CHAPTER II.
Do I entice you? do I speak you fair?Or rather, do I not in plainest truthTell you—I do not, nor I cannot love you?Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Do I entice you? do I speak you fair?Or rather, do I not in plainest truthTell you—I do not, nor I cannot love you?Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Do I entice you? do I speak you fair?Or rather, do I not in plainest truthTell you—I do not, nor I cannot love you?Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Do I entice you? do I speak you fair?Or rather, do I not in plainest truthTell you—I do not, nor I cannot love you?
Do I entice you? do I speak you fair?
Or rather, do I not in plainest truth
Tell you—I do not, nor I cannot love you?
Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Lord Arlingfordhad, early in life, entangled himself in pecuniary difficulties by every species of thoughtless extravagance, in which an expensive, fashionable wife had assisted him. Her fortune and health both soon declined, and a consumption rapidly carried her to the grave while still in the prime of life,and when her only child, Ernest, was but ten years old. That which extravagance began, indolence soon completed; and long before his son came of age, Lord Arlingford found himself, in the language of the world, to be totally ruined.
Mr. Benson had been always much employed and consulted by Lord Arlingford’s family in all matters relating to business; and to him, in the present desperate situation of his affairs, his lordship was obliged to have recourse for advice and assistance. Mr. Benson had toiled all his life as a merchant, and was now one of the most opulent bankers in London. He had an only child; and to her he meant to bequeath all his wealth, provided she made a marriage to his choice; by which, he meant one inthat rank of life, which, with all his useful good sense, he had the folly to imagine essential to human happiness.
Being every way an excellent man of business, Mr. Benson was appointed to be one of the trustees, into whose hands it was now deemed necessary to consign Lord Arlingford’s estate; in order, if possible, to retrieve his affairs, and protect the interests of his son.
One day, when talking over his difficulties with his client, and when Emmeline was but seven years old, Mr. Benson first proposed, in the form of a joke, as a means by which all might be set to rights, that their children should be united in marriage. He finished his speech by a loud laugh; but it was one of mere agitation, for he anxiously lookedinto Lord Arlingford’s face to see how such a proposal agreed with the ancient, aristocratic pride of the Fitzhenrys.
Lord Arlingford for a minute made no reply; he kept his eyes fixed on the parchment he held in his hands. The table before him was covered with deeds, bonds, mortgages, and every awful sign of the irretrievable state of his affairs; and, strange as it may appear, he caught immediately at the idea, as to that which alone could save him from utter ruin. His answer, when at last it came, transported the ambitious banker with joy; and by degrees, and by constantly treating of the subject, the two fathers seemed to think it was a matter they had but to settle between themselves, and that there could be no difficulty whatever in a schemewhich was to give to both, what they both wanted. Mr. Benson’s promises were most liberal, and Lord Arlingford subdued all the hereditary pride of his feelings, and seemed quite content to lay himself and his family under obligations to a man on whom he in return conferred so much honour.
As a first step towards bringing about this favourite scheme, Ernest, when at home for his holidays, was constantly sent to Mr. Benson’s, where he was of course indulged in his every boyish fancy, and every species of amusement imagined for him in which little Emmeline could take a part.
On her birthday every year, a ball was given by Mrs. Benson, which was opened by her and young Lord Fitzhenry,while the two fathers looked on in admiration, and declared that they were born for each other.
At twenty, Fitzhenry left Oxford; he was then to remain abroad for three years; and, at his return, it was settled that the marriage should take place; although as yet, nothing had been said on the subject to either of those most concerned in the plan.
Before his departure, however, Lord Arlingford thought it proper to open the business to his son, and also to lay before him the embarrassed state of his affairs.
Such disclosures make little impression on young minds, to whom, as yet unacquainted either with its value or want, money is but a vague sort of blessing; and Lord Arlingford was forced to overcharge the picture to give it dueinfluence on his son. He talked much of his own distresses, his sacrifices for the sake of his dear Ernest, and, when he had worked on his filial affections, mentioned merely as a passing thought the long projected plan of his union with Miss Benson. Ernest, starting, coloured, and stammered out some undecided words. But finding nopositive objectionmade, Lord Arlingford pushed on the affair—praised Emmeline—(then only thirteen years old,) extorted from Ernest first, that he thought her a fine girl, and at last a sort of agreement that he would think of the proposal, and, on his return from abroad, marry her, and make his father happy.
