"At the end of a few weeks Mr. Stanhope began to regard them as spies
on him; and after a violent quarrel, they parted, no one knowing to
what quarter my lover directed his steps. I believe I was the first
who heard any tidings of him. I remember well; it was in 1773, about
four-and-twenty years ago, that I received a letter from him. Oh! how
legibly are these circumstances written on my memory! It was dated
from Italy, where, he told me, he resided in complete retirement,
under the assumed name of Sackville."
At this name, with every feature fixed in dismay, Thaddeus fell back
on the sofa.
The countess caught his hand.
"What is the matter? You are ill? What is the matter?"
The bolt of indelible disgrace had struck to his heart. It was some
minutes before he could recover; but when he did speak, he said,
"Pray go on, madam; I am subject to this. Pray forgive me, and go on;
I shall become better as you proceed."
"No, my dear friend; I will quit my dismal story at present, and
resume it some other time."
"Pray continue it now," rejoined Thaddeus; "I shall never be more fit
to listen. Do, I entreat you."
"Are you sincere in your request? I fear I have already affected you
too much."
"No; I am sincere: let me hear it all. Do not hold back anything
which relates to that stain to the name of Englishman, who completed
his crimes by rendering you wretched!"
"Alas! he did," resumed her ladyship; "for when he returned, which
was in consequence of the Earl of Tinemouth's death, my father was
also dead, who might have stood between me and my inclinations, and
so preserved me from many succeeding sorrows.
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