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In the continuation of our story, which we have written after the
manner of a Spanish tale with a similar title, we shall proceed to give
our readers a letter from the father of Henry Howard to Miss Lintot;
as, in this way, we can better illustrate events than by giving them in
the usual order of narration.

Boston, September 3d, 184-.
My Daughter,

I have just received a letter from the unhappy Henry! I will confess
to you, that, in spite of my just anger against him, it has moved me
profoundly. He repents of his conduct with the liveliest contrition,
does you merited justice, and is in fine under such deep affliction that
he has awakened my pity and sympathy in his behalf. He says he
cannot leave Portland until he has first received from your mouth that
pardon which is now the only object of his desires. He rightly conceives
that you will not wish to see him; but, notwithstanding, if to
give him some degree of repose, a single word of yours would suffice,
which, perhaps, he merits by his expiation, would you obstinately refuse
it?

I do not advise you, my daughter.—You have too much judgment
and prudence not to know precisely what is necessary in a juncture so
delicate. Consult your own sense of what is right. But think, that
upon your determination will hang, perhaps, the moral cure of that
poor youth who, if he cannot be to me the source of the felicity I had
hoped for, may not be to me so bitter a cause of affliction. Who can
tell? that this interview may not be a prelude to a reconciliation!
Pardon me, Miss Lintot my unreasonable hope may appear to you
ridiculous; but it is that of a father who loves you tenderly and who
prays for the privilege of being able to love him with you.

I confide in your heart, my daughter!

Portland, Sept. 8.

`What a noble heart has Henry! How his very defects, themselves,
reveal qualities, that badly directed, have led to the gravest of faults,
but well directed would have made a wife happy. All that is wanting
in him to make him the best of husbands is decision! It is already
clear to me that he has been impelled to this inconceivable negative by
an excess of loyalty and frankness.—Foolish notions have inspired him
with fear of matrimony, fear which he knows not how to shake off. He
loves me: I am sure that he loves me with all his heart. Without me
his life will be miserable and desolate; but through the effect of habit
that word matrimony inspires him with fear, and he does not wish to
consign to me a heart where I reign, because this feeling of doubt
exists, though only in his imagination. Only that marriage is necessary,
he would live at my side as a husband most tender and loving
but matrimony exists!

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It were certainly a deed of charity to cure him, as much on his own
account, as he will always be miserable, as for his father's sake whom
I love as if he were my own. Mr. Howard has hinted to me that if I
desire I can easily tie the knot broken once by the imprudence of Harry. —
I see that this may be possible: but the difficulty is in
undertaking it. As with you, Florence, I am frank, I confess to you
that the will is not wanting on my part; and if Henry should say to
me to-day:

`Forget the past, pardon my faults and give me an opportunity to
repair them,' perhaps, from friendship to his father, through charity to
him, I would let him conduct me anew to the presence of the clergyman.
But this he has not yet done; and for reasons I pointed out at
the beginning of this letter, I think will not do! He cannot find
happiness without marrying me; but he is not yet reconciled to me,
and if he were, he might not so soon be with the idea of matrimony.
It is a rare case; but it is as you see! His letters are as expansive, as
loving as I could desire; but he does not explain himself categorically;
nor does he propose anything. Now you see how peculiar my
situation is, wishing to act without the power! I will meditate upon
the matter; for it would be so gratifying to me to do a favor to that
good Mr. Howard, his father.'

Portland, Sept. 16.

I have taken a great step, from which I am yet in a very disturbed
state.

Mr. Howard, Henry's father, full of ingenuity to affect the reconciliation
which he has so much at heart, enclosed to his son a letter for
me, with instructions to hand it to me in person! It was for the purpose
of affording the poor youth a pretext for taking a step for which he
had not the necessary courage.

He came, and in the absence, or with the consent of the servant, entered
my presence and tremblingly presented the letter of his father:

`Miss Lintot,' he said, `your silence and disdain are but a light punishment
for my abominable fault. Yet, must my punishment be eternal?
Will my repentance never disarm your displeasure? I was not
worthy of being your husband; but, setting aside matrimony and love,
cannot we be friends? Since with my heart or without it, you would
not dare to surrender yourself as the wife of a man prejudiced against
matrimony, and since for this reason he has renounced your love, does
it necessarily follow, (the manner of my rejection being forgiven) that
we ought always to be separated from each other, antagonists, when our
characters sympathise so perfectly?'

