Our hero, on his pillow, instead of seeking rest from the hopes and fears, the distracting anxieties of the day, commenced again, in fancy, the busy scene. The undisguised admiration of the Marquis for Julia had awakened new terrors; his addresses would be approved of by all her friends. Edmund shuddered to think of the consequences to which such approval might ultimately lead; yet imagination would go forward, devising new tortures, till he leaped from his bed, threw open his window, and strove to force his thoughts into some other channel.

The remembrance of the mysterious understanding which seemed to exist between Julia and Henry, next arose like a spectre, and laid its icy grasp on every warm fibre of his heart. The pang, however, was but momentary; this subject had not yet fastened on each faculty, with the withering, lasting hold it was one day destined to possess. It was reserved for time and absence to weaken the blissful, internal evidence, derived from look, voice, manner; and to strengthen into certainty and misery every vague suspicion to which any untoward coincidence had ever given birth. At present, the very circumstances necessarily connected with such suspicions, led, by the association of ideas, to a vivid recollection of some of the latest, and strongest proofs of tenderness, he had himself ever received from Julia. He now dwelt on these, till he yielded again to the delightful hope, that she really loved him, although she had thought it necessary to check his mad declaration of a passion, which could never meet with the sanction of her father. If then she loved him, surely she would not marry another! No, she would reject this Marquis of H?? And, as to Henry, she must have rejected him already! The emotion she had shown when conversing apart with him, must have been occasioned by regret at being obliged to give pain. He therefore returned to his pillow, and busied himself in recalling every look, every word, on which his hopes of being secretly beloved were founded. Fear and doubt vanished, and fancy, for a few blissful moments, pictured the realization of all his hopes.

But hope, on such a subject, was not consistent with honour, with duty—how then could a virtuous mind cling to it with unalloyed felicity. Conscience spoke, and demanded a sacrifice!—a sacrifice which the heart knew not how to yield! His secret wishes now seemed his accusers; and dear as they had long been, he next strove to deny, even to himself, their actual existence. But the compromise was not accepted; still conscience repeated, that it was his duty to fly a temptation, which he evidently had not strength to resist. Should the discovery of his birth never be made; or, when made, should it not prove such as to give him pretensions to Julia’s hand; was it consistent with honour and right feeling, that he should, during the period of uncertainty, endeavour to gain her affections—perhaps succeed in so doing! But this thought again bewildered, again left him incapable of a rational reflection, or a right resolve.

Such is the mental warfare, such the wild rebellion of will, which lays waste the peace of him, who suffers the voice of passion to mingle in the counsels of conscience.

Edmund slept; still undecided, and in his dreams endured once more a recapitulation of each anxious feeling, and unfinished conflict.