I followed her in silence. I met Herbert at the door of the room. "I am glad you are come," said he. He was in tears.
"I am too weak, Herbert; am I not?"
He pressed my hand,—"No, no,"—and he left me.
I entered the room, and sat down by her side. She spoke not for some minutes.
"I wished to see you once more, Mr. Saville," she said at length in a low tone, and without raising her eyes to my face, "to implore, not your pardon, for that I dare not expect; but that you will not curse my memory when I am gone. You would not, Edward,"—and she tremblingly touched my hand as it lay upon the bed,—"if you knew all, or if I could tell you all."
I answered something, but I know not what.
"I have been guilty," she resumed, "but I did not meditate guilt. Heaven is my witness that I speak the truth. I was betrayed;—and the rest was fear, and frenzy, and despair!"
I could conceive that now—I could believe it:— I did believe it,—and I was human. I took both her hands in mine: "Look at me, Isabella! look in my face!"
She did so, but with hesitation, and as she did so she started.—"Nay, we are both altered: but other miseries might have done this. I forgive you from my heart and from my soul. As we first met, so shall we now part. All shall be forgotten,—all is forgiven. God bless you!"
Those words had killed her. Her eyes dwelt upon me for one moment with their first sweetness in them;—a sigh,—and earth alone remained!