I am fearful that if she knew it she would throw me off for ever." "Perhaps not, Clarence--if she loves you as she should; and even if she did, would it not be better that she should know it now, than have it discovered afterwards, and you both be rendered miserable for life." "No, no, Aunt Ada--I cannot tell her! It must remain a secret until after our marriage; then, if they find it out, it will be to their interest to smooth the matter over, and keep quiet about it." "Clary, Clary--that is _not_ honourable!" "I know it--but how can I help it?
Once or twice I thought of telling her, but my heart always failed me at the critical moment.

It would kill me to lose her.

Oh! I love her, Aunt Ada," said he, passionately--"love her with all the energy and strength of my father's race, and all the doating tenderness of my mother's.

I could have told her long ago, before my love had grown to its present towering strength, but craft set a seal upon my lips, and bid me be silent until her heart was fully mine, and then nothing could part us; yet now even, when sure of her affections, the dread that her love would not stand the test, compels me to shrink more than ever from the disclosure." "But, Clarence, you are not acting generously; I know your conscience does not approve your actions." "Don't I know that ?" he answered, almost fiercely; "yet I dare not tell--I must shut this secret in my bosom, where it gnaws, gnaws, gnaws, until it has almost eaten my heart away.

Oh, I've thought of that, time and again; it has kept me awake night after night, it haunts me at all hours; it is breaking down my health and strength--wearing my very life out of me; no escaped galley-slave ever felt more than I do, or lived in more constant fear of detection: and yet I must nourish this tormenting secret, and keep it growing in my breast until it has crowded out every honourable and manly feeling; and then, perhaps, after all my sufferings and sacrifice of candour and truth, out it will come at last, when I least expect or think of it." Aunt Ada could not help weeping, and exclaimed, commiseratingly, "My poor, poor boy," as he strode up and down the room.
"The whole family, except her, seem to have the deepest contempt for coloured people; they are constantly making them a subject of bitter jests; they appear to have no more feeling or regard for them than if they were brutes--and I," continued he, "I, miserable, contemptible, false-hearted knave, as I am, I--I--yes, I join them in their heartless jests, and wonder all the while my mother does not rise from her grave and _curse_ me as I speak!" "Oh! Clarence, Clarence, my dear child!" cried the terrified Aunt Ada, "you talk deliriously; you have brooded over this until it has almost made you crazy.