Amelia Sinclair.
It was now certain that Amelia was lost to Henry. She had proved faithless by marrying another. How would he bear up against the thunderbolt aimed direct at his heart? I again endeavored to penetrate further into this letter: another fold was carefully raised; the words, “a parent’s curse,” “cruel necessity,” “your absence,” “forced into marriage,” burst upon my sight. I had actually worked myself into a fever, and had partly determined to keep the letter from Middleton, feeling assured that its contents would prove a death-blow to his hopes. While debating the subject with myself, he appeared at the window. I held the letter in my hand. A tremor of almost conscious guilt passed over me, and, if he had watched my countenance, he could not have failed to detect something indicative of my crime. I handed him the letter: he gazed upon the well-known hand, a smile of joy irradiated his visage; he tore it open, hastily devouring its contents; a sudden and awful change came over his face; the exclamation of “oh, God!” escaped him: he raised his right arm, pressing the distended fingers against his forehead, and fell upon the floor in horrid convulsions!
*******
He lay upon the bed of death,—his eyes partly closed, and his hands clasped together in convulsive agony. I stood beside him, awaiting the result of the paroxysm. In a few moments he regained consciousness: he gazed languidly around the room, exclaiming, “Where am I? Who did this?”
“One,” I replied, “who is willing to serve you.”
“Oh, then, as you are my friend, burn that fatal letter! While it exists, I am wretched: it is the curse of the few short moments I have yet to live. I have read it until each word, nay, each letter, seemed as a coal of fire consuming my very heart-strings. It is chained to my brain, and each thought I bestow upon it acts as an electric shock to heighten my misery. I essayed to destroy it; but dared not,—cannot.”
I took the letter and deliberately burned it: he watched its disappearance with a maddening glare, and, when it was entirely burned to ashes, he burst into a hysterical laugh, and fell back upon the bed.
It is scarcely necessary to inform the reader that, after the scene at the post-office, I caused him to be conveyed to my room, and he had continued in a state of delirium during the whole of that time. On recovering from the hysterical affection caused by the excitement of destroying the letter, he became more calm.
“I thank you,” he muttered; “I remember it all, and you have been my true friend. Heaven will bless you for it: my prayers—they are all I have to offer—shall be breathed for thee and thine.”
“Compose yourself,” I answered; “think of nothing now but your recovery and return to your friends.”