Mr. Benson was informed of the favourable progress of their scheme, whichhe furthered by every means in his power; and Emmeline was soon taught to look upon Ernest as her future husband. On his taking leave of them before his departure for the Continent, he kissed her smooth young cheek, addressing her by the name of his little wife. But neither the kiss nor the appellation brought even an additional tinge of colour into that cheek; although she might childishly have grieved at the loss of her almost only companion.
During the first months of his absence, Lord Fitzhenry wrote two or three times to Emmeline, once when sending her a watch from Geneva, and again with a chain from Venice; but he soon found more interesting occupations than composing letters for the capacity of a mere child: the boy had grown into a man,and if he did not actually forget the engagement into which his father had drawn him, he allowed it but little to occupy his thoughts.
Lord Fitzhenry first visited Italy; at Naples, he formed an intimacy with the English minister then residing there; and, on the removal of that minister to Vienna, Ernest followed him.
The three years allotted for his residence abroad, had already nearly elapsed; but, having acquired a taste for the habits of the Continent, Ernest begged for longer leave of absence; and by his letters, no less than by the accounts of all those who met with him, his foreign life seemed so much to have improved his mind and manners, that Lord Arlingford, whose purely worldly character saw little beyond such acquirements, agreed to hisprolonging his stay; and he was the more willing to acquiesce in his son’s wishes, as Emmeline, scarcely yet sixteen, was still in appearance and manners so much of a child, that any contemplation of her immediate marriage would have been premature.
Lord Fitzhenry, at twenty-three, with excellent and even superior abilities, naturally noble feelings, strong sentiments of honour, and a warmly affectionate heart, wanted only those serious principles of conduct, which his father had neither bestowed on, nor ever required from him. Had Lord Arlingford been asked whether or no he was an atheist, he would have resented the question as an affront; but, nevertheless, religion had never occupied his own thoughts,and had never in any distinct form entered into the education of his son. The companion he selected for him during his residence on the Continent, was a young man of considerable abilities, who had been destined for the law; but who, having been early led abroad, and having a decided turn for a wandering life, was too happy to return to scenes in which he delighted, and to give up Lincoln’s Inn, and studies, for which he had no relish, for the existence he preferred, in present, and the future chance of Lord Arlingford’s patronage.
Such a companion, gay and thoughtless as himself, was not likely to supply the neglected part of Lord Fitzhenry’s education; and thus, although gifted by nature with a mind and heart formedfor virtue, in its highest acceptation, Fitzhenry was turned adrift on the world without any help or defence against its snares, except those common rules of worldly honour by which men, who may infringe nearly every law, human and divine, fancy themselves to be guided.
At Vienna, Lord Fitzhenry became acquainted with Lady Florence Mostyn, and that chance acquaintance influenced his whole future life and conduct.
Lady Florence, who had early in life been married to a man whom she had never loved, and whose understanding and character she could not respect, had every allurement, every charm to captivate, except that of innocence. Such a deficiency one might have hoped would have preserved a refined mind like thatof Fitzhenry’s from her chains; but, under the influence of passion, artfully excited, and the example of the society in which he lived, he fell completely into the snare purposely laid for him, and became the slave of an artful, bewitching, and violent woman.
In the intoxication of her society, every thing was forgotten or disregarded. In vain were his father’s repeated injunctions, that he should return home; in vain his self-reproaches at losing, in idleness, some of the best years of his life. And it was only when alarming accounts of Lord Arlingford’s health roused his better feelings, that he was induced to tear himself away from Greece, whither Lady Florence and her passive, accommodating husband had accompaniedhim; and, in the middle of winter, to set off for England with the hope and promise that they would join him there early in spring.
Six years had now elapsed since Lord Fitzhenry had left home. His person, character, manners—all had changed. His “Little Wife” was nearly forgotten; and when she did chance to cross his mind, he looked upon his engagement with her as a mere joke of childhood, and trusted his father would do the same.
From Italy, where he found the accounts of Lord Arlingford were still very alarming, he travelled day and night to make up for past negligence, and found his parent on his arrival, but slowly recovering from a very dangerous illness.
Real feeling and affection broke forthfrom Fitzhenry’s selfish, worldly father, on again beholding his son; and beholding him, as in truth he was, a son to be proud of.
