knowledge its
existence--is dreadful enough; but do give me hopes, dear
Henry, that you will try to overcome it; that you will
endeavour to make Alice happy, and to find happiness yourself
in your home, that when we all meet again, we may be happy
together, and the miseries and agitations of this last
terrible year may seem to us as a dream."

He did not answer, but I fancied he was touched by this
appeal, and I went on: "I owe you much gratitude; I feel it, I
acknowledge it. Perhaps I was hard and ungracious yesterday,
when I ought to have been softened by your kindness; but how
can I feel towards you what I wish to feel, while you speak
and act in a way which you know you would despise me yourself
if I did not resent?"

He interrupted me by abruptly inquiring if we were indeed
going to Elmsley soon.

"Almost immediately, my uncle said this morning."

"For how long?"

"An indefinite time."

He knit his brows, and said, after a pause,--

"There is truth in what you said just now. We ought all to
live happily together, and I have not taken the right means of
promoting that end. I have been foolish, mad; I now see the
consequences of it all. Ellen, speak to me often as you did
just now; it soothes, it calms me. I see things in a different
way from what I did a moment ago. O, dearest, best beloved!
say to me sometimes, dear Henry, as you said it just now, and
I will try to be to you, and for you, all that you can wish
and desire. Open your heart to me without reserve, Ellen; if
new difficulties present themselves to you, perhaps I may be
able to serve you in cases where it might seem hopeless to
apply to me--where you might suspect me of not even wishing to
be of use to you. I cannot explain myself now, for you had
better go and call my sister. After what you said had passed
between you and Mr. Middleton yesterday, I feel that we must
not remain here alone together. You see," he said, with a
melancholy smile, "how reasonable I am grown. Go, dearest
Ellen, but remember what I have said to you. For your sake I
would make sacrifices, even," he added, in a low and tremulous
voice--"even if your happiness required it, the greatest of
all. Good-bye, dearest Ellen--God bless you!"

I left the room; and, was it strange that after this
conversation, I left town for Hampstead, carrying away with me
a better opinion of Henry than I had ever had before? Was it
strange, too, that a vague hope arose in my heart, from the