unforeseen manner. Hitherto my heart had never known love, and I thought myself proof against the tender passion. But it was not so. I met Lord Courland at the house of Lady Thicknesse in London, and he at once won my affections and offered me his hand.

“Loving him, and thinking to bind him to me, I promised him half the large property I fancied at my disposal. All was arranged, and my destined husband had come down here to see his future abode, when almost at the last moment I discovered that if I married again the whole of the property would go to Mildred.

“This discovery roused all the evil passions in my heart, and I determined to remove her in the same manner I had removed her father.

“Provided with the means of executing my fell purpose, I did not delay it. You were present, reverend sir, when I dropped poison, unperceived, into her wine, and you may remember how soon it took effect?”

“I remember she was suddenly seized with illness after drinking a glass of champagne,” he replied, with a look of horror; “but I little thought the wine had been drugged—nor did any one.”

“She recovered,” pursued the guilty woman; “and all might have been well if I could have resisted the dreadful temptation to which I was subjected. But I yielded.

“Again I contrived to give her poison, and another seizure followed. Doctor Spencer was sent for. The symptoms could not be mistaken; the terrible crime was discovered, and quickly traced to me. The poison being found in my possession, my guilt was established.”

“It may comfort you to learn that Mildred will recover,” observed Mr. Massey. “The medicines given her by Doctor Spencer have produced a wonderful effect. At first I had little hope. But now I have every confidence that her life will be spared.”

“'Tis well,” she replied. “But my doom is sealed. Doctor Spencer took away the phial containing the poison; but I had enough left for myself.”

“And you have done this desperate deed?” he asked.

“I could not live,” she replied. “I should go mad. But that Mildred will live is the greatest possible consolation to me. If I could see her, and obtain her forgiveness, I think I could die in peace. But I have not strength to go to her.”

“She is here,” said the chaplain.

The dying woman raised her eyes, and beheld Mildred standing before her, wrapped in a loose robe, and supported by Emmeline and Rose Hartley.

Behind them was Chetwynd, who closed the door after him as he came in.

Mildred's countenance was exceedingly pale; but her eyes were bright, and her looks seemed almost angelic to the despairing Teresa, who crept humbly towards her.

“I do not deserve pardon,” said the penitent woman. “Yet for the sake of Him who died for us, and washed out our sins with His blood, I implore you to forgive me!”

“I do forgive you,” rejoined Mildred. “I have come hither for that purpose. May Heaven have mercy upon you!”

“Since your repentance is sincere, daughter,” said the chaplain, “may your sins be blotted out, and the guilt of your many offences be remitted.”

“Amen!” exclaimed Chetwynd.

“Then farewell!” said Teresa, in a faint voice. “Farewell, Emmeline! farewell, Chetwynd! Think not of me with abhorrence; but, if you can, with pity!”

Without a word more, she sank backwards, and expired.

Chetwynd caught her before she fell, and placed her on a couch.

All those who had witnessed her death had departed, except Mr. Massey, who was still in the room when Lord Courland entered.

On beholding the body, he uttered a frenzied cry, and rushed towards it.

“I would have given five years of my own life to exchange a few words with her ere she breathed her last!” he exclaimed, in a voice of bitterest anguish and self-reproach.

“You loved her, then, deeply, my lord?” said Chetwynd.

“She was the only woman I ever loved,” replied Lord Courland. “Farewell, Teresa!”

Bending down and kissing her brow, he quitted the room with Chetwynd.