"No matter what," said he hastily; "I must see her now."
Laura shrunk back astonished and dismayed; but feeling that he would not be contradicted, she again, with light steps, approached the bed; where, in a profound sleep, the effect of opiates, lay Ellen, "fair lily, and whiter than her sheets;" and but that in the stillness of night her quick short breathings were distinctly heard, it could hardly have been known she lived.
Laura then beckoned St. Aubyn to approach, which he did with trembling steps, and shaded by the curtain, gazed wistfully upon her. Overcome by the touching spectacle of youth, beauty, and innocence, in a few hours almost destroyed by his rash jealousy, the tears now ran down his manly cheeks; and hardly could he restrain the groans which heaved his bosom, while Laura's eyes streamed at the affecting sight before her. At that moment Ellen moved a little, and they both retreated, that if she opened her eyes she might not see them; but she still slept; and only murmuring "dear St. Aubyn," and a few inarticulate words, she was again silent.
Again St. Aubyn asked Laura if it were possible she could recover, and she assured him that Ellen already looked better than she had done an hour before; and at last, after he had knelt and imprinted a soft kiss on one of her hands, which lay on the counterpane, and lifted up his heart to heaven, in silent prayer for her recovery, he was prevailed on to quit the room.
The rest of the night St. Aubyn spent in settling some papers, and adding a few lines to his will, all of which he locked into a drawer, and sealing up the key, directed it to Lady Juliana.
At day-break his valet, according to order, came to him. To this confidential servant St. Aubyn explained the cause of his going from home so early, and left the pacquet for Lady Juliana in his care, to be delivered to her, should he not return in safety. He then sent to inquire of Jane for her lady, and had the happiness of hearing a favourable account of her. St. Aubyn then set off, attended only by one servant, to the house of Sir Edward Leicester, whose carriage was at the door, and they instantly proceeded to Wimbledon, where, on the spot marked in Charles Ross's letter, they alighted; and telling the coachman to draw off, and wait at a place they pointed out to him, the two friends walked up and down some time, expecting Ross.
In about ten minutes they saw him approaching, but alone: St. Aubyn just touched his hat, and said, "Mr. Ross, where is your friend?"
"My Lord," said Ross, in a firm tone, "I am here, not to fight, not to double the injuries you have already received from me, but to make every concession you can desire. I have brought no friend with me; I trust my honour and my life implicitly in your hands. Are you prepared to hear my explanation?—if not, I am ready to stand your fire."
"I know not, Sir," said St. Aubyn, haughtily, "what has caused this sudden alteration in your sentiments: this meeting was at your own request; and the insults you bestowed on Lady St. Aubyn yesterday make me as desirous of it now as you were when you appointed it."
"Yet, my Lord," said Sir Edward, "hear Mr. Ross: if this affair can be accommodated without bloodshed, I think myself called upon to insist it shall be so."