"But suppose I had said Yes, Paul; you know as well as I do the exact position which I should have occupied, and the effect which my occupancy of that position would have had on your future life. It was not--I do not say this with any intention of wounding you--it was not until you clearly found you could get me on no other terms that you made me this offer; and though probably you will not allow it even to yourself, you must know as well as I do, that after a while you would find yourself tied to a wife who was unsuited to you in many ways, and by marrying whom you had alienated your family from you, and disgraced yourself in the opinion of that world which you now profess to despise, but of whose verdict you really stand in the greatest awe.
"And then, Paul, it would be one of two things: either you would hold to me with a dogged defiance, which is not part of your real nature, but which, under the circumstances, you would cultivate, feeling yourself to be a martyr, and taking care to let me know that you felt it--you will deny all this, Paul, but I know you better than yourself; or you would feel me to be a clog upon you, and leave me for the society in which you could forget that, for the mere indulgence of a passing passion, you had laid upon yourself a burden for life.
"What but misery could come out of either of these two results? Under both of them we should hate each other; for I confess I should not be grateful to you for the enforced companionship which the former presupposes; and under the latter I should not merely hate you, but in all probability should do something which would bring dishonour on your name. You see, I speak frankly, Paul; but I do so for the best. If you had been equally frank with me, I could have told you long since, at the commencement of our acquaintance, of something which would have prevented our ever being more to each other than the merest acquaintances. You told me your name was Paul Douglas; you disguised from me that it was Paul Derinzy. Had I known that, I would have then let you into a secret; I would have told you that I too had in a similar manner been deceiving you by passing under the name of Fanny Stafford, whereas my real name is Fanny Stothard.
"Does not that revelation show you what is to come, Paul? Do you not already comprehend that I am the daughter of a woman who holds a menial position in your father's house, and that this fact would render wider yet the chasm which yawns between our respective classes in society? You do not imagine that your mother would care to recognise in her son's wife the daughter of her servant, or that I should particularly like to become a member of a family in which my cousin's waiting-woman is my own mother.
"I ascertained this fact in sufficient time to have made it, if I had so chosen, the ground for putting an end to our intimacy, and my reason for writing this letter; but I preferred not to do so, Paul. I have put the matter plainly, straightforwardly, and frankly; and I will not condescend to ride off on a quibble, or to pretend that I have been influenced by your want of confidence in withholding your name. You will see--not now, perhaps, but in a very little time--that I have acted for the best, and will be thankful to me for the course which I have taken.
"And recollect, Paul, the breach between us must be final--it must be a clean cut; and you must not think, even after it has been made, that there are any frayed and jagged points left which are capable, at some time or another, of being reunited. We have seen each other for the last time; we have parted for ever. There must be no question of any interview or adieu; we are neither of us of such angelic tempers that we could expect to meet without reproaches and high words; and I, at all events, should be glad in the future to recall the last loving look in your eyes, and the last earnest pressure of your hand.
"And that mention of the future reminds me, this letter is the last communication you will receive from me; and when you have finished reading it, you must look upon me as someone dead and passed away. If by chance you ever meet me in the street, you must look upon me as the ghost of someone whom you once knew, and forbear to speak to me. It will not be very difficult to imagine this; for, God knows, I shall be no more like the Fanny Stafford whom you have known than the Fanny Derinzy you would have made me. No matter what I am, no matter what I may become, you will have ceased to have any pretext for inquiring into my state; and I distinctly forbid your attempting to interfere with me in the slightest degree. Does that sound harsh, Paul? I do not mean it so; I swear I do not mean it so. If you knew--but you do not, and never shall. You are hot and impetuous and weak; I am cool and clear-brained and strong-minded: you look only at the present; I think for the future. You will repeat all this bitterly, saying that I am right, and that my conduct plainly shows I know exactly how to describe myself; I know you will, I can almost hear you say it. I half wish I could hear you say anything, so that I could listen to your dear voice once again; but that could never be.
"Goodbye, Paul! At some future time, not very long hence, when all this has blown over, and you are in love with, and perhaps married to, someone else, you will acknowledge I was right, and think sometimes not unkindly of me. But I shall never think of you again. Once more, goodbye, Paul! I should like to say, God bless you! if I thought such a prayer from me would be of any use."
Paul Derinzy read this letter through twice, and folded it up and placed it in his pocket. Ten minutes afterwards the writing-room bell rang violently, and the servant, on answering was surprised to find an old gentleman kneeling on the floor, and bending over the prostrate body of Mr. Derinzy, whose face was very white, whose neck-cloth was untied, and who the old gentleman said was in a fit.