My hand was upon the lock of the door.  I stopped, hesitated, and listened.  I certainly heard something.  Yes, it is too true—­she is sobbing.  What a total overthrow to all my selfish resolves, all my egotistical plans, did that slight cadence give.  She was crying—­her tears for the bitter pain she concluded I was suffering—­mingling doubtless with sorrow for her own sources of grief—­for it was clear to me that whoever may have been my favoured rival, the attachment was either unknown to, or unsanctioned by the mother.  I wished I had not listened; all my determinations were completely routed and as I opened the door I felt my heart beating almost audibly against my side.

In a subdued half-light—­tempered through the rose-coloured curtains, with a small sevres cup of newly-plucked moss-roses upon the table—­sat, or rather leaned, Emily Bingham, her face buried in her hands as I entered.  She did not hear my approach, so that I had above a minute to admire the graceful character of her head, and the fine undulating curve of her neck and shoulders, before I spoke.

“Miss Bingham,” said I—­

She started—­looked up—­her dark blue eyes, brilliant though tearful, were fixed upon me for a second, as if searching my very inmost thoughts.  She held out her hand, and turning her head aside, made room for me on the sofa beside her.  Strange girl, thought I, that in the very moment of breaking with a man for ever, puts on her most fascinating toilette —­arrays herself in her most bewitching manner, and gives him a reception only calculated to turn his head, and render him ten times more in love than ever.  Her hand, which remained still in mine, was burning as if in fever, and the convulsive movement of her neck and shoulders showed me how much this meeting cost her.  We were both silent, till at length, feeling that any chance interruption might leave us as far as ever from understanding each other, I resolved to begin.

“My dear, dear Emily,” I said, “do not I entreat of you add to the misery I am this moment enduring by letting me see you thus.  Whatever your wrongs towards me, this is far too heavy a retribution.  My object was never to make you wretched, if I am not to obtain the bliss, to strive and make you happy.”

“Oh, Harry”—­this was the first time she had ever so called me—­“how like you, to think of me—­of me, at such a time, as if I was not the cause of all our present unhappiness—­but not wilfully, not intentionally.  Oh, no, no—­your attentions—­the flattery of your notice, took me at once, and, in the gratification of my self-esteem, I forgot all else.  I heard, too, that you were engaged to another, and believing, as I did, that you were trifling with my affections, I spared no effort to win your’s.  I confess it, I wished this with all my soul.”

“And now,” said I, “that you have gained them”—­Here was a pretty sequel to my well matured plans!—­“And now Emily”—­