Edward was unaccustomed to deny himself anything.  The only child, and consequently the spoilt child, of wealthy parents, who had persuaded him into a singular, but highly advantageous marriage with a lady far older than himself; and again by her petted and indulged in every possible way, she seeking to reward his kindness to her by the utmost liberality; after her early death his own master, traveling independently of every one, equal to all contingencies and all changes, with desires never excessive, but multiple and various—­free-hearted, generous, brave, at times even noble—­what was there in the world to cross or thwart him?

Hitherto, everything had gone as he desired!  Charlotte had become his; he had won her at last, with an obstinate, a romantic fidelity; and now he felt himself, for the first time, contradicted, crossed in his wishes, when those wishes were to invite to his home the friend of his youth—­just as he was longing, as it were, to throw open his whole heart to him.  He felt annoyed, impatient; he took up his pen again and again, and as often threw it down again, because he could not make up his mind what to write.  Against his wife’s wishes he would not go; against her expressed desire he could not.  Ill at ease as he was, it would have been impossible for him, even if he had wished, to write a quiet, easy letter.  The most natural thing to do, was to put it off.  In a few words, he begged his friend to forgive him for having left his letter unanswered; that day he was unable to write circumstantially; but shortly, he hoped to be able to tell him what he felt at greater length.

The next day, as they were walking to the same spot, Charlotte took the opportunity of bringing back the conversation to the subject, perhaps because she knew that there is no surer way of rooting out any plan or purpose than by often talking it over.

It was what Edward was wishing.  He expressed him self in his own way, kindly and sweetly.  For although, sensitive as, he was, he flamed up readily—­although the vehemence with which he desired anything made him pressing, and his obstinacy made him impatient—­his words were so softened by his wish to spare the feelings of those to whom he was speaking, that it was impossible not to be charmed, even when one most disagreed, with him.

This morning, he first contrived to bring Charlotte into the happiest humor, and then so disarmed her with the graceful turn which he gave to the conversation, that she cried out at last: 

“You are determined that what I refused to the husband you will make me grant to the lover.  At least, my dearest,” she continued, “I will acknowledge that your wishes,—­and the warmth and sweetness with which you express them, have not left me untouched, have not left me unmoved.  You drive me to make a confession;—­till now, I too have had a concealment from you; I am in exactly the same position with you, and I have hitherto been putting the same restraint on my inclination which I have been exhorting you to put on yours.”