at the Judgment Day, I should be tried by the truth or falsehood of
the lines just written, I could say with my last breath: So be it; let
them remain.

But what mattered my love for her? However worthy of it she might be,
I had misplaced it, because chance--the same chance which might have
given her station and family--had placed her in a rank of life
far--too far--below mine. As the daughter of a "gentleman," my
father's welcome, my father's affection, would have been bestowed on
her, when I took her home as my wife. As the daughter of a tradesman,
my father's anger, my father's misery, my own ruin perhaps besides,
would be the fatal dower that a marriage would confer on her. What
made all this difference? A social prejudice. Yes: but a prejudice
which had been a principle--nay, more, a religion--in our house, since
my birth; and for centuries before it.

(How strange that foresight of love which precipitates the future into
the present! Here was I thinking of her as my wife, before, perhaps,
she had a suspicion of the passion with which she had inspired
me--vexing my heart, wearying my thoughts, before I had even spoken to
her, as if the perilous discovery of our marriage were already at
hand! I have thought since how unnatural I should have considered
this, if I had read it in a book.)

How could I best crush the desire to see her, to speak to her, on the
morrow? Should I leave London, leave England, fly from the temptation,
no matter where, or at what sacrifice? Or should I take refuge in my
books--the calm, changeless old friends of my earliest fireside hours?
Had I resolution enough to wear my heart out by hard, serious, slaving
study? If I left London on the morrow, could I feel secure, in my own