To which Roger replied—­“Ever since I have had the pleasure of knowing you and my cousin, I have always tried to act towards you two in the most honourable way I possibly could.  The Church, as you know, grants dispensations on these occasions.  Of course, if you approve of it, I will get my father’s consent, and also leave from the Church, and do it in an honourable way in the eyes of God and of the world.”  These two speeches seem rather stilted and unnatural, yet this is how they have been given in evidence.  Days passed, and Roger sat up night after night with his uncle.  It was during those tedious watchings that he again wrote at Miss Doughty’s request a narrative of his feelings, which ran thus:—­

“TICHBORNE PARK, Feb. 4, 1852 (1.30 A.M.)

“I shall go on,” he said, “with my confessions, only asking for some indulgence if you find them too long and too tedious.  You are, my dearest K., the only one for whom I have formed so strong and sincere an attachment.  I never could have believed, a few years ago, I was able to get so attached to another.  You are the only young person who has shown me some kindness, for which I feel very thankful.  It is in some respects rather a painful subject for me to have to acknowledge my faults; but, as I have undertaken the task, I must write all I have done, and what have been my thoughts, for the last five weeks.  I had a very wrong idea when I left Ireland.  It was this:  I thought that you had entirely forgotten me.  I was, nevertheless, very anxious to come to Tichborne for a short time to take a last farewell of you, my uncle, and my aunt.  My mind and heart were then so much oppressed by these thoughts, that it was my intention not to come back from India for ten or fifteen years.  I loved you, my dearest K., as dearly as ever.  I would have done anything in this world to oblige you, and give you more of that happiness which I hoped I might see you enjoy.  I would have given my life for your happiness’ sake.  To have seen all these things, I repeat again, with a dry eye and an unbroken heart, or for a person who has a strong feeling of attachment towards another to behold it, is almost beyond human power.  These feelings will arise when I shall be thousands of miles from you, but I have taken my pains and sorrows and your happiness in this world, and said a prayer that you might bear the pains and sorrows of this world with courage and resignation, and by these means be happy in the next.  When I came here I found I had been mistaken in the opinion I had formed, and I reproached myself bitterly for ever having such an idea.  It is not necessary for me to mention that I got rid of these bad thoughts in a few minutes.  Things went on happily until Sunday, January 11, 1852, when I was sent for by my uncle at breakfast.  What took place between us I think it unnecessary to repeat, as you know already.  I was obliged to leave the next morning by the first train for London.  I never felt before so deeply