The surly jailor (Oh! how unlike Benoit!) who had taken his place, now summoned me away, and I slided my letter into my husband's hands. "Read it," said I, "and know that your doom is fixed for to-morrow; therefore I conjure you by our past loves to grant the request which this letter contains; and if you think I have deserved kindness from you, comply with my wishes."
Seymour, who had heard nothing of his approaching fate, took the letter, and listened to me with a bewildered air; and I hastened from the prison. I had easily obtained permission to return to the prison at night.
"It will be the last time. You will never come again," said the brutal gaoler: "your husband will never come back when he goes to the tribunal to-morrow, so come and welcome!"
I spent the intervening time in writing a letter to De Walden, inclosing one for my uncle, which I begged him to forward; and I arranged every thing as if death awaited me. Nay, how could I be assured that it did not? but I kept all my fears to myself and talked of hope alone to my poor servants, who wandered about, the pictures of grief.
When De Walden called that day I would not see him, but lay down on purpose to avoid him; for I dreaded to meet his penetrating glance.
As it was now the middle of July, days were shortening, and by eight o'clock twilight was gathering fast. My appointment was for half-past seven; and by a bribe I obtained leave from Benoit's unworthy successor to stay till half-past eight.
Then, summoning all my fortitude, I entered the cell of my husband. I shall pass over the first moments of our meeting; but I shall never forget them, and I am soothed and comforted when I recollect all that escaped from that affectionate and generous, though misguided being. Suffice, that all his arguments were vain to persuade me that he was not worthy to be saved, at even the smallest risk to a life so precious as mine.
"My life precious!" cried I: "a being without any near and dear ties! with neither parent, child, nor husband, I may now say," cried I, thrown off my guard by the consciousness of a desolate heart.
"I have deserved this reproach," said Seymour; "you have indeed no husband, therefore why should not I die? as, were I gone, Helen, I feel, I know, that you would be no longer desolate!"
I understood his meaning, but did not notice it. Bitter was now the anguish which I felt; nay, so violent was my distress, and so earnest my entreaties that he would escape, as the idea that he refused me in consequence of what I had just said, would, if he perished, drive me, I was convinced, to complete distraction, that he at last consented to my request.