oe ever gnawing at his own secret heart, even
amid his joys; if he had revealed to her, if anyone had betrayed to her
his distressing secret, could she have said more? Why, it was to shun
this, it was to spare himself this horrible catastrophe, that he had
involved himself in his agonising, his inextricable difficulties.
Inextricable they must be now; for where, now, was the inspiration that
before was to animate him to such great exploits? How could he struggle
any longer with his fate? How could he now carve out a destiny? All that
remained for him now was to die; and, in the madness of his sensations,
death seemed to him the most desirable consummation.

The temper of a lover is exquisitely sensitive. Mortified and miserable,
at any other time Ferdinand, in a fit of harassed love, might have
instantly quitted the presence of a mistress who had treated him with
such unexpected and such undeserved harshness. But the thought of the
morrow, the mournful conviction that this was the last opportunity for
their undisturbed communion, the recollection that, at all events, their
temporary separation was impending; all these considerations had checked
his first impulse. Besides, it must not be concealed that more than once
it occurred to him that it was utterly impossible to permit Henrietta
to meet her father in her present mood. With her determined spirit
and strong emotions, and her difficulty of concealing her feelings;
smarting, too, under the consciousness of having parted with Ferdinand
in anger, and of having treated him with injustice; and, therefore,
doubly anxious to bring affairs to a crisis, a scene in all probability
would instantly ensue; and Ferdinand recoiled at present from the
consequences of any explanations.

Unhappy Ferdinand! It seemed to him that he had never known misery
before. He wrung his hands in despair; his mind seemed to desert him.
Suddenly he stopped; he looked at Henrietta; her face was still pale,
her eyes fixed upon the decaying embers of the fire, her attitude
unchanged. Either she was unconscious of his presence, or she did not
choose to recognise it. What were her thoughts?

Still of her father? Perhaps she contrasted that fond and faithful
friend of her existence, to whom she owed such an incalculable debt of
gratitude, with the acquaintance of the hour, to whom, in a moment of
insanity, she had pledged the love that could alone repay it. Perhaps,
in the spirit of self-torment, she co