"I do not--cannot comprehend you, my dear."

"No, papa, you cannot comprehend me; no one could possibly comprehend me who had not been placed in something like my own position. But--can you not imagine that when a victim has been stretched upon the rack and tortured by executioners, it is comfort enough simply to be taken off it? Or when a sinner has been in purgatory tormented by fiends, it is heaven enough only to be out of it? Oh, papa, that is not exaggeration! That is something like what I suffered at Castle Cragg; something like what I enjoy in being away from it. Think of it, papa," said Claudia, gulping down the hysterical sob that arose to her throat; "think of it! me, an honorable woman, the daughter of Christian parents, to find myself living in the house, sitting at the table in daily communication with creatures that no honest man or pure woman would ever willingly approach! Think of me being not only in the company, but in the power, and at the mercy of such wretches!"

"'Think,' Claudia! I have thought until my brain has nearly burst.

Oh, I shall--no matter what I shall do! I will threaten no longer, but, by all my hopes of salvation, I will act. The remorseless monster! the infamous villain! I do not know how you lived through it all, Claudia!"

"I do not know myself, papa. Oh, sir, I never fully realized my life at Castle Cragg until I got away from it and could look back on it from a distance. For the trouble then grew around me gradually; slowly astonishing me, if you can conceive of such a thing; benumbing my heart; stupefying my brain; deadening my sensibilities; else I could not have endured it so quietly. Ah, it would have ended in death, though--death of the body, perhaps death of the soul! But still I knew enough, felt enough, to experience and appreciate the infinite relief. of being delivered from it. Oh, papa, looking back upon that home of horror, that den of infamy, I understand in what hell consists--not in consuming fire, but in the company of devils!

Oh, sir, if you could once place yourself in my position and feel what it was for me to leave that polluted atmosphere of sensuality, treachery, and hatred, and to come into this pure air of refinement, truth, and love, you would understand how it is that I can feel no trouble now!"

"I do; but still I wonder to see you so well."

"Oh, sir, you know, severe as my tortures were, they were only superficial, only skin-deep; they did not reach the springs of my spirits. That is the reason why, in being relieved, I am so perfectly at ease."

"Then you never loved that scoundrel, Claudia?"

"No, father, I never loved him. Therefore, the memory of his villainy does not haunt me, as otherwise it might. Not loving him, I ought never to have married him. If I had not, I should have escaped all the suffering."

"Ah, Claudia, would to Heaven you never had married him," sighed the judge, without intending to cast the least reproach on his daughter.

She felt the reproach, however, and exclaimed, with passionate earnestness:

"Oh, father, do not blame me--do not! I could not help it! Oh, often I have examined my conscience on that score and asked myself if I could! And the answer has always come--no, with my nature, my passions, my pride, my ambition, I could not help doing as I have done!"

"Could not help marrying a man you could not love, Claudia?"

"No, papa, no! There were passions in my nature stronger than love.

These spurred me on to my fate. I was born with a great deal of pride, inherited from--no one knows how many ancestors. This should have been curbed, trained, directed into worthy channels. But it was not. I was left to develop naturally, with the aid only of intellectual education. I did develop, from a proud, frank, high- spirited girl into a vain, scheming, ambitious woman. I married for a title. And this is the end. How true is it that 'pride goeth before a fall and a haughty temper before destruction!'"

"Oh, Claudia, Claudia, every word you speak wounds me like a sword- thrust! It was my 'theory' that did it all, I said I would let my trees and my daughter grow up as nature intended them to do. And what is the result? Tanglewood has grown into an inextricable wilderness that nothing but a fire could clear, and my daughter's life has run to waste!" groaned the judge, covering his face with his hands.

"Papa, dear, dearest papa, do not grieve so! I did not mean to give you pain. I did not mean to breathe the slightest reflection upon so kind a father as you have always been to me. I meant only to explain myself a little. But I wish I had not spoken so. Forget what I have said, papa," said Claudia, tenderly caressing her father.

"Let it all pass, my dear child," said the judge, embracing her.

"And, papa, my life has not run to waste; do not think it. I told you that my troubles had not touched the springs of my soul; they have not. Is not my mind as strong and my heart as warm and my spirit as sweet as ever? Papa, this day I am a better woman for all the troubles I have passed through. I have never before been much comfort to you, my poor papa; but I will go with you to Tanglewood and make your home happier than it has ever been since mamma died.

And you will find that my life shall be redeemed from waste."

"Claudia, are you sure that you do not love that rascal--not even a little?"

"Papa, I do not even hate him; now judge if I ever could have loved him."

But the judge was no metaphysician, and he looked puzzled.

"Papa, if I ever had loved that man, do you not suppose that his unfaithfulness, neglect, and insults, to say nothing of his last foul wrong against me, would have turned all my love into hatred?

But I never loved him, therefore all that he could do would not provoke my hatred. Papa, he is as much below my hatred as my love."

"Oh, Claudia, Claudia, that you should be compelled to speak so of one whom you made your husband!"

"Papa, dear, you asked me a question and I have replied to it truthfully."