Lord Arlingford’s illness, by weakening his nerves, had given to his manners an appearance of sentiment unusual to him; and Ernest almost wondered how he could have been such a monster as so long to have deserted him. A constant visitor in his father’s sick room, he found Mr. Benson. With a feeling not unmixed with remorse he warmly thanked him for having supplied his place, and inquired after Mrs. and Miss Benson, as after old friends of his boyhood.
“Well, quite well,” said Mr. Benson; “but Emmeline is so grown, that you will hardly know her again: however sheis not altered in any way, I assure you; she has not forgotten her old playfellow;” and he looked cunningly into Fitzhenry’s face, to observe the effect of this flattering assurance. “You have been a sad rambler, Lord Fitzhenry,” he continued; “but now you are returned to old England, we shall, I hope, all live comfortably together; and I am sure you will be quite delighted with Emmy, although perhaps she is not just like your foreign madams; but none the worse for that I suspect—they don’t make such good wives; and now that you have, as I may say, sown your wild oats,” he added with a laugh, “you will not be sorry to sit down at home and enjoy a little home-bred, quiet English comfort.”
Fitzhenry saw but too plainly the driftof all this, and he was totally at a loss for an answer. His eyes, fearful of meeting those of Mr. Benson, wandered round the room, till they fell on a view of Naples which hung over the chimney. The sight was not favourable to the picture ofEnglish happinesswhich Mr. Benson had just been presenting to him. Hours of rapture produced by the first intoxication of passion, beneath an Italian sky, and amid scenes calculated to enhance every feeling of romantic enjoyment, rose up before him in an instant, and formed such a contrast to the homely, domestic comfort just held out to him, that his very soul sickened at the thought; and, making some awkward sort of vague answer to Mr. Benson’svery pointedremark, he abruptly left him.
Ernest had expected to have found his father irritated against him, in consequence of his long absence and his frequent excuses for not obeying his summons to return home. He also feared that the real cause of his protracted stay might have reached England, and he dreaded how much of his story, since they had parted, might have been made known to Lord Arlingford. But the manner of his father was so perfectly kind and cordial, that it reassured Ernest as to his secret being as yet safe, and at the same time filled his affectionate heart with gratitude and self reproach.
Some days after his arrival, when talking on various subjects connected with the place, estate, &c., Lord Arlingford suddenly said, “Mr. Benson, assoon as I am a little better, and fit for visitors, you must write in my name, and invite Mrs. Benson and Emmeline to come here. Ernest must be impatient to see his little wife. Eh, my boy?”
Ernest did not parry this second attack any better than the first—he started, and stammered out something about “pleasure, honour.” But his father did not, or would not, see his reluctance to touch on the subject; he returned again and again to the charge, said his happiness, his life even, depended upon the marriage; and by the nervous irritation which illness had produced, and which opposition to his will increased, Ernest feared he spoke truly.
Harassed and perplexed, Ernest at last took courage, and resolved to confess tohis father the attachment he had formed abroad—his unalterable, violent, decided devotion to another. Lord Arlingford seemed breathless with anger and anxiety, and imperatively desired him to inform him who was the object of it.
Lord Fitzhenry cleared his voice, rose from his chair, paced the room, and twice, in vain, tried to speak; but at last making an effort, “she is a married woman,” he said, “Lady Florence Mostyn.” The name was scarcely audible.
“And is thatall?” replied his father, much relieved. “Don’t think you are telling us any thing new; we have heard of your pranks abroad, my boy; but you will not make the worse husband forhaving passed through the fire. And as for yourunalterableattachment, that is all nonsense. So I thought, at your age, withmyfirst love; for I had two or threeaffairsof the sort before I was married; and, indeed, never quite forgot one of my favourites.”
“But surely, Sir, with such feelings——!”
“Feeling! stuff again,” replied Lord Arlingford. “Why really, Ernest, you have learnt little of the world in your travels; I am sure any one of your young friends would laugh to hear you give such a reason for refusing a most excellent, and, I must add, advantageous marriage.”
Although without principles, Ernest was shocked at his father’s levity; hewas in all the heroic romance of passion; to love more than one, to plight his faith to another, did not strike him as morally, religiously wrong, but as sacrilege to the one adored being. All he could obtain, however, was delay, and that his father would allow him some little time for reflection.
Thus passed some months. Lord Fitzhenry occasionally met the Benson family; but Emmeline he hardly looked at, hardly noticed; although, when in her society, his manner towards her was perfectly civil; but it was the civility of indifference; his thoughts were fixed on another, and had he been asked the colour of Emmeline’s hair or eyes, he probably could not have answered.
