“Death!” I cried, frightened as I looked at her and beheld the fire of her shining eyes, of which I can give no idea to those who have never known their dear ones struck down by her fatal malady, unless I compare those eyes to balls of burnished silver. “Die!” I said. “Henriette, I command you to live. You used to ask an oath of me, I now ask one of you. Swear to me that you will send for Origet and obey him in everything.”
“Would you oppose the mercy of God?” she said, interrupting me with a cry of despair at being thus misunderstood.
“You do not love me enough to obey me blindly, as that miserable Lady Dudley does?”
“Yes, yes, I will do all you ask,” she cried, goaded by jealousy.
“Then I stay,” I said, kissing her on the eyelids.
Frightened at the words, she escaped from my arms and leaned against a tree; then she turned and walked rapidly homeward without looking back. But I followed her; she was weeping and praying. When we reached the lawn I took her hand and kissed it respectfully. This submission touched her.
“I am yours—forever, and as you will,” I said; “for I love you as your aunt loved you.”
She trembled and wrung my hand.
“One look,” I said, “one more, one last of our old looks! The woman who gives herself wholly,” I cried, my soul illumined by the glance she gave me, “gives less of life and soul than I have now received. Henriette, thou art my best-beloved—my only love.”
“I shall live!” she said; “but cure yourself as well.”