“I believe you, my Lord.”
“But for what my passions now dictate,” continued he, “I will not answer. They are confused—they are triumphant at present. I have never yet, however, been vanquished by them; and even upon this occasion, my reason shall combat them to the last—and my reason shall fail me, before I do wrong.”
He was going to leave the room—she followed him, and cried, “But, my Lord, how shall I see again the unhappy object of my treachery?”
“See her,” replied he, “as one to whom you meant no injury, and to whom you have done none.”
“But she would account it an injury.”
“We are not judges of what belongs to ourselves,” he replied—“I am transported at the tidings you have revealed, and yet, perhaps, I had better never have heard them.”
Miss Woodley was going to say something farther, but as if incapable of attending to her, he hastened out of the room.
CHAPTER VI.
Miss Woodley stood for some time to consider which way she was to go. The first person she met, would enquire why she had been weeping? and if Miss Milner was to ask the question, in what words could she tell, or in what manner deny the truth? To avoid her was her first caution, and she took the only method; she had a hackney-coach ordered, rode several miles out of town, and returned to dinner with so little remains of her swoln eyes, that complaining of the head-ache was a sufficient excuse for them.