rary, and had to talk and to smile, and to be told that I
looked a little pale and tired, and to be asked by Edward if I
knew where Henry was, and to deny all knowledge of it, and to
feel as if myself and all about me were acting a heartless
play, with fevered cheeks and breaking hearts.

CHAPTER XXI.

"There was a laughing devil in his sneer,
That raised emotions both of rage and fear;
And where his frown of hatred darkly fell,
Hope withering fled, and Mercy sighed farewell."

THE CORSAIR.

From this day forward Henry's manner and conduct lost that
degree of gentleness and consideration which had marked it
since the moment that I had thrown myself on his mercy at the
time of my hasty engagement to Edward. Whenever I was alone
with him, he spoke of his attachment as of a matter of course;
and with alternate bursts of anger and of tenderness, met
every attempt I made to check or resent this: sometimes with
bitter scorn he hinted that I had lost all right to do so, and
asked, with a sneer, if I supposed that he was to be treated
like any presumptuous admirer who happened to make love to me.
In a hundred trifles he contrived to make me feel his power.
He engaged me in a course of petty deceits and contrivances;
he humbled me in my own eyes, and practically pointed out to
me the degradation of my position, and the deterioration of my
character. He held me now, indeed, completely in his power;
for if I made the slightest attempt to struggle against his
tyranny, he threatened to abandon Alice, and to seek in
absence and change of scene, relief to the sufferings which
his hopeless passion caused him. He knew well that such a
project must drive me to despair, on her account as well as my
own; and one evening (about a fortnight after the conversation
I last recorded), when I had turned abruptly from him, and
refused to accede to his usual threatening offers of
reconciliation after a very violent scene, he wrote to me to
announce his determination of carrying this resolution into
effect. His letter was as follows:--

"Do not upbraid me--upbraid yourself for the step to which you
drive me. You must foresee what it is, and you probably
rejoice at the prospect which it holds out to you of escape
from an attachment which, though it has often stood between
you and danger and disgrace, you treat with contempt when not
forced to have recourse to it. My self-control is at an
end--my powers of endurance ar