The jail and the gallows were ever in his thoughts;
and worse than either, the infamy which would for ever attach itself to
his name.
He determined to see his father for the last time, and if he failed in
moving his compassion, he had formed the desperate resolution of putting
an end to his own life in his presence; a far greater crime than that
for which he dreaded receiving a capital punishment.
"Clary," he said, hastily thrusting the letter into his pocket,
"business of importance calls me away to-night. Do not be alarmed if I
should be detained until the morning."
"You cannot go to-night, Anthony. It has rained all the afternoon; the
ground is wet. The air is raw and damp. You are not well. If you leave
the house you will take cold!"
"Do not attempt to detain me, Clary, I must go. I shall leave a letter
for your brother on the table, which you must give him if I do not
return."
"Something is wrong. Tell me, oh, tell me what it is!"
"You will know all to-morrow," said Anthony, greatly agitated. "I cannot
speak of it to-night." He took her hand and pressed it sadly to his
heart. "Should we never meet again, dear Clary, will you promise to
think kindly of me; and in spite of the contempt of the world, to
cherish your cousin's memory?"
"Though all the world should forsake you, yet will I never desert you,"
sobbed Clary, as, sinking into his extended arms, she fainted on his
breast.
Pages:
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342