TER L

On reading this I had no reason to disguise my joy and hope from
Frederick Lawrence, for I had none to be ashamed of. I felt no joy but
that his sister was at length released from her afflictive, overwhelming
toil--no hope but that she would in time recover from the effects of it,
and be suffered to rest in peace and quietness, at least, for the
remainder of her life. I experienced a painful commiseration for her
unhappy husband (though fully aware that he had brought every particle of
his sufferings upon himself, and but too well deserved them all), and a
profound sympathy for her own afflictions, and deep anxiety for the
consequences of those harassing cares, those dreadful vigils, that
incessant and deleterious confinement beside a living corpse--for I was
persuaded she had not hinted half the sufferings she had had to endure.

'You will go to her, Lawrence?' said I, as I put the letter into his
hand.

'Yes, immediately.'

'That's right! I'll leave you, then, to prepare for your departure.'

'I've done that already, while you were reading the letter, and before
you came; and the carriage is now coming round to the door.'

Inly approving his promptitude, I bade him good-morning, and withdrew.
He gave me a searching glance as we pressed each other's hands at
parting; but whatever he sought in my countenance, he saw there nothing
but the most becoming gravity--it might be mingled with a little
sternness in momentary resentment at what I suspected to be passing in
his mind.

Had I forgotten my own prospects, my ardent love, my pertinacious hopes?
It seemed like sacrilege to revert to them now, but I had not forgotten
them. It was, however, with a gloomy sense of the darkness of those
prospects, the fallacy of those hopes, and the vanity of that affection,
that I reflected on those things as I remounted my horse and slowly
journeyed homewards. Mrs. Huntingdon was free now; it was no longer a
crime to think of her--but did she ever think of me? Not now--of course
it was not to be expected--but would she when this shock was over? In
all the course of her correspondence with her brother (our mutual friend,
as she herself had called him) she had never mentioned me but once--and
that was from necessity. This alone afforded strong presumption that I
was already forgotten; yet this was not the worst: it might have been her
sense of duty that had kept her silent: she might be only trying to
forget; but in