"But how can her grandmother justify her own conduct to herself, if it is so?"
"God only knows," I answered; "but if you love me, my dearest aunt,—if you wish me to be happy,—if my supplications have any weight with you…"
"If they have, Ellen?"
"No, no!" I exclaimed,—"not if—I will not say if they have, for I know they have. I know you love me, and I know that you will do all you can to make Henry happy with Alice. I shall not have a moment's peace if they are not happy."
"Angel!" said my aunt, as she pressed her lips to my cheek. I drew back with a thrill of horror.
"Never call me an angel,—never say that again: I cannot bear it. I am not disclaiming,—I am not humble,—I am only cowardly. I cannot explain to you everything; indeed, I hardly know if I understand myself, or Henry, or anything; but thus much I do know, that if Alice Tracy has gained his regard—wildly as he talks in that strange letter—if she has a hold on his affections, I shall bless her every day of my life,—she will have saved me from inexpressible misery. Oh, my dearest dear aunt,—write to Henry, write to Alice to-day,—immediately: do not wait for my uncle's permission—write at once."
I seized on the inkstand, and putting paper and pen before her, I stood by in anxious expectation. She sighed heavily, and then said to me:—
"Ellen, will you never again speak openly to me? If you did not care about Henry, what has made you so wretched lately? Why are your spirits broken?—why is your cheek pale and your step heavy? You deceive yourself, my child; you love Henry, and it is only excitement that at this moment gives you false strength."
"Whether I ever have loved Henry," I replied, "is a mystery to myself. I think not;—indeed I believe I can truly say that I never loved him; though at one moment I fancied that I did; and if, yesterday, you had come to me and told me that my uncle had consented to my marrying him,—nay, that he wished me to do so;—had you yourself asked me to marry your brother, I should have refused—yesterday, to-day, always."
"Then you have quarrelled with him," quickly rejoined Mrs.
Middleton; "and this marriage of his is the result of wounded
feeling,—perhaps of a misunderstanding between you. Poor
Henry!"