“What is to be done, Walter?” said Ellinor, wringing her hands. “We cannot help it. My father has, at last, forbid me to contradict the wish. Contradiction, the physician himself says, might be as fatal as concession can be. And my father adds, in a stern, calm voice, which it breaks my heart to hear, ‘Be still, Ellinor. If the innocent is to perish, the sooner she joins him the better: I would then have all my ties on the other side the grave!’”
“How that strange man seems to have fascinated you all!” said Walter, bitterly.
Ellinor did not answer: over her the fascination had never been to an equal degree with the rest of her family.
“Ellinor!” said Walter, who had been walking for the last few moments to and fro with the rapid strides of a man debating with himself, and who now suddenly paused, and laid his hand on his cousin’s arm—“Ellinor! I am resolved. I must, for the quiet of my soul, I must see Madeline this night, and win her forgiveness for all I have been made the unintentional agent of Providence to bring upon her. The peace of my future life may depend on this single interview. What if Aram be condemned—and—and—in short, it is no matter—I must see her.”
“She would not hear of it, I fear,” said Ellinor, in alarm. “Indeed, you cannot—you do not know her state of mind.”
“Ellinor!” said Walter, doggedly, “I am resolved.” And so saying, he moved towards the house.
“Well, then,” said Ellinor, whose nerves had been greatly shattered by the scenes and sorrow of the last several months, “if it must be so, wait at least till I have gone in, and consulted or prepared her.”
“As you will, my gentlest, kindest cousin; I know your prudence and affection. I leave you to obtain me this interview; you can, and will, I am convinced.”
“Do not be sanguine, Walter. I can only promise to use my best endeavours,” answered Ellinor, blushing as he kissed her hand; and, hurrying up the walk, she disappeared within the house.
Walter walked for some moments about the alley in which Ellinor had left him, but growing impatient, he at length wound through the overhanging trees, and the house stood immediately before him,—the moonlight shining full on the window-panes, and sleeping in quiet shadow over the green turf in front. He approached yet nearer, and through one of the windows, by a single light in the room, he saw Ellinor leaning over a couch, on which a form reclined, that his heart, rather than his sight, told him was his once-adored Madeline. He stopped, and his breath heaved thick;—he thought of their common home at Grassdale—of the old Manor-house—of the little parlour with the woodbine at its casement—of the group within, once so happy and light-hearted, of which he had formerly made the one most buoyant, and not least-loved. And now this strange—this desolate house—himself estranged from all once regarding him,—(and those broken-hearted,)—this night ushering what a morrow!—he groaned almost aloud, and retreated once more into the shadow of the trees. In a few minutes the door at the right of the building opened, and Ellinor came forth with a quick step.