"Hush, hush; you don't know what you are saying or doing," I cried, as he walked about the room in the most vehement agitation. "Be calm, I implore you. We are going out of town now for a few days; soon after that, we return to Elmsley. We shall be separated for a long while, Henry. Why will you not strive to conquer this unhappy, this fatal fancy? That I should be forced to speak of it—to acknowledge its existence—is dreadful enough; but do give me hopes, dear Henry, that you will try to overcome it; that you will endeavour to make Alice happy, and to find happiness yourself in your home, that when we all meet again, we may be happy together, and the miseries and agitations of this last terrible year may seem to us as a dream."
He did not answer, but I fancied he was touched by this appeal, and I went on: "I owe you much gratitude; I feel it, I acknowledge it. Perhaps I was hard and ungracious yesterday, when I ought to have been softened by your kindness; but how can I feel towards you what I wish to feel, while you speak and act in a way which you know you would despise me yourself if I did not resent?"
He interrupted me by abruptly inquiring if we were indeed going to Elmsley soon.
"Almost immediately, my uncle said this morning."
"For how long?"
"An indefinite time."
He knit his brows, and said, after a pause,—
"There is truth in what you said just now. We ought all to live happily together, and I have not taken the right means of promoting that end. I have been foolish, mad; I now see the consequences of it all. Ellen, speak to me often as you did just now; it soothes, it calms me. I see things in a different way from what I did a moment ago. O, dearest, best beloved! say to me sometimes, dear Henry, as you said it just now, and I will try to be to you, and for you, all that you can wish and desire. Open your heart to me without reserve, Ellen; if new difficulties present themselves to you, perhaps I may be able to serve you in cases where it might seem hopeless to apply to me—where you might suspect me of not even wishing to be of use to you. I cannot explain myself now, for you had better go and call my sister. After what you said had passed between you and Mr. Middleton yesterday, I feel that we must not remain here alone together. You see," he said, with a melancholy smile, "how reasonable I am grown. Go, dearest Ellen, but remember what I have said to you. For your sake I would make sacrifices, even," he added, in a low and tremulous voice—"even if your happiness required it, the greatest of all. Good-bye, dearest Ellen—God bless you!"
I left the room; and, was it strange that after this conversation, I left town for Hampstead, carrying away with me a better opinion of Henry than I had ever had before? Was it strange, too, that a vague hope arose in my heart, from the few words he had said, that my fate, with regard to Edward; might not be hopelessly sealed, if at least the hateful vision of his dawning attachment to Rosa Moore did not realise itself? Whether it was strange or not, the fact was so; and, in such a state of mind, at about four o'clock, I drove out of London, and in a short time arrived at the gates of Mrs. Moore's villa.