Spring arrived, and with it Lady Florence.This event did not further Lord Arlingford’s plan. Fitzhenry was more and more decided in his objections, and in his determination not to fulfil what his father called his engagement.
Many violent altercations passed between them, and, at last, in one of these agitating scenes, Lord Arlingford was seized with an apoplectic fit, and (as Ernest thought) fell dead at his feet. Horror-stricken, he raised him from the ground; medical assistance was procured, and life and hope returned after some days of dreadful apprehension and suspense; but the impression left on his mind was too strong to allow of further resistance; and, in an unguarded moment, Fitzhenry, attacked on every side, gave his reluctant consent to thehated union. His father allowed him no time to retract. His proposals were immediately made; though not without a secret hope, on Fitzhenry’s part, of their being rejected, which, owing to the marked neglect with which he had ever treated her whose hand he claimed, seemed not unlikely. But, contrary to his expectations, his offer was accepted.
Emmeline, as has before been stated, was remarkably young and innocent for her age; she had been brought up in the idea that Lord Fitzhenry was to be her husband; and, although without any very decided preference for him, and with a heart perfectly free, she had looked to her marriage as to a thing of course, and as to an event that was to secure her happiness.
His indifference, however, had not escaped her observation; and, her cheek reddening with offended pride, she mentioned it to her father, when, breathless with delight, he came to announce to her that Lord Fitzhenry claimed her as his bride.
Mr. Benson ridiculed what he called her conceit, her romance; exaggerated into compliments many a simplycivilthing which Fitzhenry had, or possibly hadnot, said of her; set forth all the advantages of the marriage; used every argument which he knew her affectionate deference to him would give weight to; even hinted at his word being pledged, till he succeeded at last in silencing her doubts and scruples. The good and pious Mrs. Benson too was not quite free from worldly vanities; she told herself,and she told Emmeline, that so good a son must make a good husband; that it would be such a comfort to see her settled in life with one whom she had known since a boy, and of whom she knew so much good.
At last, with something between a smile and a sigh, Emmeline gave her consent, and all was thus finally arranged:
Seven thousand a-year was firmly settled on Lord Fitzhenry, and the residue of Mr. Benson’s immense property promised at his death. He added likewise afew thousandsof ready money for plate, jewels, equipages, &c.; “in order,” as he said, “to set the young people a-going.”
Every one was satisfied but poor Ernest. To his feelings, all this was hateful; and he was doubly shockedwhen he found, during the legal details into which he had now to enter, that Arlingford Hall, the abode of his childhood, although it had been long in the family, yet from not being entailed like the rest of the property, had only been saved by Mr. Benson’s liberality; and, that in the involved perplexity of his father’s affairs and the urgency of his creditors, all the expenses of his late election had been defrayed from the same source.
Sick at heart, as soon as he could extricate himself from lawyers and papers, Ernest signified his intention of leaving town, in order, as he let it be understood, to superintend the repairs at Arlingford, but, in fact, to fly to Lady Florence, who was still in the country.
It was their first meeting since his marriage had been declared; and with an unprincipled, impassioned woman, he had to undergo scenes still more agonizing than those with his father.
Fitzhenry’s love for Lady Florence was far beyond her power of appreciating—unable to do justice to his character, she could not trust to such devotion as he expressed, and as he really felt. He believed that for his sake she had sacrificed both honour and virtue, and his whole life, his every affection, he conceived would hardly repay the debt.
Ernest’s heart was capable of love of the purest, noblest kind; and, even towards so unworthy an object, it partook more of the nature of his own character than of her’s who had inspiredit. During the period employed in preparations for his nuptials, instead of attending on his bride, Fitzhenry never left Lady Florence. Her power seemed strengthened by the very circumstances that should have lessened it; he accompanied her to town; and, even the morning of his marriage, on her entreating to see him, if but for a moment, he had flown to her bewitching presence.
A most violent scene ensued; it ended by a solemn vow on his part to remain true to her, his first, his only love, in thought, word, and deed. That Emmeline should merely be the mistress of his house; that, in public, he should behave to her with perfect attention and civility, but nothing more.
Hardly knowing what he did, and nottill long after the hour appointed for the celebration of his nuptials, he left Lady Florence for Mr. Benson’s house. Hence his flushed cheek, and his agitated manner, the too true indications of his troubled soul.
