"'Tis well: retire: I will see how she is myself."
Ormond had conceived himself fortified against every disaster: he looked for nothing but evil, and therefore, in ordinary cases, regarded its approach without fear or surprise. Now, however, he found that his tremors would not be stilled: his perturbations increased with every step that brought him nearer to her chamber. He knocked, but no answer was returned. He opened the door, advanced to the bed side, and drew back the curtains. He shrunk from the spectacle that presented itself. Was this the Helena that, a few hours before, was blithesome with health and radiant with beauty? Her visage was serene, but sunken and pale. Death was in every line of it. To his tremulous and hurried scrutiny every limb was rigid and cold.
The habits of Ormond tended to obscure the appearances, if not to deaden the emotions of sorrow. He was so much accustomed to the frustration of well-intended efforts, and confided so much in his own integrity, that he was not easily disconcerted. He had merely to advert, on this occasion, to the tumultuous state of his feelings, in order to banish their confusion and restore himself to calm. "Well," said he, as he dropped the curtain and turned towards another part of the room, "this, without doubt, is a rueful spectacle. Can it be helped? Is there in man the power of recalling her? There is none such in me.
"She is gone: well then, she is gone. If she were fool enough to die, I am not fool enough to follow her. I am determined to live and be happy notwithstanding. Why not?
"Yet, this is a piteous night. What is impossible to undo, might be easily prevented. A piteous spectacle! But what else, on an ampler scale, is the universe? Nature is a theatre of suffering. What corner is unvisited by calamity and pain? I have chosen as became me. I would rather precede thee to the grave, than live to be thy husband.
"Thou hast done my work for me. Thou hast saved thyself and me from a thousand evils. Thou hast acted as seemed to thee best, and I am satisfied.
"Hast thou decided erroneously? They that know thee need not marvel at that. Endless have been the proofs of thy frailty. In favour of this last act something may be said. It is the last thou wilt ever commit. Others only will experience its effects; thou hast, at least, provided for thy own safety.
"But what is here? A letter for me? Had thy understanding been as prompt as thy fingers, I could have borne with thee. I can easily divine the contents of this epistle."
He opened it, and found the tenor to be as follows:—
"You did not use, my dear friend, to part with me in this manner. You never before treated me so roughly. I am, sorry, indeed I am, that I ever offended you. Could you suppose that I intended it? And if you knew that I meant not offence, why did you take offence?
"I'm very unhappy, for I have lost you, my friend. You will never see me more, you say. That is very hard. I have deserved it to-be-sure, but I do not know how it has happened. Nobody more desired to please than I have done. Morning, noon, night, it was my only study; but you will love me no more; you will see me no more. Forgive me, my friend, but I must say it is very hard.
"You said rightly; I do not wish to live without my friend. I have spent my life happily heretofore. 'Tis true, these have been transient uneasinesses, but your love was a reward and a cure for every thing. I desired nothing better in this world. Did you ever hear me murmur? No; I was not so unjust. My lot was happy, infinitely beyond my deserving. I merited not to be loved by you. Oh that I had suitable words to express my gratitude for your kindness! but this last meeting,—how different from that which went before? Yet even then there was something on your brow like discontent, which I could not warble nor whisper away as I used to do. But sad as this was, it was nothing like the last.
"Could Ormond be so stern and so terrible? You knew that I would die, but you need not have talked as if I were in the way, and as if you had rather I should die than live. But one thing I rejoice at; I am a poor silly girl, but Constantia is a noble and accomplished one. Most joyfully do I resign you to her, my dear friend. You say you love her. She need not be afraid of accepting you. There will be no danger of your preferring another to her. It was very natural and very right for you to prefer her to me. She and you will be happy in each other. It is this that sweetens the cup I am going to drink. Never did I go to sleep with more good-will than I now go to death. Fare you well, my dear friend."