After ringing for her maid to sit in the adjoining room, Mrs. Wilson went below, and announced to the family the indisposition of her charge, and her desire to obtain a little sleep. Denbigh looked anxious to inquire after the health of Emily, but there was a restraint on all his actions, since the return of his book, that persuaded Mrs. Wilson he apprehended that a detection of his conduct had taken place. He did venture to ask when they were to have the pleasure of seeing Miss Moseley again, hoping it would be that evening, as he had fixed the morning for his departure; and when he learnt that Emily had retired for the night, his anxiety was sensibly increased, and he instantly withdrew. Mrs. Wilson was alone in the drawing-room, and about to join her niece, as Denbigh entered it with a letter in his hand; he approached her with a diffident and constrained manner, and commenced the following dialogue:—
"My anxiety and situation will plead my apology for troubling Miss Moseley at this time—may I ask you, madam, to deliver this letter—I hardly dare ask you for your good offices."
Mrs. Wilson took the letter and coldly replied,—
"Certainly, sir; and I sincerely wish I could be of any real service to you."
"I perceive, madam," said Denbigh, like one that was choking, "I have forfeited your good opinion—that pocket- book"—
"Has made a dreadful discovery," said Mrs. Wilson shuddering.
"Will not one offense be pardoned, dear madam?" cried Denbigh, with warmth; "if you knew my circumstances—the cruel reasons—why—why did I neglect the paternal advice of Doctor Ives?"
"It is not yet too late, sir," said Mrs. Wilson, more mildly, "for your own good; as for us, your deception"—
"Is unpardonable—I see it—I feel it," cried he, in the accent of despair; "yet Emily—Emily may relent—you will at least give her my letter—anything is better that this suspense."
"You shall have an answer from Emily this evening,
