The unnatural excitement that had borne our heroine up during the last part of her trial forsook her when she entered once more her dreary prison. She was again alone,—again a weak and timid woman. The momentary exaltation that a sense of injustice had given her when under the gaze of numbers, gave way to memories of the deep and unforgotten happiness she had connected with Seymore. All her sweet anticipations of soothing his spirit, of leading him to more rational views of God and of himself, faded away. In a few days, she would be no more, and remembered, perhaps, with pity or scorn. One last, lingering weakness remained: it was the fear of losing the respect and tenderness of Seymore.

Like all who love deeply, she had dated her existence from the time she became acquainted with Seymore: all before had become a blank in her memory; but now her early years rose up before her, like the reflected sunlight on distant hills. The thought of her father came back with melting tenderness. Ah, now was he avenged for the short forgetfulness with which she had ever reproached herself.

She threw herself on her knees, and prayed silently. She felt calmed and elevated, as if in immediate answer to her prayer. All selfish and agitating emotions passed away. A spirit of forgiveness, of endurance, of calm and patient trust, entered her soul. She felt that, with Seymore's convictions and sense of duty, he could not have acted otherwise; he could not but bear his testimony to what he thought truth; and almost a divine pity for his errors, and a purer love for his truth, filled her heart.

She was informed that Seymore was waiting to see her. This was a trial she had expected, and she was now prepared to meet him. He entered trembling, pale, and wholly unmanned. As he tried to speak, his voice failed, and he burst into tears.

It is fearful to see a strong man weep. Edith was not prepared for this excess of emotion. Those who have seen Retch's exquisite drawing of Cordelia when Lear awakes, and she asks "if he knows her," can imagine the tender pity of her expression as she went to him and placed her hand in his. A sweet smile was on her lips,—that smile that shows that woman can mingle an infinite tenderness with the forgiveness of every injury. He pressed her hand to his heart—his lips; and when he caught her eye,—"O, do not look so mildly at me," he said; "reproach me, scorn me, hate me: I can bear all rather than those meek eyes,—than that forgiving smile."

"Be calm, dear Seymore," she said; "with your convictions, you could not have done otherwise. You believe in the reality of these possessions. The evidence against me was more and stronger than has been sufficient to condemn many as innocent as I am. You can have no cause for self-reproach."

"Innocent! O, say not that you are innocent! God has many ways of trying his elect. You he has tried severely with temptations from the prince of evil. He chooses souls like yours. O, Edith, for my sake, for your own sake, acknowledge that you have been tempted. It only is required that you should say you have been deceived; then all will be well."

For a moment, Edith's face was crimsoned. "What! become a traitor to my own soul! lose forever the unsullied jewel of truth, and the peace of a pure conscience! and do you counsel this?"

"Many have confessed," he said, "many of undoubted truth, of ripe wisdom, who could not be deceived, and who would not confess to a lie."[4]

"But I should confess to a lie,—a base and wicked lie. I have no faith in these temptations. I believe God suffers us to be tempted by our own passions and unrestrained imaginations, but not by visible or invisible evil spirits. O, listen to me: go no further in this mad, this wicked delusion. Spare the innocent blood that will be shed. If I must die, let my death be the means of turning you and others from this dreadful sin."

"And can you bear to have your name sullied by this alliance with the wicked? Those who die as criminals are believed guilty of crimes; and can you consent to be remembered as the associate of evil spirits?"

"Falsehood can live but a few years," she answered; "there is an immortality in truth and virtue. I cannot blush to be confounded with the guilty; for it is my unwillingness to sully my conscience with a lie that leads me there."

Seymore was silent for a few moments. "Edith," he said at last, straining both her hands in his, "have you been able to think how cruel this death may be? Have you fortitude? Can you bear to think of it?" and he shuddered, and covered his face with his hands.

Edith for a moment turned pale. "I have ever shrunk," she said, "from physical pain. My own extreme timidity has never given me courage to bear the least of its evils. I believe, then, that it will be spared me: God will give me courage at the moment, or he will mercifully shorten the pain; for what is beyond our strength we are not called to bear."

"And can you part with life thus triumphantly?"

"Ah, my friend, there is no triumph in my soul. In its deepest sanctuary, I feel that God will pardon my sins, and accept my death as in obedience to my conscience. But, O! I have not sought it: life is still sweet to me."

"You shall not die,—you must not! you will not leave me! Edith, have you forgotten our moments of bliss,—our dreams of happiness to come,—the quiet home, the peaceful fireside, where we hoped to pass our lives together? Have you forgotten how long, how truly, how fervently, I have loved you? and is this to be the close of all?"

Edith's hand trembled in his, but she answered cheerfully: "The close! ah, no: look upward. God has tried us both with grievous trials. Mine will cease first. Yours is the hardest to bear: to linger here—to do God's work alone. Let me be to you like one departed a little while before you, that would not be mourned, but remembered always."

They were both silent for some moments; Seymore contending with unutterable regret, oppressed with an emotion that was almost the agony of remorse.

Edith understood his contending emotions. "Think," she said, "that you have been the instrument of Providence to lead me to heaven. I do not regret to die early: God has permitted me to solve the mystery of life. I see his hand even from the moment when that child was committed to my care. Thank God, I can now submit to his will; and, although life were sweet with you, my death may bring you nearer to heaven."

"Edith," he said at last, "I have been deceived. Such faith, such divine forgiveness, such noble fortitude, cannot be the work of evil spirits. Your faith is purer and stronger than mine,—your reason more enlightened. I have erred, dreadfully erred."

A bright smile illumined her face, and she pressed his hand in hers.

"I have done most dreadfully wrong," he said; "I sinned from ignorance."

"God will forgive you," said Edith; "and I,—I cannot forgive, for I could not blame."

He started up. "It is not too late to repair this dreadful evil: it will be easy for you to escape. If I cannot gain a reversion of the sentence, we can escape: we will leave this country of delusion and error; we will go home—to England. There, O Edith—"

The blood for a moment rushed to Edith's cheek and brow; but she answered, sadly, "No, Seymore, it cannot be; after all that has passed, it would ruin your character, your prospects, your usefulness, forever. We are too weak to stem, to oppose this mad delusion. Bigotry and power are all around us."

"You hesitate. Ah, you do not love me as you did;" and he became again violently agitated.

Edith took his hand in hers, and pressed it to her lips. "Tempt me not," she said, "with visions of happiness that can never be. Let us rather pray to God to support us in this bitter hour."

They bowed their young heads together, and their tears mingled. Edith's silent prayer was wholly for him. True to her woman's nature, she forgot herself in his deeper sorrow.

He was calm, and Edith would not prolong the interview; and Seymore left her all the more hastily as he was determined to employ every means to save her. He was not permitted to enjoy that happiness.