Fitzhenry had no distinct religious feelings; but still, when he heard the sacred vow he was to pronounce, (and of which he had never thought,) with his lips still vibrating with that he had pledged to Lady Florence; no wonder those lips quivered. Although no dread of the anger of his God appalled his mind, yet, as a man of honour, he felt the atrocity of the act. Of Emmeline, of the poor victim, who stood trembling beside him, he hardly thought. He looked upon her as a mere obedientchild without a character; perhaps, even worse, an ambitious, worldly being; and all his thoughts, all his compassion, were bestowed on Lady Florence and himself.
Fitzhenry wanted neither decision nor character. During their melancholy journey to Arlingford Hall, he had sufficiently surmounted his agitation to have decided on his conduct. He resolved to tell all to Emmeline, to let her fully enjoy the honours, the worldly advantages of the situation he thought she had in her union with him sought; to assure her he would ever endeavour to make her happy, but that she must never hope for his affections.
Often, after an awful pause, he resolved to speak, but each time his couragefailed him; and finding all explanation by word of mouth impossible, he then resolved on writing to her. It was to compose this letter, therefore, that, after dinner, he left his bride, as has before been said.
Such a letter was not easily written; and Emmeline had some time to ruminate on her situation, before he returned. At last he came. He seemed in the feverish state of one who has taken a desperate resolution: he hurried up to Emmeline; asked her if she was not fatigued? if he should ring for candles? and then, without waiting for an answer, rung the bell violently till it broke. His hand shook so much, that he tried in vain to tie the string together again. Emmeline smiling said, she supposed she wasmore used to strings and knots, and begged to assist him. As she took the cord, her hand accidentally touched his—it was icy cold.
Reynolds, the old servant, brought in the candles, and asked, if his lordship, “if my lady,” would not have any supper? any wine and water? “Yes, some wine directly,” said Fitzhenry, as if hardly conscious of his demand.
When it came, he endeavoured to pour out some for Emmeline; but twice, from the nervous shaking of his hand, he was forced to put down the bottle.
Emmeline was really alarmed. “Surely,” again, she said timidly, “you are very unwell.” He did not seem to heed her, but drank off a large goblet of wine, and then, with a steadier voice andmanner said—”I have something on my mind which I must make known to you—perhaps I should have done it sooner—I thought it best for both of us to write it,” and he held out his letter—”Take it with you into your own room,” he added, seeing she was going to break the seal. He took up a candle, gave it her, went with her to the door, put his hand on the lock, and said—”When you have read this, forgive me if you can;” then hastily seizing her hand, which he almost convulsively grasped, he left her.
What poor Emmeline’s feelings were, can be better imagined than described.
In one short moment, a thousand vague fears and horrors passed through her mind. It washerturn now to tremble,as, with the dreaded letter in her hand, she hurried to her own room. She there found her maid, whose presence disconcerted her much; but she resolved to take off her gown speedily, and then dismiss her. Never before, she thought, had her attendant been so slow and tedious. She entangled or pulled every string into a knot. At last, her gown off—that beautiful lace gown in which her poor mother had that morning, with so much pride, arrayed her—all her bridal finery laid aside, she told her maid she wanted nothing more.
“Nothing more, my lady!” said the maid astonished; “shall I not put up your ladyship’s hair? Shall I not wait to take away your candle? Mrs. Bensondesired me to”——and she stopped short.
“No, I want nothing,” again said Emmeline, in a voice she could hardly command. The woman stared, busied herself still some time in the room, and, at length, reluctantly departed.
