688 A Story of the Heart. [JUNE, 



to see her and to speak to her. Was it reason or was it madness that 

 led him to act thus ? 



It was a fine and sunny afternoon, when he quitted his sick chamber, 

 in the wild and neglected attire of one who had, indeed, forgotten him- 

 self; and jumping: on the top of a passing stage, he quickly found himself 

 in the neighbourhood of the cottage where they now dwelt. This was his 

 last attempt, and he was resolved it should not be unsuccessful. Some 

 time he lingered, till, growing impatient, he sprung over a small fence at 

 the bottom of the garden, and made his way, stealthily, to an arbour that 

 was near. His hand touched the foliage round the entrance ere he per- 

 ceived, reclining on a seat, the figure of Emily herself. An involuntary 

 sigh escaped him, but her thoughts were elewhere, and it was unheard. 

 He gave one fatal glance, and, in another instant, rushing forward, he 

 clasped her in his arms. It was not a shriek, or a groan, but something 

 more terrible than either, that burst from her lips, the living sound of 

 anguish and of sorrow. In vain he called upon her in all the desperation 

 of agony, repentance, and affection ; in vain, with presumptuous lips, he 

 dared the purer touch of hers ; she lay insensible, or only recovered to give 

 back a blind look of horror, as he embraced her. Here then was the con- 

 summation of his villany the height of all his despair. At this moment 

 he heard a footstep. Scorn, contumely, and insult, were all he could 

 expect ; he felt himself a wretch who merited no more; and, with one last 

 embrace one last respectful pressure he fled he scarcely knew where, 

 and the morning had risen before he found himself at home. 



And now he would write to her, reveal all his heart, and rely upon her 

 generosity, and in the energy of desperation the epistle was penned. But 

 vain the designs of man ! On that very day he heard that she had ac- 

 quired a large fortune, by the death of a distant relation. Thus then 

 the barrier was placed for ever between them. To return was now denied 

 him. Fortune had been the aim of his life, and it now stood, for ever, 

 between him and all he valued from this to the grave. How, without the im- 

 putation of the meanest of motives, how dare he now return ? What had 

 once been generous, would nowbe base. No no the springof lifewas over, 

 the wilderness of the world gone through, and death lay alone open to him. 



The tide of feelings will have way, but with Delacour it now bore upon 

 its passage the freshness and the vigour of life. It might be truly said of 

 him, that, from this time, he was a broken-spirited man, one not to be 

 reconciled to himself, one who condemned himself beyond aught or all 

 iii the world beside. His happiness he had cast away, his wealth he had 

 rendered worthless to him, and the malicious have said (and the best 

 of us are not free from malice) that what his own folly and emotions might 

 have failed to effect, his dissipation his recklessness shall it be said the 

 profligacy of a wounded mind more easily contrived. Disease had now 

 laid hold upon him. His friends came round him, all attentions were paid 

 him, and he received a note from the last lady of his choice; she had 

 heard of his illness, she would receive him again. Delacour could just 

 afford a smile, and with hands chilled in the coldness of coming dissolu- 

 tion, he tore the paper and scattered it around. 



At length the hour and the moment drew nigh that was to give him free- 

 dom ; his thoughts had truly become a burden to him, and he was happy 

 to resign them. He had made peace with earth, and pleaded for peace 

 with heaven ; and now he could willingly go his way. " This is the last 



