When I saw Edward again, his manner was gentle and affectionate; and I was myself so wearied with emotion, so exhausted with hopes and fears, that I had grown calm from mere fatigue. I was more determined than ever not to marry Edward, and this resolution gave me a kind of melancholy tranquillity, which allowed me to speak to him with more self-possession than before. I had also a vague idea that, by making this one great sacrifice, I should entitle myself to seek the consolations of religion, after which my soul yearned, especially since the terror which that day's service had struck into my heart; but still I shrunk from the one act which would have given me real peace; as I put into words the account I could give of Julia's death; I fancied I saw before me Edward's countenance, stern in condemnation; or over-coming with difficulty its expression of horror and dismay; or, worse still, incredulous, perhaps, and unable to believe that where there was not crime, there could have been such concealment; as I pictured to myself all this, and foresaw the nameless sufferings of such an hour, the cry of my soul still was, "Never, never, will I marry him! but _never_, also, will I own to him the secret which would make him turn from me with disgust and horror." We were to set out for London at an early hour the next morning, and before we parted for the night, Edward followed me to the music-room, where I was putting by some books to take with us for the journey. He stood by me in silence for some time, and then said, "Ellen, it is better, before we part, even for a short time, to understand each other. I have long been attached to you. I gave you up and went abroad, when I thought you were in love with Henry. I tried in vain to forget you. _Now_, Ellen, is there hope for me? Will you be to me, what you alone can be--the blessing that I would prize beyond all earthly blessings--will you be my wife?" I looked at him; he was pale, and his eyes were full of tears. As mine were raised to his, I knew, I felt that they spoke such unutterable, such passionate love, that when, with a voice hardly articulate, I said in the slow accents of despair, "No, I cannot be your wife;" it seemed to me that he must have read into my heart. He took my hand, and only said in a low voice, "Why?" "Because," I exclaimed, with a burst of tears, "because I am utterly unworthy of you."