"Who came to your room?" exclaimed St. Aubyn: "who dared to intrude, to disturb and alarm you thus?"
"Oh! he was sleeping, I believe! but in his sleep—Oh heavens! he talked so dreadfully—of such horrid things—and called upon his sister in such tones! Oh! I never, never shall forget them!"
"Was it De Montfort?" asked the dismayed St. Aubyn.
"Oh yes, oh yes—De Montfort! Oh, his eyes, his face, his voice! I never, never, shall forget them!" she repeated with renewed agitation.
"Unhappy young man!" said St. Aubyn, with a sigh. "Would to God thou had'st never come hither! Affright not yourself, my Ellen, with his wild wanderings. By this time, I had hoped the wretch, who caused this dreadful mischief, might have been found, and all might have been cleared. Years have I sought in vain. Still, still, he evades my search—perhaps exists no longer.
"It is, however, time to reveal the past to you; but now you are too much alarmed to hear the long and melancholy tale: return to your bed, my Ellen; try to rest for my sake, for your babe's, who must suffer, should his tender nurse be ill: go to repose, and I will watch by you till morning; then, dear, and for ever dear creature, all shall be revealed; but remember your promise, in spite of all appearances—still to believe me innocent!"
Prevailed on at length to return to her own chamber, yet Ellen entreated St. Aubyn to examine the gallery, and see if De Montfort might not be again returned to visit the room he seemed to know so well; and even when assured he was not there, she still shuddered and turned pale, as fancy pictured him standing with his lamp in the door-way, or pacing with disordered steps the chamber floor.
After obtaining a few hours rest, which somewhat restored her, Ellen, by appointment, joined St. Aubyn in his study at a very early hour, where he had promised to explain, as far as he could, the strange and vexatious events which had so long involved him in the greatest uneasiness.
Sad was St. Aubyn's countenance, and the cheek of Ellen was yet pale from her recent agitation when they met. St. Aubyn, tenderly taking her hand, said, "I half regret, my Ellen, that my selfish love withdrew you from that sweet content and cheerfulness which surrounded your peaceful abode when first we met, to partake with me cares and alarms which otherwise you never would have known."
"My dear St. Aubyn, do not talk so," said Ellen, with a tender tear: "all the cares, all the alarms you speak of, were they ten times doubled, could not outweigh, in my estimation, the happiness of being one hour your wife. Oh believe, my beloved Lord, that fate I would have chosen, even though I had been sure the next would have brought my death."