"Does this man love me!" thought I, half wild with the delightful idea, "and shall we not meet again? Impossible! As friends, at least, we must, shall meet, or I will die in the attempt."
The letter gave me new life, I imagined myself cured. Gay visions of departed happiness filled my imagination. I placed myself before the glass, to contemplate the havoc which sickness and anxiety had made on my features, and sighed heavily. "No matter!" vanity whispered, "I am more interesting, though not half so brilliant"; and then I hoped he would not love me less for the suffering his neglect had occasioned me. This world, said I, is a blank without him. I have endeavoured and prayed for tranquillity of mind in vain, during many long months, which yet have brought me no consolation. Too well I know I must renounce him as a lover; but for ever out of his sight I cannot exist, and longer I will not. I will take him by surprise. I will wait for hours, days, years at his door; but I will hear his voice once more. Shall I continue to suffer thus for what his footmen, tradesmen and valet, enjoy freely every day?
I, who would sign my own death-warrant but once again to kiss the dear hand which inscribed this beautiful little note! What have I done so very wicked, that I may not ever again behold him? I will wait at his door every night that I can ascertain he is from home, and, the first time he happens to return on foot, I cannot fail to see him; and one word he must say to me, if it is but to order me home. Something like the man, who boasted of having been addressed by the Emperor Bonaparte: "What did he say to you?" somebody asked. "Va t'en coquin," answered this true Christian.
Well, then, to conclude, since I am sure my readers are growing as tired of this dismal love-story as I am, I wandered nightly round Lord Ponsonby's house, which I believe I have said was now at the corner of Upper Brook Street, in Park Lane, for nearly a fortnight to no purpose. He returned not before daylight, when I dared not show myself, or he either came in his carriage, or had not left his house. The night air so increased my cough, that, God knows where I found strength for these wild nocturnal promenades; but love does wonders! I passed the whole day coughing in bed, to obtain strength at least to die at his door: for I had taken an oath to behold Ponsonby again or die in the attempt.
One night, dread of observation from the watchman, or insult from the passing strangers, made me parade slowly, on the opposite side of the street, before his house. The moon was shining beautifully, at near one in the morning. A magnificent, tall, elegant man, habited in black, turned hastily round the corner from Park Lane, and knocked loudly at Ponsonby's door. Could I be mistaken? I felt in every drop of my thrilling blood, and at the bottom of my heart, that it was Ponsonby, almost before I had caught a glimpse of him; and, darting across the street, with the light swiftness of former times, alas! ils étaient passés, ces jours de fêtes là. A bar of iron across my chest seemed to arrest my flight, and I was compelled to stand quite still for an instant. That instant decided my fate. I obtained Ponsonby's dwelling as the porter shut him out from my sight. The anguish of that moment I will not attempt to describe.
My mouth immediately filled with blood. Whether this was the effect of mental suffering, or whether I had done myself an internal injury by over-exertion, I know not: nor do I scarcely recollect how I happened to find myself in a hackney-coach. All I know for certain as to the adventures of that miserable night, is that I opened my eyes at five in the morning to behold Dr. Bain and a surgeon, who was binding up my arm to bleed me, my sister Fanny, in tears, and the Duke of Argyle, who stood at the foot of my bed, consulting with Dr. Bain. I know not why the kind, scarlet fever attacked me, in the midst of all my troubles; but that was the disorder under which I suffered.
I will not dwell on what I endured during a fortnight; indeed, as I was so frequently delirious, I knew little about it.
At the end of that time, however, my life was despaired of; but, in a few days, the disorder took a favourable turn and, after lingering six weeks, during which I had full time to reflect on all the follies I had indulged in, and having for more than a week been desired by Dr. Bain to prepare my mind for death, my late passion assumed the character of madness. I considered Ponsonby's conduct towards myself and his wife as equally heartless, and undeserved by all I had suffered for him. I earnestly prayed that he might hereafter make his lady amends for the former neglect I had occasioned her. I no longer desired to see him. "I have suffered too much," I often thought to myself, "and will not dwell on the occasion of it lest I lose sight of that charitable spirit towards all mankind in which I hope to die. Were he now in that room waiting to see me, I should desire him to return to his home and leave me to die in peace." I hoped that God would not be as deaf to his last prayers as he had been to mine. I sent his watch, chain and ring to Amy, to do exactly what she pleased with. I never mentioned Lord Ponsonby but once during my last illness; it was addressing Fanny,—"If ever you meet with him, after my death, tell him that I forgave him: and, for his wife's sake, as well as for his own, I prayed that God would mend his heart; but that I felt no desire to see him, or to take my final leave of him."
During this severe illness, the Duke of Argyle was very attentive to me. He was now the only man living for whom I felt the least interest. My sister Amy knew this, as well as all my late suffering; yet I was scarcely considered convalescent, when she made a desperate attack on Argyle's heart, which he complained of to me in terms of strong disgust. One night in particular before I had left my room, he came to me, after the opera.