y without doubling the weight of those sufferings you so
feelingly deplore. I have nothing left me but the solace of a good
conscience and a hopeful trust in heaven, and you labour continually to
rob me of these. If you persist, I must regard you as my deadliest foe.'

'But hear me a moment--'

'No, sir! You said you would give your life to serve me; I only ask your
silence on one particular point. I have spoken plainly; and what I say I
mean. If you torment me in this way any more, I must conclude that your
protestations are entirely false, and that you hate me in your heart as
fervently as you profess to love me!'

He bit his lip, and bent his eyes upon the ground in silence for a while.

'Then I must leave you,' said he at length, looking steadily upon me, as
if with the last hope of detecting some token of irrepressible anguish or
dismay awakened by those solemn words. 'I must leave you. I cannot live
here, and be for ever silent on the all-absorbing subject of my thoughts
and wishes.'

'Formerly, I believe, you spent but little of your time at home,' I
answered; 'it will do you no harm to absent yourself again, for a
while--if that be really necessary.'

'If that be really possible,' he muttered; 'and can you bid me go so
coolly? Do you really wish it?'

'Most certainly I do. If you cannot see me without tormenting me as you
have lately done, I would gladly say farewell and never see you more.'

He made no answer, but, bending from his horse, held out his hand towards
me. I looked up at his face, and saw therein such a look of genuine
agony of soul, that, whether bitter disappointment, or wounded pride, or
lingering love, or burning wrath were uppermost, I could not hesitate to
put my hand in his as frankly as if I bade a friend farewell. He grasped
it very hard, and immediately put spurs to his horse and galloped away.
Very soon after, I learned that he was gone to Paris, where he still is;
and the longer he stays there the better for me.

I thank God for this deliverance!

CHAPTER XXXVIII

December 20th, 1826.--The fifth anniversary of my wedding-day, and, I
trust, the last I shall spend under this roof. My resolution is formed,
my plan concocted, and already partly put in execution. My conscience
does not blame me, but while the purpose ripens let me beguile a few of
these long winter evenings in stating the case for my own satisfaction: a
dreary amusement enough, but having the