He was accordingly invited in. When I rose to go down, I hesitated, and even trembled. "I fear," said I to myself, "it will be too much for me; yet why should it? Conscious innocence will support me. This he has not." When I entered the room he stepped forward to meet me. Confusion and shame were visibly depicted in his countenance. He approached me hastily and without uttering a word, took my hand. I withdrew it. "O Miss Wharton," said he, "despise me not. I am convinced that I deserve your displeasure and disdain; but my own heart has avenged your cause." "To your own heart, then," said I, "I will leave you. But why do you again seek an interview with one whom you have endeavored to mislead--with one whom you have treated with unmerited neglect?"
"Justice to myself required my appearing before you, that, by confessing my faults and obtaining your forgiveness, I might soften the reproaches of my own mind." "Will you be seated, sir?" said I. "Will you," rejoined he, "condescend to sit with me, Eliza?" "I will, sir," answered I "The rights of hospitality I shall not infringe. In my own house, therefore, I shall treat you with civility." "Indeed," said he, "you are very severe; but I have provoked all the coldness and reserve which you can inflict.
"I am a married man, Eliza." "So I understand," said I; "and I hope you will never treat your wife with that dissimulation and falsehood which you have exercised towards me." "Would to Heaven," exclaimed he, "that you were my wife. I should not, then, fail in my love or duty as a husband; yet she is an amiable girl, and, had I a heart to give her, I might still be happy; but that, alas! I can never recall." "Why, then," said I, "did you marry her? You were, doubtless, master of your own actions." "No," said he, "I was not. The embarrassed state of my affairs precluded the possibility of acting as I wished. Loving you most ardently, I was anxious to prevent your union with another, till I could so far improve my circumstances as to secure you from poverty and want in a connection with me. My regard was too sincere to permit me to deceive you by a marriage which might have proved unhappy for us both. My pride forbade my telling you the motives of my delay; and I left you to see if I could place myself in a situation worthy of your acceptance. This I could not effect, and, therefore, have run the risk of my future happiness by marrying a lady of affluence. This secures to me the externals of enjoyment, but my heart, I fear, will never participate it; yet it affords me some degree of satisfaction that I have not involved you in distress. The only alleviation of which my banishment from you is capable, is your forgiveness. In compassion, then, refuse it not. It cannot injure you. To me it will be worth millions." He wept. Yes, Lucy, this libertine, this man of pleasure and gallantly, wept. I really pitied him from my heart. "I forgive you," said I, "and wish you happy; yet on this condition only, that you never again pollute my ears with the recital of your infamous passion. Yes, infamous I call it; for what softer appellation can be given to such professions from a married man? Harbor not an idea of me, in future, inconsistent with the love and fidelity which you owe your wife; much less presume to mention it, if you wish not to be detested by me, and forever banished from my presence." He expressed gratitude for his absolution, even upon these terms, and hoped his future conduct would entitle him to my friendship and esteem. "That," I replied, "time only can determine."
