It
was not enough to be called a fortune--I mean the sort of fortune which
might persuade your father to let you marry me. Well! here in England,
I had an opportunity of making ten times more of it on the turf; and,
let me add, with private information of the horses which I might
certainly count on to win. I don't stop to ask by what cruel roguery I
was tempted to my ruin. My money is lost; and, with it, my last hope of
a happy and harmless life with you comes to an end. I die, Iris dear,
with the death of that hope. Something in me seems to shrink from
suicide in the ugly gloom of great overgrown London. I prefer to make
away with myself among the fields, where the green will remind me of
dear old Ireland. When you think of me sometimes, say to yourself the
poor wretch loved me--and perhaps the earth will lie lighter on Harry
for those kind words, and the flowers (if you favour me by planting a
few) may grow prettier on my grave."
There it ended.
The heart of Iris sank as she read that melancholy farewell, expressed
in language at once wild and childish. If he survived his desperate
attempt at self-destruction, to what end would it lead? In silence, the
woman who loved him put his letter back in her bosom.
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