"My dear, I had a motive for putting that question. I wished to know whether a spark of love for that man survived in your heart to make his punishment a matter of painful interest to you. For to vindicate you, Claudia, it may become necessary to prosecute him with the utmost rigor of the law; necessary, in fact, to disgrace and ruin him," said the judge solemnly.

"Papa, dear, what are you talking about? Prosecute him to the utmost extent of the law? Disgrace and ruin him? Why, it appears to me that you do not know the circumstances, as of course you cannot. He has schemed so successfully, papa, that he has everything his own way.

All the evidence, the false but damning evidence, is in his favor and against me. It seems to me, reflecting coolly upon the circumstances, to be quite impossible that he should be punished or I should be vindicated--in this world at least."

"Claudia, I know more of these circumstances than you think I do. I know more of them than you do; and I repeat that, in order to vindicate your honor fully, it may be necessary to prosecute Malcolm, Lord Vincent, with the utmost rigor of the law; to bring him to the felon's dock; to send him to the hulks. Now, are you willing that this should be done?"

Claudia turned very pale and answered:

"Let the man have justice, papa, if it places him on the scaffold."

"There are two courses open to us, Claudia. The first is--simply to let him alone until he brings his suit for divorce, and then to meet him on that ground with such testimony as shall utterly defeat him and destroy his plea. In that case you will be vindicated from the charge that he has brought against you, but not from the reproach that, however undeserved, will attach to a woman who has been the defendant in a divorce trial, and he will go unpunished. The second course is to prosecute him at once in the criminal court for certain of his crimes that have come to my knowledge, and so put him out of the possibility of suing for a divorce. And in that case your honor would go unquestioned, and he would be condemned to a felon's fate-- penal servitude for years. Now, Claudia, I place the man's destiny in your hands. Shall we defend ourselves against him in a divorce court, or shall we prosecute him in a criminal court?"

"Papa," said Claudia, hesitating, and then speaking low, "what does Ishmael advise?"

"Ishmael? How did you know that he was with me, my dear?"

"I saw his name in the list of passengers, and I knew that he had come on with you as your private counselor."

"Yes, he did, at a vast sacrifice of his business; but then I never knew Worth to shrink from any self-sacrifice."

"What is his advice?" asked Claudia, in a low voice.

"He does more than advise; in this matter he dictates--I had almost said he commands; at least he insists that the divorce suit shall not be permitted to come on; that it shall be stopped by the arrest of Lord Vincent upon criminal charges that we shall be able to prove upon him. And that after the conviction of the viscount you shall bring suit for a divorce from him; for that it would not be well that your fate should remain linked to that of a felon."

"Then, papa, let it be as Mr. Worth says; and if the prosecution should place the viscount on the scaffold--let it place him there."

"It will not go so far as that, my dear--not in this century. If he had lived in the last century, and amused himself as he has done in this, he would have swung for it, that is certain."

"Papa, what is it that you have found out about him? Was he implicated in the death of poor Ailsie Dunbar? And, if so, how did you find it out? Tell me."

"My dearest, we have both much to tell each other. But I wish to hear your story first. Remember, Claudia, those alarming letters you sent me were very meager in their details. Tell me everything, my child; everything from the time you left me until the time you met me again."

"Papa, dear, it is a long, grievous, terrible story. I do not know how you will bear it. You are sensitive, excitable, impetuous. I scarcely dare to tell you. I fear to see how you will bear it. I dread its effects upon you."

"Claudia, my dearest, conceal nothing; tell me all; and I promise to restrain my emotions and listen to you calmly."

Upon this Claudia commenced the narrative of her sufferings from the moment of parting with her father at Boston to the moment of meeting with him at Cameron Court. The reader is already acquainted with the story, and does not need to hear Claudia's narration. Judge Merlin also knew much of it; as much as old Katie had been able to impart to him; but he wished to hear a more intelligent version of it from his daughter. It was, as she had said, a long, sorrowful, terrible story; such as it was not in the nature of woman to recite calmly.

Some parts of it were told with pale cheeks, faltering tones, and falling tears; other parts were told with fiery blushes, flashing eyes, and clenched hands.

At its conclusion Claudia said:

"There, papa, I have hidden nothing. I have told you everything. Now at last you will believe me when I tell you how perfectly relieved I feel only to be out of that purgatory--only to be away from those fiends! Now at last you will see how it is that I can say without ruth, 'Let Malcolm, Lord Vincent, have justice, though that justice consign him to penal servitude, or to the gallows!' But, papa, when I said I had no trouble left, I spoke in momentary forgetfulness of my poor servants; Heaven forgive me for it! Though, really, uncertainty about their fate is the only care I have."

"My dear," said the judge, who had comported himself with wonderful calmness through the trying hour of Claudia's narration; "my dear, cast that care to the winds. Your servants are safe and well and near at hand."

"'Safe and well, and near at hand!' Oh, papa, are you certain--quite certain?" exclaimed Claudia, in joy modified by doubt.

"Quite certain, my dearest, since I myself lodged them at Magruder's Hotel this morning," said the judge.