Eugenia, in her letters, reproached herself for having written to me; and concluded that I had drawn so largely upon her, merely to prove her sincerity.  She assured me that her caution to me was not dictated by selfishness, but from a consideration for the child.

Clara’s letter informed me that every attempt, even to servility, had been made, in order to induce Emily to alter her determination, but without success; and that a coolness had, in consequence, taken place, and almost an entire interruption of the intimacy between the families.  She also added, “I am afraid that your friend is even worse than yourself; for I understand that he is engaged to another woman, and has been so for years.  Now, as I must consider that the great tie of your intimacy is his supposed partiality to me, and as I conceive you are under a false impression with respect to his sincerity, I think it my duty to make you acquainted with all I know.  It is impossible that you can esteem the man who has trifled with the feelings of your sister; and I sincerely hope that the next letter from you will inform me of your having separated.”

How little did poor Clara think, when she wrote this letter, of the consequences likely to arise from it; that in thus venting her complaints, she was exploding a mine which was to produce results ten times more fatal than any thing which had yet befallen us?

I was at this period in a misanthropic state of mind, hating myself and every one about me.  The company of Talbot had long been endured, not enjoyed; and I would gladly have availed myself of any plausible excuse for a separation.  True, he was my friend, had proved himself so; but I was in no humour to acknowledge favours.  Discarded by her I loved, I discarded every one else.  Talbot was a log and a chain, and I thought I could not get rid of him too soon.  This letter, therefore, gave me a fair opportunity of venting my spleen; but instead of a cool dismissal, as Clara requested, I determined to dismiss him or myself to another world.

Having finished reading my letter, I laid it down, and made no observation.  Talbot, with his usual kind and benevolent countenance, inquired if I had any news?  “Yes,” I replied, “I have discovered that you are a villain!”

“That is news, indeed,” said he; “and strange that the brother of Clara should have been the messenger to convey it; but this is language, Frank, which not even your unhappy state of mind can excuse.  Retract your words.”

“I repeat them,” said I.  “You have trifled with my sister, and are a villain.” (Had this been true, it was no more than I had done myself; but my victims had no brothers to avenge their wrongs.)

“The name of Clara,” replied Talbot, “calms me; believe me, Frank, you are mistaken.  I love her, and have always had the most honourable intentions towards her.”

“Yes,” said I, with a sarcastic sneer, “at the time that you have been engaged to another woman for years.  To one or the other you must acknowledge yourself a scoundrel:  I do not, therefore, withdraw my appellation, but repeat it; and as you seem so very patient under injuries, I inform you that you must either meet me on the sands this evening, or consent to be stigmatised with another name still more revolting to the feelings of an Englishman.”