“Hilary!”
“Well, dear, what?”
“Tell me! oh, tell me!—in another week I may not ask, or even think of him—tell me now in mercy—” she put her hand to her head.
“Yes, but what am I to tell you, Dora? he is well, quite well.”
“Tell me what he thinks of me; tell me or I shall go mad! Does he hate me, despise me, as an idle, giddy, trifling coquette, a heartless, ambitious girl, content to sell my hand and person? Does he not loath me from his heart? He must, he can not help it.”
“No, indeed.”
“Has he mentioned my name to you? What did he say? What could he say but words of contempt and scorn!”
“No, neither contempt nor scorn; far from it he says. I will read you what he says;” and turning to her desk, Hilary presently produced the letter containing the allusions to Dora’s marriage. She read his message, while Dora, listening, held her breath as if afraid to lose a word.
“Good, noble, honorable Maurice, too good, too kind,” said she at length, “happy, happy for you that you are not bound to so worthless, so feeble a creature as I am! Ah! I am glad, glad, most glad that you are not miserable. Read it again, Hilary, once more; or no, let me see for once, only once, his blessed writing.” She caught the letter from her friend, and began to read it herself. Mrs. Hepburn remonstrated, but Dora held the letter with both hands, and read, eagerly devouring the words with her eyes, and totally deaf to her companion’s voice. Then, when she had done, she passionately kissed the paper, pressed it to her heart, looked at it again; and again, with streaming eyes, put her lips to the signature.
“Wretch, wretch that I am!” she cried, frantically; “oh, Hilary! I shall die, my heart will break, I know I shall! I often have a burning pain here in my bosom, or my head, which can not last; iron, flint, granite, breaks or pulverizes; surely human life is not harder, not more tenacious than those. Tell me, shall I not die?”