“Why,” he thought, “why am I thus continually the sport of a cruel destiny?  Are the sins of my parents indeed visited upon me?  Is every one that I love, or that loves me, to be involved in one common ruin?”

And then he wished for death, with a longing, intense, sinful desire, which placed him upon the very verge of self-destruction.  He went to Frederic’s bureau, and took out his pistols, and loaded them, then placed himself opposite to the glass, and deliberately took aim at his head.  But his hand trembled, and the ghastly expression of his face startled him—­so wan, so wild, so desperate.  It looked not of earth, still less like a future denizen of heaven.

“No, not to-night,” he said.  “He the stern father may relent, or fill up the full measure of his iniquities.  The morrow; God knoweth what it may bring for me.  If all should fail me, then this shall be my friend.  Yes, even in his presence will I fling at his feet the loathed life he gave!”

He threw himself upon the sofa, but not to sleep.  Hour after hour passed onward towards eternity.  One, two, three, spoke out the loud voice of Time, and it sounded in the ears of the watcher like his knell.

And she, the fair child—­she who had, at sixteen, outlived the fear of death.  Had he won her young spirit back to earth, to mar its purity with the stains of human passion?  There was not a feeling in his heart at that moment so sad as this.  How deeply he regretted that he ever had been admitted to that peaceful home.

But was she not a Wildegrave, and was not misery hers by right of inheritance?  And then he thought of his mother—­thought of his own desolate childhood—­of his poor uncle—­of his selfish but still dear cousin Godfrey, and overcome by these sad reflections, as the glad sun broke over the hills, bringing life and joy to the earth, he sunk into a deep, dreamless sleep, from which he did not awaken until the broad shadows of evening were deepening into night.

When old Ruth dusted out the parlor, she was surprised to find him asleep upon the sofa.  He looked so pale and ill, that she flung Miss Clary’s large cloak over him, and went up stairs to inform her mistress of such an unusual occurrence.

All day Clary had sat beside him, holding, almost unconsciously, his burning hand in hers.  Often she bathed his temples with sal-volatile and water, but so deep were his slumbers, so blessed was the perfect cessation from mental misery, that he continued to sleep until the sun disappeared behind the oak hills, and then, with a deep sigh, he once more awoke to a painful consciousness of his situation.

Clary dropped the hand she held, and started from the sofa, over which she had been leaning, the vivid flush burning upon her cheek, and sprang away to order up tea.  Anthony rose, marvelling at his long sleep, and went to his chamber to make his toilet; when he returned to the parlor, he found Clary waiting for him.