"
It was a curious letter to write; but men of Lord Hartledon's sensitive
temperament in regard to others' feelings often do strange things; things
the world at large would stare at in their inability to understand them.
The remorse might not have come home to him quite so soon as this, his
wedding-day, but for the inopportune appearance of Dr. Ashton in the
chapel, speaking those words that told home so forcibly. Such reproach
on these vacillating men inflicts a torture that burns into the heart
like living fire.
He sealed the letter, addressing it to Cannes; called a waiter, late as
it was, and desired him to post it. And then he walked about the room,
reflecting on the curse of his life--his besetting sin--irresolution. It
seemed almost an anomaly for _him_ to make resolves; but he did make one
then; that he would, with the help of Heaven, be a MAN from henceforth,
however it might crucify his sensitive feelings. And for the future, the
obligation he had that day taken upon himself he determined to fulfil to
his uttermost in all honour and love; to cherish his wife as he would
have cherished Anne Ashton. For the past--but Lord Hartledon rose up now
with a start. There was one item of that past he dared not glance at,
which did not, however, relate to Miss Ashton: and it appeared inclined
to thrust itself prominently forward to-night.
Could Lord Hartledon have borrowed somewhat of the easy indifference of
the countess-dowager, he had been a happier man.
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