I was moved and cast down my eyes. He continued:

`Pardon me, Louise, and give me permission to visit you! Inasmuch
as my conscience may not be reconciled with matrimony, I swear to
you that you shall never hear from my lips a word that a sister may not
hear from her brother! Do you doubt? He, who loving as I have
loved you, has had the strength to sacrifice his love to exaggerate

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scruples, ridiculous if you choose to call them, will he not have strength, if
not to conquer it, at least, to prevent its outbreak? Permit me, Louise,
permit me, for the love of Heaven, to see you sometimes! To deny
me will be to consign me again to the horrible madness which I
have endured for the last eight and twenty days, and which has only
left me since I have been in your presence. Louise, reflect, reflect
deeply before you reply!'

What could I do when my heart cried pardon, when I held even in
my hand the supplicating letter he had brought me from his father?—
To grant it would be to resist my own self-love: to refuse it was repugnant
to another love! A capitulation was necessary! — and a singular
idea suddenly flashed ugon my mind.

`Mr. Howard,' I said to Harry, `after what has occurred it is impossible
for me to preserve the least relation with you. I have receieved
an affront, and while it remains uneffaced —.'

`My repentance—my excuses—'

`It is not sufficient. You have outraged my feelings by indignantly
responding `No,' before the clergymen and the witnesses present. I
wish to stand in a precisely equal position. Consent to return with
me to the church once more: there you shall respond `Yes,' and I
publicly before the same minister and the same witnesses will return a
round `No!' Then the affront will be reciprocal, the revenge equal to
the injury, and, as you men say, honor will be satisfied! Afterwards
we can, if you desire it, meet accordingly as our relatives may consent.
And since, then, nothing requires we should be husband and wife, at
least nothing shall impede our being good friends.'

Now know, my dear Florence, that this proposition, although made
in a serious tone of voice, was irresistably accompanied by a certain
smiling air; my smile encouraged Harry, he accepted also smiling,
and made the contract in the presence of my aunt.

To-morrow morning this odd affair will be arranged, unless something
intervenes now unforseen. I will astonish you, certainly; but I
mean to carry out to the end my idea.

Adieu, as ever,

We give below the letter from Mr. Howard, of which Henry was
the bearer

Boston, Sept. 15, 184—,
My dear daughter,

Since yesterday I have been in bed with a fever. My malady proceeds
from the heart! I can scarcely write you these few lines. The
breaking off of the marriage upon which I had set my heart was too severe
a blow for an old man, broken in health like me. The hope of
seeing the union take place would have sustained me, and my health
would have been better for it; but now I feel only quiet and repose
can restore me. Take compassion on me, and be pitiful to my
poor boy; for in being merciful to him, you are blessing me. Adieu.

Portland, Sept. 18th, 184-.
Dear Charles,

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I know not whether I am sleeping or waking; but it appears to me
that I dream! I told you in my last of the singular compact I had made
with Louise. Yesterday was the day fixed; and I went to her house,
resolved to perform my part, if she still was in earnest, as I thought she
proposed it but in jest. The creature was serious!

She was dressed in the same white robes, and her virgin veil was disposed
so bewitchingly, yet modestly. — Heavens! how beautiful
she was, my friend; a thousand times more lovely than on the first day!

We entered the carriage and reached the church. The clergyman
began to read the service, and when he put to me the question he had
put on the former occasion I answered `Yes' with a smile upon my lips.
When he put the same question to Louise my heart throbed with violence....
I glanced with enamoured eyes upon my beautiful
companion, and the `no' we had prepared beforehand all at once appeared
to me to be a species of blasphemy and culpable sacriledge!—
But I had no time to reflect.

Louise appeared deeply moved, and the clergyman had to repeat the
interrogation.

Louise raised her head, looked him full in the face and responded in
a firm voice:

`Yes.'

We were married?

To tell you what my sensations were at that moment is superior to
my powers. A movement of Louise to hand me a paper caused me to
return to myself. It was a lerter from my father she had just a few
minutes before the hour received, and which decided her to change one
article of our programme in order to save the infirm old gentleman's
life—as she averred!

Uneasy, Louise watched the expression of my face as I finished reading
the letter.... I let drop a tear upon the paper, caught her
hand and pressed it to my lips!..... My wife is divine!

Within a quarter of an hour we were on on our way to the house of
her aunt, and in an hour we started in the cars for Boston to my father!
As soon as he embraces us in his arms he will be cured.

With regard to you, my friends anti-conjugal, you cannot complain
of me; because, if I am married, it has not been my fault. I have been
made a husband by surprise, and in the only thing wherein I fail in my
compact with you is in being very contented with my lot. I have not
been false to celibacy; it is matrimony that has played me a trick!

I am then married!!! You may pity me, my friend, pity me all of
you.... I am the most fortunate of men.

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