rmation of my worst fears, that hateful sentence in old
Peter's note, warning me of treachery in the quarter where I was most
deeply interested, rose up before me like some messenger of evil,
torturing me to the verge of distraction with vague doubts and
suspicions--fiends which the bright spirits of Love and Faith were
powerless to banish. The old man's meaning was obvious; he imagined
Clara inconstant, and was anxious to warn me against some supposed
rival; this in itself was not agreeable; but I should have reckoned
at once that he must be labouring under ~390~~ some delusion, and
disregarded his suspicions as unworthy of a moment's notice, had it not
been for Clara's strange and unaccountable silence. I had written to her
above a week before--in fact, as soon as I became at all uneasy at not
having heard from her, urging her to relieve my anxiety, if but by half
a dozen lines. Up to this time I had accounted for not having received
any answer, by the supposition that Mr. Vernor had, by some accident,
detected our correspondence, and taken measures to interrupt it. But
this hypothesis was evidently untrue, or Peter Barnett would have
mentioned in his note such an easy solution of the difficulty. Yet, to
believe Clara false was treason against constancy. Oh! the thing was
impossible; to doubt her sincerity would be to lose my confidence in the
existence of goodness and truth on this side the grave! The recollection
of her simple, child-like confession of affection--the happiness my
love appeared to afford her--the tender glance of those honest, trustful
eyes--who could think of these things and suspect her for one moment?
But that old man's letter! What did it--what could it mean? His allusion
to some dark, hawk-eyed stranger--ha!--and as a strange, improbable idea
glanced like lightning through my brain--like lightning, too, searing
as it passed--I half sprung from the bed, unable to endure the agony
the thought had costume. Reason, however, telling me that the idea was
utterly fanciful and without foundation, restrained me from doing--I
scarcely know what--something desperately impracticable, which should
involve much violent bodily action, and result in attaining some certain
confirmation either of my hopes and fears, being my nearest approach
to any formed scheme. Oh! that night--that weary, endless night! Would
morning never, never come! About five o'clock I arose, lighted a candle,
dressed myself, and then, sittin