The novels of Charles Brockden Brown, consisting of Wieland;or, The transformation. Arthur Mervyn; or, Memoirs of the year 1793. Edgar Huntly; or, Memoirs of a sleep-walker. Jane Talbot. Ormond; or, The secret witness. Clara Howard; or, The enthusiasm of love. With a memoir of the author.

196 JANE TALBOT.
from compassion for my child what-But why do I exchange a word with you? Mrs. Talbot knows not that
you are here. She has just given me the strongest proof
of compunction for every past folly, and especially the
last. She has bound herself to go along with me. If
your professions of regard for her be sincere, you will
not increase her difficulties. I command you, I implore
you, to leave the house."
I should not have resisted these entreaties on my own
account. Yet to desert her-to be thought by her to
have coldly and inhumanly rejected her offers!
"'In your presence, madam-I ask not privacy-let
her own lips confirm the sentence; be renunciation her
own act. For the sake of her peace of mind- "
"God give me patience!" said the exasperated lady.
"How securely do you build on her infatuation! But
you shall not see her. If she consents to see you, I
never will forgive her. If she once more relapses, she
is undone. She shall write her mind to you: let that
serve. I will permit her-I will urge her-to write to
you: let that serve."
I went to this house with a confused perception that
this visit would terminate my suspense. 1' One more interview with Jane," thought I, "and no more fluctuations
or uncertainty." Yet I was now as far as ever from
certainty. Expostulation was vain. She would not
hear me. All my courage, even my words were overwhelmed by her vehemence.
After much hesitation, and several efforts to gain even
a hearing of my pleas, I yielded to the tide. With a
drooping heart, I consented to withdraw with my dearest
hope unaccomplished.
My steps involuntarily brought me back to my lodgings.
Here am I again at my pen. Never were my spirits
lower, my prospects more obscure, my hopes nearer to
extinction.
I am afraid to allow you too near a view of my heart
at this moment of despondency. My present feelings
are new even to myself. They terrify me. I must not
trust myself longer alone. I must shake off, or try to
shake off, this excruciating, this direful melancholy.