In the morning I fell into a short and uneasy slumber in which, twenty times over, I was confessing my history to Edward, or standing by him at the altar, or else being dragged from his side by Henry, or by my uncle. The visions of sleep and the thoughts of the night were strangely mixed up in my mind when I woke; tired and jaded with all I had gone through, I went downstairs on the morning of the 28th of February, which was the eve of the day of our departure for London.

In the breakfast-room I found Edward, who asked me with some surprise, how I came to be so late, and if I did not mean to go to church?

'To-day,—why to church to-day?' I inquired.

'It is Ash Wednesday,' he replied, 'the most solemn fast-day in the year.'

'Oh, in that case I will go at once and do without breakfast-no great self-denial, for I am not in the least hungry.' I put on my bonnet and shawl, and we set off on foot together, Mr. and Mrs. Middleton having previously gone on in the carriage. I was very feverish, and, from want of sleep and absence of food together, I felt in an unnaturally excited state. Whenever Edward spoke to me I gave a start, and when I spoke myself it was with a sort of nervous irritation which I could not command; at last he seemed displeased, and when he stood still to give me his hand in crossing the stile at the entrance of the churchyard, I saw in his face that stern expression which I had begun to know and to dread. We went into church; the service was already begun; it is, as it should be on such a day, a solemn and an awful service. The Epistle for the day, that mournful and merciful appeal to the conscience, the Penitential Psalms, which seem to embody the very cry of a bruised and overwhelmed heart,-everything,-struck the same chord, spoke the same language; to my excited

imagination, every word that was uttered seemed as if it was addressed to me alone of all that assembled congregation. Every moment my head was getting more confused, and my soul grew faint within me. And then, when I was

not in the least expecting it,—for I had never before paid any attention to the service for Ash Wednesday,—all at once there rose a voice which said, in what sounded to my overwrought nerves an unnaturally loud tone:

‘Brethren, in the Primitive Church there was a godly discipline that, at the beginning of Lent, such persons as stood convicted of notorious sin were put to open penance, and punished in this world, that their souls might be saved in the Day of the Lord; and that others, admonished by their example, might be the more afraid to offend.'

I believe that at that moment I fell on my knees, but nothing remains very distinctly in my recollection, except that soon the solemn curse of God was pronounced on unrepenting sinners, and as each awful denunciation was slowly uttered, there rose from the aisles, from the galleries, from each nook and each corner of the house of prayer, the loud cry of self-condemning acknowledgment.

Again, again, and again it sounded, and died away. Once more it rose and fell; and then the voice from the pulpit proclaimed, 'Cursed is he that smiteth his neighbour secretly;' and that time I did not hear the voice of the multitude respond. I heard a low deep amen uttered at my side; and that amen was to me as a sentence of eternal condemnation. I fainted, and when I recovered my senses I was in the vestry with my aunt and the doctor of the village. Soon I was able to walk to the carriage, and to drive home with Mrs. Middleton.

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 overcoming 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.'

He let go my hand, and seemed to be struggling with himself. At last he said: 'Ellen, if you mean that you feel now that you cared more for Henry Lovell than at one time you fancied,—if there is still some affection for him in your heart,—it is no doubt a painful trial for me to hear it; but

if

you tell me so frankly and at once, I shall not cease to respect you nor to love you.' (His voice trembled as he said these last words.) 'I shall leave you for a time; you must soon, you will soon, conquer these feelings, and then— perhaps only tell me the truth, Ellen-the only thing that could destroy my love would be, if you ever had, if you ever could, deceive me.'

'You cannot love me; it is vain to talk of love to me!' I exclaimed. 'I have told you so; I cannot be your wife; why do you ask me anything else? Leave me! for God's sake leave me! I am miserable enough as it is.'

'Ellen! Ellen! with such feelings as these, how could you speak to me of Henry and of his marriage as you did?'

'Henry! I am not thinking of Henry; I am not talking of Henry; I do not care for him; I do not love him, I never did; I should not be so wretched perhaps if I had.'

Edward remained silent for a moment, and then said, with a deep sigh:

'Would to God, Ellen, that there was truth in you! It is equally difficult to believe and to disbelieve you.' 'Think not of me; leave me, Edward, leave me. you

told

I have

the truth. I do not care for Henry; I solemnly

protest to you that I do not; but I cannot be your wifethat is the truth, too.'

'Then why these tears?' said Edward, sternly. 'Why all this acting? Why cannot you tell me calmly and at once that you care not for me, instead of deluding me into the belief that you do, at the very moment when you refuse me.'

Suffocated with grief, I hid my face in my hands while he spoke, and said to myself, ‘Acting he calls it! Oh God! he calls me an actress! He says there is no truth in me! How then would he listen to my tale of guilt and of sorrow? How then could he read truth in my broken accents? How could he discern the workings of a proud and wounded spirit ?'

I raised my head slowly-Edward was gone; I rushed to the door to call him back, but was met by the servant who was come to answer the drawing-room bell. My uncle and aunt came into the room at the same time, and I retired to mine to pass another night betwixt hours of waking misery and moments of broken and feverish sleep.

At six o'clock in the morning I was woke out of one of these last by the sound of carriage-wheels. Jumping out of bed I went to the window, and, unclosing the shutter, I saw Edward's carriage rolling away along the avenue, and ours being packed in the court below. I felt glad that we were going too; glad that we were going to London; glad that there was something to think of—to talk of—to do. Glad! what a misuse of words. God knows there was no gladness in my heart that morning, but it was something to be able to forget myself occasionally in the bustle and excitement around me. Mr. and Mrs. Middleton were not aware that anything had passed between Edward and myself. They mentioned him several times in the course of the day, and spoke of seeing him in London in three weeks' time.

At seven that evening we arrived in London, where I had