h she had never ceased to write. Above all, he
could never forget the horror of indignation which had been awakened
within him by that last letter, and the fierce vows which he had made
to be avenged on her. All this was yet in his memory in spite of the
events of later days. True, she had relented from her former savage
spirit, and had changed from hate to love. She had traveled far to
save him from death. She had watched by him day and night till her
own life well-nigh gave way. She had repented, and had marked her
repentance by a devotion which could not be surpassed. For all this
he felt grateful. His gratitude, indeed, had been so profound and so
sincere that it had risen up between him and his just hate, and had
forced him to forgive her fully and freely, and to the uttermost, for
all that she had done of her own accord, and also for all of which
she had been the accidental cause. He had lost his repugnance to her.
He could now talk to her, he could even take her hand, and could have
transient emotions of tenderness toward her. But what then? What was
the value of these feelings? He had forgiven her, but he had not
forgotten the past. That was impossible. The memory of that past
still remained, and its results were still before him. He felt those
results every hour of his life. Above all, she still stood before him
as the one thing, and the only thing, which formed an obstacle
between him and his happiness. He might pity her, he might be
grateful to her; but the intense fervor of one passion, and the
longing desire to which it gave rise, made it impossible for her ever
to seem to him any thing else than the curse of his life.

At Florence he was left more to himself. He was no longer forced to
sit by her side. He gradually kept by himself; for, though he could
tolerate her, he could not seek her. Indeed, his own feelings
impelled him to avoid her. The image of that one who never left his
memory had such an effect on him that he preferred solitude and his
own thoughts. In this way he could best struggle with himself and
arrange his lonely and desolate future. India now appeared the one
hope that was left him. There he might find distraction from
troublesome thoughts in his old occupations, and among his old
associates. He had bidden farewell to Chetwynde forever. He had left
the fate of Chetwynde in the hands of his solicitors; he had signed
away all his rights; he had broken the entail; and had faced the
prospect