I have said that my father, was not one of those who are ready to
substitute specious explanations for truth, and those who are thus
abstinent rarely lay their hand on a thread without making it a clue.
Such an one, like the dexterous weaver, lets not one color go, till he
finds that which matches it in the pattern; he keeps on weaving, but
chooses his shades, and my father found at last what he wanted to make
out the pattern for himself. He met a lady who had been intimate with
both himself and P. in early days, and finding she had seen the latter
abroad, asked if she knew the circumstances of the marriage. "The
circumstances of the act I know," she said, "which sealed the misery of
our friend, though as much in the dark as any one about the motives that
led to it."

We were quite intimate with P. in London, and he was our most delightful
companion. He was then in the full flower of the varied accomplishments,
which set off his fine manners and dignified character, joined, towards
those he loved, with a certain soft willingness which gives the
desirable chivalry to a man. None was more clear of choice where his
personal affections were not touched, but where they were, it cost him
pain to say no, on the slightest occasion. I have thought this must have
had some connexion with the mystery of his misfortunes.

One day he called on me, and, without any preface, asked if I would be
present next day at his marriage. I was so surprised, and so
unpleasantly surprised, that I did not at first answer a word. We had
been on terms so familiar, that I thought I knew all about him, yet had
never dreamed of his having an attachment, and, though I had never
inquired on the subject, yet this reserve, where perfect openness had
been supposed, and really, on my side, existed, seemed to me a kind of