And as he bared it, distractedly, that noble chest was seen indeed disfigured with many a gash--on which a wife might well have rested her head with gratitude not less devout because of a lofty pride mingling with life-deep affection. But the burst of passion was gone by--and, covering his face with his hands, he wept like a child.
"Oh! cruel--cruel was her conduct to me; yet what has mine been to her--for so many years! I could not tear her image from my memory--not an hour has it ceased to haunt me; since I came among these mountains, her ghost is for ever at my side. I have striven to drive it away with curses, but still there is the phantom. Sometimes--beautiful as on our marriage-day--all in purest white--adorned with flowers--it wreathes its arms around my neck--and offers its mouth to my kisses--and then all at once is changed into a leering wretch, retaining a likeness of my bride--then into a corpse. And perhaps she is dead--dead of cold and hunger: she whom I cherished in all luxury--whose delicate frame seemed to bring round itself all the purest air and sweetest sunshine--she may have expired in the very mire--and her body been huddled into some hole called a pauper's grave. And I have suffered all this to happen to her! Or have I suffered her to become one of the miserable multitude who support hated and hateful life by prostitution? Black was her crime; yet hardly did she deserve to be one of that howling crew--she whose voice was once so sweet, her eyes so pure, and her soul so innocent--for up to the hour I parted with her weeping, no evil thought had ever been hers;--then why, ye eternal Heavens! why fell she from that sphere where she shone like a star? Let that mystery that shrouds my mind in darkness be lightened--let me see into its heart--and know but the meaning of her guilt--and then may I be able to forgive it; but for five years, day and night, it has troubled and confounded me--and from blind and baffled wrath with an iniquity that remains like a pitch-black night through which I cannot grope my way, no refuge can I find--and nothing is left me but to tear my hair out by handfuls--as, like a madman, I have done--to curse her by name in the solitary glooms, and to call down upon her the curse of God. O wicked--most wicked! Yet He who judges the hearts of His creatures knows that I have a thousand and a thousand times forgiven her, but that a chasm lay between us, from which, the moment that I came to its brink, a voice drove me back--I know not whether of a good or evil spirit--and bade me leave her to her fate. But she must be dead--and needs not now my tears. O friend! judge me not too sternly--from this my confession; for all my wild words have imperfectly expressed to you but parts of my miserable being--and if I could lay it all before you, you would pity me perhaps as much as condemn--for my worst passions only have now found utterance--all my better feelings will not return nor abide for words--even I myself have forgotten them; but your pitying face seems to say, that they will be remembered at the Throne of Mercy. I forgive her." And with these words he fell down on his knees, and prayed too for pardon to his own sins. The old man encouraged him not to despair--it needed but a motion of his hand to bring the child from her couch in the cover, and Lucy was folded to her father's heart. The forgiveness was felt to be holy in that embrace.