I ventured to ask "if Mr. Harris and his wife lived happily together?" The woman shook her head. "There was a strange mystery about them," said she, "which I never could rightly make out. She was ever gentle and obedient; but still there was something unlike a wife, I used to think, whenever she addressed him. And he, sir,--poor man! we should not speak ill of the dead,--but when he came home--from the gaming-house, we often thought--how he used to strike and beat her, telling her to go to her Mr. Saville! He was jealous of you, sir, I suppose, but I am certain without cause; for she was an angel, sir, if ever angel was born upon this earth.--But you are ill, sir. What is the matter?" "Nothing, nothing," said I, rising suddenly; "I am better now;" and pressing my purse upon the woman, I rushed from the house. God of justice! how dreadful is thy vengeance, and how thou oft-times makest the sinner work out his own punishment! I thought not of the wife at first,--I thought of Isabella Denham. My heart dwelt upon her once more as I had first beheld her at the theatre,--the young, the lovely, the innocent being of former days. I remembered when but to see her for a moment at the window was happiness unspeakable,--when even the pressure of her hand in mine was a blessing and a delight to me. And to think that this creature, who had lain in my bosom, who had been tended, watched, almost served, with a degree of love akin to idolatry,--who had never seen one glance of unkindness from me, who had heard no tone from my lips save of affection--too often of foolish weakness;--to think that this creature should have become the slave, the drudge,--the spurned and beaten drudge of a brutal miscreant,--the thought was too horrible! I had scarcely entered my own house when Mrs. Martin sought me. "For mercy's sake, sir!" she said in agitation, "come and take your last leave of my mistress. She is dying, and has prayed to see you once more." I followed her in silence. I met Herbert at the door of the room. "I am glad you are come," said he. He was in tears. "I am too weak, Herbert; am I not?" He pressed my hand,--"No, no,"--and he left me. I entered the room, and sat down by her side. She spoke not for some minutes. "I wished to see you once more, Mr. Saville," she said at length in a low tone, and without raising her eyes to my face, "to implore, not your pardon, for that I dare not expect; but that you will not curse my memory when I am gone. You would not, Edward,"--and she tremblingly touched my hand as it lay upon the bed,--"if you knew all, or if I could tell you all." I answered something, but I know not what. "I have been guilty," she resumed, "but I did not meditate guilt. Heaven is my witness that I speak the truth. I was betrayed;--and the rest was fear, and frenzy, and despair!" I could conceive that now--I could believe it:--I did believe it,--and I was human. I took both her hands in mine: "Look at me, Isabella! look in my face!"