Under these painful circumstances, our remaining any longer at the Hall was both useless and irksome—­a source of misery to all.

My father ordered his horses the next morning, and I was carried back to London, more dead than alive.  A burning fever raged in my blood; and the moment I reached my father’s house, I was put to bed, and placed under the care of a physician, with nurses to watch me night and day.  For three weeks I was in a state of delirium; and when I regained my senses, it was only to renew the anguish which had caused my disorder, and I felt any sentiment except gratitude for my recovery.

My dear Clara had never quitted me during my confinement.  I had taken no medicine but from her hand.  I asked her to give me some account of what had happened.  She told me that Talbot was gone—­that my father had seen Mr Somerville, who had informed him that Emily had received a long letter from Eugenia, narrating every circumstance, exculpating me, and accusing herself.  Emily had wept over it, but still remained firm in her resolution never to see me more—­“And I am afraid, my dear brother,” said Clara, “that her resolution will not be very easily altered.  You know her character, and you should know something about our sex; but sailors, they say, go round the world without going into it.  This is the only shadow of an excuse I can form for you, much as I love and esteem you.  You have hurt Emily in the nicest point, that in which we are all the most susceptible of injury.  You have wounded her pride, which our sex rarely, if ever, forgive.  At the very moment she supposed you were devoted to her—­that you were wrapped up in the anticipation of calling her your own, and counting the minutes with impatience until the happy day arrived; with all this persuasion on her mind, she comes upon you, as the traveller out of the wood suddenly comes upon the poisonous snake in his path, and cannot avoid it.  She found you locked hand-in-hand with another, a fortnight before marriage, and with the fruits of unlawful love in your arms.  What woman could forgive this?  I would not, I assure you.  If Tal—–­, I mean if any man were to serve me so, I would tear him from my heart, even if the dissolution of the whole frame was to be the certain consequence.  I consider it a kindness to tell you, Frank, that you have no hope.  Much as you have and will suffer, she, poor girl, will suffer more; and, although she will never accept you, she will not let your place be supplied by another, but sink, broken-hearted, into her grave.  You, like all other men, will forget this; but what a warning ought it to be to you, that, sooner or later, guilt will be productive of misery!  This you have fully proved:  your licentious conduct with this woman has ruined her peace for ever, and Divine vengeance has dashed from your lips the cup which contained as much happiness as this world could afford:  nor has the penalty fallen on you alone—­the innocent, who had no share in the crime, are partakers in the punishment; we are all as miserable as yourself.  But God’s will be done,” continued she, as she kissed my aching forehead, and her tears fell on my face.