"My dearest Wentworth, I have often told you it is but my duty—a delightful one—to try and be a helpmate instead of hindrance to you; and I may say too during all our married life I have never seen an unkind look,—you have been my love and faithful lover in a way unhappily too rare."
"Yes, we were made for each other, Ellen; they say marriages are made in heaven: I am sure ours was, for by my union with you I have won everything in this world and the next. I have lived to see and admire your silent example, lived to see its blessed fruits in my two sisters, lived to follow and value religion, and to feel the assurance that our hearts are bound not only now, but to all eternity in cords of everlasting love."
"Give to God the praise, dearest Wentworth; if I have been the unworthy instrument of leading you from earthly dross to eternal and unchangeable riches, I have been only the poor instrument, but this seems my happiness; to hear my best loved speak so is the bright answer of many, many prayers. I knew they would be answered. I felt sure you were mine both upon earth and in heaven!"
"Ah, Ellen, it is in this one sees the reality of religion. What are rank, earthly honours, position, wealth, if only to be used or abused here? What are all to a dying man? Yes, it is one thing to talk of death, one thing to enjoy life, as if death existed not,—it is another to know our end is near, to feel we must soon lose all; leave the world naked as we came into it, tread out on empty space, quit our firm footing below! had we then no assurance that around us were the everlasting arms, what would all earthly joys do for us? but thanks to heaven, and to you for leading me to seek that treasure where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, I feel that if called to die this night I could die happy. There might be the pang mortal man must own when his breath forsakes him, there might be the human dread of the cold tomb, the pain of the wrench from those we love below, but my mind would be happy, happy in the thought I should soon see you again, and those I loved, and have darkly lost."
"True, dearest, and earth has so little left us now, it seems as if we were called to think more on heaven! Every tie seems severed but one—our daughter. I would endure to live for her and for you, but certainly most of our dear ones are beyond the grave, and there my heart often soars too."
"I have a strange presentiment, dearest Ellen, that I shall not long be spared to you. Since my brother's death I have felt the shadow of the tomb overshading me! Whether it was the awful scene of his self-destruction, or the air of the damp dungeon in which he was confined, I know not, but I have never felt the same man since. I think I shall soon go too!"
"Ah! say not so," said the Countess. "Oh, Wentworth! you must not leave us. It is a different thing to speak of death and to see our dearest fade beneath its cruel breath! You must take advice, dear, and change the air. This uncertain climate, after so long a residence in Italy, is not suiting you. Promise me you will take advice."
"It is needless, love; no doctor could avail. Remember the Weird; remember what I told you in the grot where I sought and won your hand and heart. Ours is a strange family! Coming death with us casts his shadow ever before. I have long been under that shade. No, Ellen, it is come at last; I shall never see the summer roses! Spring is now putting out her buds and early leaves, but summer's flowers will blossom over my tomb."
"Oh! my dear husband," said the Countess, with tears in her eyes, "do not talk thus, and break my heart. Oh! live for your Ellen! it will kill her if you die. Live for Augusta! Oh, do not—do not leave us."
"I hear the voice that calls me, Ellen; you must not weep so; it will only be for a little while we are separated; it is but a narrow stream, and you will live and bring up our pledge of fondest love, little Augusta; let her be your second self, and I will look down on you, and be very near you still, only the thinnest, airiest veil will lie between us. I believe, and I think many believe with me, our departed friends are close beside us. I doubt not Edith and Florence are very near now; we cannot see, nor feel, nor hear them, but 'tis only the breaking of life's silver cord that severs us."