“I now come to the last and the worst part of my story. I would fain forget it all; but Emmeline, you shall know the very worst; shall be aware what a hot-headed fool you have to deal with, and then you must still love me if you can. I think I need hardly ask, if you remember a certain Saturday night at the opera. By accident, I happened to know, that you had, that night, given away your box; and, therefore, feeling secure you would not be there, had agreed to accompany Lady Florence; for, abominably as I had behaved, you must do me the justice to allow, I never so far insulted you as openly before you to be seen with your rival; how much certain selfish feelings and awkward uncomfortable sensations of shame influenced me, I will not pretend to say. Well, I joined Lady Florence. After I had been with her a few minutes, she carelessly told me, she believed she had seen you. I directly looked round to the box which she said she had observed you enter; but, not being able to distinguish you, I was satisfied that she must have been mistaken. Presuming on her former power, she then spoke of you. I could not bear to hear your name in her mouth; I felt it almost an insult to myself. She spoke too of you with a sort of ridicule and levity that disgusted me; she hinted at the attachment between you and Pelham, and seemed to enjoy the pain she saw she was inflicting. Although a smile was on her lips, yet her eyes flashed fire—the fire of jealousy and revenge. This, in the present state of my feelings, was not to be endured. I dared not speak; I knew too well also the violence of her temper; it was not the moment for a _scene_, and I said not a word; but still, there I remained, as if spell-bound. My mind was, however, busily at work, and I formed many resolutions for extricating myself, from my present miserable situation. You then rose to my imagination, gay, blooming, gentle, artless, as you were when I first took you to Arlingford; when I had sworn to love and protect you; and had then basely repulsed, and abandoned to your hard fate. My conscience smote me sorely. I felt how greatly I had injured you; that, young and inexperienced as you were, I had, by my cruelty and neglect, driven you into danger. I thought, perhaps, you still had not wandered so far, but that your affections might yet be recalled. On my honour, Emmeline, infatuated as I was, I had then no doubt of your innocence, your purity, your virtue. Nor could I even bring myself to suspect Pelham’s honour. That you loved each other, I did not doubt; but I respected you both too much to think I had been injured by you. I resolved, in short, that, on that very night, we should open our hearts to each other; that all should be explained between us. I determined to propose to you, Emmeline, to leave town with me—to leave England directly, and by mutual forgiveness, to make up for the past, and begin a new life of penitence—I hoped finally of happiness. Lost in these thoughts, I sat