ashionable
resorts, its different objects of interest famed in history and romance,
and, after an extended tour, returned again to our native land, taking
up a stylish residence in a fashionable quarter of the city, that had
been my former home. My means seemed inexhaustible, but, somewhat to my
astonishment, I found, after marriage, that Geoffrey Westbourne's sole
dependence was upon expectations, which were extremely liable to remain
forever unfulfilled. I knew now that he had married me for my fortune,
for he had told me so with his own lips. He had a double motive in this,
for aside from a feeling of relief in throwing aside the mask of
devotion, was a petty spite on account of my former indifference to him.
I do not think he ever loved me, nor was he capable, in my opinion, of a
pure, unselfish affection for any human being. All he cared for was the
gratification of self. I mourned bitterly, in secret, over this ruin of
my hopes. I had no one to sympathize with me now. Aunt Emily was no
more, and she had been my one true friend, for her affection, if
misguided, was at least sincere.

"I thought often in those days, of the love of my girlhood, for I knew
now that it had been sinful in me to turn from the path that had opened
before me into perfect trust and peace, and walk blindly over withered
hopes to a loveless future. Time had shown me that I esteemed Wainwright
Angier more highly in those days than the man who was now my husband.
But I never spoke of him, and I dared not ask his fate, for I knew my
husband hated his memory. But one sad day, when, with Geoffrey, I walked
down the long winding avenues of the cemetery, and read among these
stranger's graves the name I sought, I think reason must have for a time
deserted me. I had only one memory, and the words 'my last prayer will
be for your happiness,' rang again and again in my ear. I knelt down at
the grave and poured out my grief in all the eloquence of despair,
regardless of him who looked coldly on. I was wild with mournful agony.
After that day I never knew one hour of happiness. My husband turned
from me to strangers. He had never cared for me, and now I was hated and
shunned. His one desire became to relieve himself of my unwholesome
presence.

"In the first year of our marriage, I had, on learning of his
impoverished condition, placed my entire property at his disposal. It
had been a free gift, for I wanted him to see that I trusted him
implicitly. I