For a moment, too, the thought entered her mind of burning this relic now of faithlessness; the words "Hope on" seemed to mock her woe. The fire was there; what prevented her burning it? what stayed her hand from committing it to the flames?
"No," she said, "I won't destroy it; broken as it is—fit emblem of my heart—I will keep it. I may live to see him—I may live to show it to him! he may yet return—may yet live to bind the heart he has broken! Till then I will keep thee, broken as thou art; when my heart is re-united, so shall be thy circlet!"
With these words she placed the gaud in her bosom, and some good angel whispered "Hope on!"
The thought passed away; the bright ray of hope darkened again and again; she threw herself on her bed and wished for death. We know not how long she lay there; soon however her fortitude gave way, a tear started in her eye, another and another, and then came a long paroxysm of grief,—a torrent of tears, a flood after passion's storm; but the relief came too quickly. It was like the sudden breaking up of ice in the Northern ocean; like the sudden thaw after a long winter of snow,—prognostic only of a worse storm to come. And so it was with Ellen; the sudden relief given by tears was too much for her mind. For a moment she felt the load gone,—the next, and all came back, and her mind began to wander. She was at the Towers; by her side stood her lover;—he told his love, and asked her hand, and she accepted him. And lo! another lady came—another fair creature—and he left her and smiled on his new flame. She tried to speak, to reproach his infidelity; she could not, she had not the power of utterance; her words were frozen. Then she heard a wild maniacal laugh—she turned, and saw a demon form scoffing at her woe!—and his face, oh, agony! oh, shame!—his face was L'Estrange's.
She woke—not from sleep, but from this wild vision bred by a troubled mind. Her head ached as if it would split, an awful load seemed to crush her very brain;—was it in a vice? She had thrown herself on her bed, all dressed as she was: she rose,—how giddy she felt! She hastily disrobed herself—she could have fallen all the time: why did she not? A strange power upheld her, and she now sought her couch and tried to think. Oh, God! was her mind going? She knew something was wrong, but had forgotten what it was; and now she felt chill, and now burning hot, her pulse throbbed, her heart fluttered: what was the matter?—was she ill, dying? She had asked for death,—was it come? She stretched out her hand to ring the bell—where was it?—ah, here it is!—she rung it violently, and overpowered by her exertion, sunk back on her pillow. Was it a dream again in which she saw her father stand by her bed?—did she really feel him take her hand, and feel her fluttering pulse? No, this was no dream; her father had heard that midnight bell, and rushed to her chamber; he had felt her pulse, and was horror-stricken at its quick and still quickening convulses; still more terrified when he found his daughter knew him not. And he himself hurriedly dressed, and, bidding the servant watch while he was absent, ran for the village doctor.
He came as soon as he could,—but not soon enough to please the anxious father. He came, and saw in a moment she was in a high brain-fever; the disease was raging and burning fiercer every moment, and he had to tell the poor father he could not undertake the case without higher medical attendance.
The first doctors in Edinburgh were summoned; and for one-and-twenty days her father never left her bedside. During the first ten days delirium had wildly triumphed; and in her fits she would often repeat the names of "Wentworth," "L'Estrange." Afterwards, though insensible even to her father, the fever had become less violent, and the patient seemed daily more exhausted.
At length the twenty-first day dawned and the critical hour approached—the crisis came! In one hour it would be known if she recovered, or sunk beneath it.
How anxiously her worn father watched! and when at last the fever lessened, the crisis past, and favourable symptoms were observed, and for the first time the sufferer slept, he fell on his knees at her bedside and thanked heaven for it. Then first too did he consent to court sleep himself.
After a long, death-like sleep, Ellen opened her eyes. She saw her father, who had also had a nap, by her side, and faintly smiled. He took her hand in his own and asked her if she knew him, and told her to press it if she did. She pressed it, faintly indeed, but he felt it. She could not speak, so weakened had the fever left her. Oh! had Lord Wentworth seen his Ellen then!—would he have known her? She was the mere shadow of the beautiful girl into whose hand he had pressed the ring; her eyes were still bright—still unchanged; and her long hair—once had it been doomed—once had the doctor nigh closed the open forfex on her silken tresses, but her father had stayed the ruthless spoiler.