When she was gone, Emmeline sat for several minutes with the letter in her hand, before she had courage to open it. At length, taking a violent resolution, she broke the seal, and read as follows:—
“When you have read this, you will, I fear, be tempted to upbraid and curse the writer; but I act according to my conscience, to my sense of honour, in imparting to you what I am going to unfold—atleast, you shall notnowaccuse me of deceiving you—I think, I trust, I never have done so; for little as you have, I believe, lived in the world, still, unless purposely, artfully concealed from you, you must have been aware, that my affections have long since been disposed of, and that, at my return from abroad, they were no longer mine to bestow.“Under such circumstances, I never should have renewed the offer of myhand; but parental authority, and the distressing and perplexing situation in which I found myself placed, extracted from me my consent to our marriage. But even in so doing, I did not attempt todeceive. You cannot accuse me of having, in any way, endeavoured to gainyour affections. You saw me as I was, indifferent to you, and you were at liberty to refuse me: but you were content to become my wife on these terms—that is to say, of bearing my name, and sharing the poor advantages which rank affords.“These you stillmay, stillshallenjoy: but nothing more can I offer you; for every feeling of my soul is another’s—forgive me for saying so; but this is no moment for disguise of any sort. To that other, I am bound by every tie, every vow of affection and honour. You will be shocked at hearing such sentiments fromme—from yourhusband; but I should consider myself to be indeed the unprincipled villain you may deem me, if, with such feelings, I could, for a minute, look upon you in anyother light than that of a sister. I know full well what love is; and you do not, cannot love me. Therefore I feel not your injuries to be what they otherwise would. You shall enjoy all the worldly advantages you have sought in your marriage with me—all the happiness which wealth—your own wealth—can bestow; and it shall be my endeavour, as far as I can, to make your life happy. You shall be completely mistress in your own house, and of all your actions. Your comfort shall ever be consulted; and I think can venture to say for myself, that you may depend on my kindness, and even on my friendship; but my affections as alover, as ahusband, while the same heart beats in my breast, can never be yours.“If I may venture, claiming no other right of a husband, to make a request, it is that this subject may never, in any way, directly or indirectly, after this fatal day, be mentioned between us. With regard to your own parents, and to my father, your own good sense and delicacy will, I dare say, dictate to you what conduct to pursue. But if you cannot agree to these, I confess humiliating terms—if you desire an immediate separation, you have but to name your wishes. I will tell all to the world, bear all the blame, and agree to any arrangement which you and your father may choose to dictate.“Whatever you have to say, write immediately, and put your letter into the adjoining room. In a short time all willbe at rest in the house. I will then myself go for it. If possible, every thing must be fully settled and understood between us before we meet to-morrow morning.“Fitzhenry.”
“When you have read this, you will, I fear, be tempted to upbraid and curse the writer; but I act according to my conscience, to my sense of honour, in imparting to you what I am going to unfold—atleast, you shall notnowaccuse me of deceiving you—I think, I trust, I never have done so; for little as you have, I believe, lived in the world, still, unless purposely, artfully concealed from you, you must have been aware, that my affections have long since been disposed of, and that, at my return from abroad, they were no longer mine to bestow.
“Under such circumstances, I never should have renewed the offer of myhand; but parental authority, and the distressing and perplexing situation in which I found myself placed, extracted from me my consent to our marriage. But even in so doing, I did not attempt todeceive. You cannot accuse me of having, in any way, endeavoured to gainyour affections. You saw me as I was, indifferent to you, and you were at liberty to refuse me: but you were content to become my wife on these terms—that is to say, of bearing my name, and sharing the poor advantages which rank affords.
“These you stillmay, stillshallenjoy: but nothing more can I offer you; for every feeling of my soul is another’s—forgive me for saying so; but this is no moment for disguise of any sort. To that other, I am bound by every tie, every vow of affection and honour. You will be shocked at hearing such sentiments fromme—from yourhusband; but I should consider myself to be indeed the unprincipled villain you may deem me, if, with such feelings, I could, for a minute, look upon you in anyother light than that of a sister. I know full well what love is; and you do not, cannot love me. Therefore I feel not your injuries to be what they otherwise would. You shall enjoy all the worldly advantages you have sought in your marriage with me—all the happiness which wealth—your own wealth—can bestow; and it shall be my endeavour, as far as I can, to make your life happy. You shall be completely mistress in your own house, and of all your actions. Your comfort shall ever be consulted; and I think can venture to say for myself, that you may depend on my kindness, and even on my friendship; but my affections as alover, as ahusband, while the same heart beats in my breast, can never be yours.
“If I may venture, claiming no other right of a husband, to make a request, it is that this subject may never, in any way, directly or indirectly, after this fatal day, be mentioned between us. With regard to your own parents, and to my father, your own good sense and delicacy will, I dare say, dictate to you what conduct to pursue. But if you cannot agree to these, I confess humiliating terms—if you desire an immediate separation, you have but to name your wishes. I will tell all to the world, bear all the blame, and agree to any arrangement which you and your father may choose to dictate.
“Whatever you have to say, write immediately, and put your letter into the adjoining room. In a short time all willbe at rest in the house. I will then myself go for it. If possible, every thing must be fully settled and understood between us before we meet to-morrow morning.
“Fitzhenry.”