The old lady clasps the trembling girl in her arms. "Little goose!" she says. "As if that were of any consequence, my darling! Only go quietly to sleep, that I may find you well when I return. Where is my pocket-handkerchief? Oh, there is Goswyn's letter: when you are a little better you can read it. You need not be afraid that I shall try to persuade you; that time has gone by; but I think the letter ought to please you. At all events, it is something to have inspired so thoroughly excellent a man with so deep and true an affection; and you will see, too, that you have been unjust to him. Good-bye, my darling, good-bye."
For the last time Erika presses the delicate old hand to her lips. The Countess has gone. Erika is alone. She has locked her door, and is sitting on her bed with Goswyn's letter open on her lap. Her tears are falling thick and fast upon it. It reads as follows:
"My very dear old Friend,--
"Shall you be in Venice next week, and may I come to you there? I do not want you to tell me if I have any chance: I shall come at all events, unless Countess Erika is actually betrothed. This is plain speaking, is it not?
"Have you known, or have you not known, that through all these years since my rejection by the Countess Erika not a day has passed for me that has not been filled with thoughts of her? In any case my conduct must have seemed inexplicable to you: probably you have thought me ridiculously sensitive. It is true, ridiculous sensitiveness, as I now see, has been the true cause of my foolish, unjustifiable behaviour, but it has not been the sensitiveness of a rejected suitor. God forbid!
"I should never have been provoked by the Countess Erika's rejection of me,--no, never,--even if it had not been conveyed in so bewitching a way that one ought to have kneeled down and adored her for it. There was another reason for my sensitiveness. A certain person, whose name there is no need to mention, hinted that I was in pursuit of Countess Erika's money. From that moment my peace of mind was at an end. I could not go near her again, because, to speak plainly, I was conscious that I was not a suitable match for her.
"You think this petty. I think it is petty myself,--so petty that I despise myself, and simply ask, am I any more worthy of so glorious a creature, now that I have a few more marks a year to spend?
"I dread being punished for my obstinate stupidity. Perhaps there was no possibility of my winning her heart, but it was worth a trial, and she has a right to reproach me for never in all these years making that trial. Inconceivable as my long delay must appear to you, I am sure you can understand why I have not thus appealed to you lately, so soon after the terrible misfortune that has befallen me.
"It was too horrible!
"In addition to my sincere sorrow for my brother's death, I am tormented by the sensation that I never sufficiently prized the nobility of character which his last moments revealed. To turn so terrible a catastrophe to my advantage would have been to me impossible. I could not have done it, even although I had not been so crushed by the manner of his death that all desire, all love of life, has for some weeks seemed dead within me.