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young, beautiful and wealthy—she was amiable and accomplished. Our parents arranged the matter between them, before either of the parties most interested, knew or suspected any thing of what was going on. I had as yet heard nothing of the affair. But that was no objection. It proved none with me. I was not unwilling, for many reasons, that the marriage should take place. It will be sufficient to name one of these reasons. Though liberal, the allowance of money for my own expenditure , which I received from my father, had, for a long time past, been inadequate to the wants which my excesses necessarily occasioned. I had got largely into debt. I was harrassed by creditors; and had been compelled to resort to various improper expedients, to meet my exigencies . My more recent habits rendered a still further increase of stipend essential, for though, for some months, I had given my time chiefly to Emily, I had not yet so entirely divested myself of my old associates as to do with less money. My pride too, would not permit her to want for many things, and I had contributed, not a little towards the improvement of the condition of her family. It is well perhaps, that, in a chronicle of crimes, almost unvarying, I should not altogether overlook those instances of conduct, which, if not praiseworthy, were, at least, not criminal. The marriage was therefore determined upon. Constance was an obedient child, and, without any affection existing— without knowing, indeed, what her affections should be—she consented to become my wife. Still, though making up my determination, without scruple on the subject, I confess I was not altogether at ease when my thoughts reverted to the condition of the poor girl I had dishonored . But what was that condition. In pecuniary matters, I could make her better off than ever—and, so far as caste was concerned—she could suffer no loss, for she had known no society. I never thought of the intrinsic value and necessity of virtue. My considerations were all selfish, and tributary to conventional estimates. I saw no difficulty in marrying the heiress, and still enjoying, as before, the society of Emily. Matrimonial fidelity was still less a subject of concern; and, adjusting, in this way, the business and relations of the future, I hurried the arrangements and prepared assiduously for the enjoyments of the bridal. CHAPTER VI. A sense of caution—or it may be of shame—determined me to keep the proposed marriage, as long as I well could, from the knowl20 MARTIN FABER Simms-MFaber final pages:Layout 1 4/10/08 11:50 AM Page 20 edge of the one being whom it most injured. A few days before that which had been assigned for the event, I proceeded to the place of our usual rendezvous. I had not seen her for several days before; and her looks indicated sickness and suspicion. The latter appearance, I did not seem to observe, but her indisposition called forth my enquiries and regrets. I still strove to put on the guise of affection, but my words were cold, and my manner, I feel assured, wore all the expression of the most confirmed indifference. “You look unwell, Emily,” I observed, putting my arms around her—“you have not been so, have you?” “Can you ask,” was her reply, as her eyes were mournfully riveted upon my own; “could I continue well, and not see you for three days? alas! Martin, you little know how long a period in time is three whole days to me in your absence. Where have you been—have you been sick—you look not as you are wont to look. You are troubled and something afflicts you.” Her manner was tender in the extreme—the suggestion even by herself of indisposition as the cause of my absence, seemed to awaken all her solicitude, and to make her regret her own implied reproaches. “I have been slightly unwell, Emily,” was my reply, in a tone gravely adapted to indicate something of continued indisposition; and the possibility that this was the case, brought out all her fondness. How like a child—a sweet confiding child she then spoke to me. With what deep and fervent devotion—and, yet, at the very moment when the accents of her voice were most touching and tender, I had begun to hate her. She was in my way—I saw how utterly impossible it was...

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