The String of Pearls (1850), p. 504

"I will. The principal object of the voyage failed entirely; but by pure accident I got possession of a String of Pearls, of very great value indeed, which, provided I could get home in safety, would value in Europe quite a sufficient sum to enable us to live in comfort. But the dangers of the deep assailed us. We were wrecked; and fully believing that I should not survive, I handed the pearls to a stronger comrade, and begged him to take them to her whom I had loved, to tell herself my fate, and to bid her not weep for me, since I had died happy in the thought that I had achieved something for her; and so, my friend and I parted. I was preserved and got on board a merchant vessel bound for England, where I arrived absolutely penniless. But I had a heart full of hope and joy; for if I could but find my poor girl faitful to me. I felt that me might yet be happy, whether my comrade had lived to bring to her the pearls or not."
"And you found her?"
"You shall her, sir. I walked from Southampton to London, subsisting on the road as best I could. Sometimes I met with kind treatment at farm-houses, and sometimes with quite the reverse, until at length I reached London tolerably exhausted, a3 you may suppose, and in anything but a good plight."
"Well, but you found your girl all right, I suppose?"
"No. I walked up the Strand; and as some of our happiest interviews had taken place in the Temple Gardens, I could not resist turning aside for a moment to look at the old familiar spot, when what do you think was the sight that met my eyes?"
"I really can't say."
"I will tell you, sir. I saw her whom I loved—the young and beautiful girl for whom I had gone through so much—he being upon whose faith and constancy I would at any time have staked my life—the, as I thought, most innocent, guileless creature upon the face of the earth—"
"Well, well, my good friend, what did you see this paragon of perfection about?"
"You will not believe it, sir."
"Oh, yes, I shall—do not be afraid of that—I shall believe it. Your narrative bears too much the stamp of truth about it for me to doubt it for a moment.
I pray you to go on."
"I will then. The first object that met my eyes in that Temple Garden was the being whom 1 loved so fondly leaning upon the arm of a man in a military undress—leaning, did I say, upon his arm? she was almost upon his breast, and he was actually supporting her with one of his arms round her waist."
"Well?"
"What, sir! Is that all you can say to it? Would you say 'Well?' if you saw the only creature you ever loved in such a situation, sir? Well, indeed!"
"My dear friend, do not get excited, now."
"Oh, sir, it would excite a stick or a stone."
"Excuse me, then, for having said 'Well,' and go on with your story. What did she say to excuse herself to you?"
"'Tis well, sir—of course, I cannot expect others to feel as I do upon such an occasion. I did not speak to her, sir. The sight of such perfidy was enough for me. From that moment she fell from the height I had raised her to in my imagination, and nothing she could say, and nothing I could say, would raise
her up again."
"And you, then, only walked away?"
"That is all. With such a pang at my heart at the moment as I wonder did not kill me, I walked away, and left her to her own conclusions."
"Then—then, my young friend, you did the very reverse of what I should have done, for you should have gone up to her, and politely taken leave of her, so as to let her know at all events that you were aware of her perfidy. I should not have been content to let her have the satisfaction of thinking I was at the bottom of the sea while she was enjoying a flirtation with her officer; but, of