"To you, Guy, it may be. To the wise all things are foolish. But to the humble heart there is a truth, even in what are thought follies, which brings us the best of teachings. That is no folly which keeps down, in the even posture of humility, the spirit which circ.u.mstances would only bind and crush in every effort to rise. That is no folly which prepares us for reverses, and fortifies us against change and vicissitude. That is no folly which takes away the sting from affliction--which has kept me, Guy, as once before you said, from driving a knife into your heart, while it lay beating against the one to which yours had brought all manner of affliction. Oh, believe me, the faith and the feeling and the hope, not less than the fear, which has made me what I am now--which has taught me to rely only on the one--which has made me independent of all things and all loves--ay, even of yours, when I refer to it--is no idle folly. It is the only medicine by which the soul may live. It is that which I bring to you now. Hear me, then--Guy, hear the prayer of the poor Ellen, who surely has some right to be heard by you. Kneel for me, and with me, on this dungeon floor, and pray--only pray."
"And what should I pray for, and what should I say--and whom should I curse?"
"Oh, curse none!--say anything you please, so that it have the form of a prayer. Say, though but a single sentence, but say it in the spirit which is right."
"Say what?"
"Say--"the Lord"s will be done," if nothing more; but say it in the true feeling--the feeling of humble reliance upon G.o.d."
"And wherefore say this? His will must be done, and will be done, whether I say it or not. This is all idle--very idle--and to my mind excessively ridiculous, Ellen."
"Not so, Guy, as your own sense will inform you. True, his will must be done; but there is a vast difference between desiring that it be done, and in endeavoring to resist its doing. It is one thing to pray that his will have its way without stop, but quite another to have a vain wish in one"s heart to arrest its progress. But I am a poor scholar, and have no words to prove this to your mind, if you are not willing to think upon the subject. If the danger is not great enough in your thought--if the happiness of that hope of immortality be not sufficiently impressive to you--how can I make it seem different? The great misfortune of the learned and the wise is, that they will not regard the necessity. If they did--if they could be less self-confident--how much more readily would all these lights from G.o.d shine out to them, than to us who want the far sense so quickly to perceive and to trace them out in the thick darkness. But it is my prayer, Guy, that you kneel with me in prayer; that you implore the feeling of preparedness for all chances which can only come from Heaven. Do this for me, Guy--Guy, my beloved--the destroyer of my youth, of all my hope, and of all of mine, making me the poor dest.i.tute and outcast that you find me now--do this one, one small kindness for the poor Ellen you have so much wronged, and she forgives you all. I have no other prayer than this--I have no other wish in life."
As she spoke, she threw herself before him, and clasped his knees firmly with her hands. He lifted her gently from the floor, and for a few moments maintained her in silence in his arms. At length, releasing her from his grasp, and placing her upon the bench, on which, until that moment, he had continued to sit, he replied:--
"The prayer is small--very small, Ellen--which you make, and I know no good reason why I should not grant it. I have been to you all that you describe me. You have called me truly your destroyer, and the forgiveness you promise in return for this prayer is desirable even to one so callous as myself. I will do as you require."
"Oh, will you? then I shall be so happy!--" was her exclamation of rejoicing. He replied gravely--
"We shall see. I will, Ellen, do as you require, but you must turn away your eyes--go to the window and look out. I would not be seen in such a position, nor while uttering such a prayer."
"Oh, be not ashamed, Guy Rivers. Give over that false sentiment of pride which is now a weakness. Be the man, the--"
"Be content, Ellen, with my terms. Either as I please, or not at all. Go to the window."
She did as he directed, and a few moments had elapsed only when he called her to him. He had resumed his seat upon the bench, and his features were singularly composed and quiet.
"I have done something more than you required, Ellen, for which you will also have to forgive me. Give me your hand, now."
She did so, and he placed it upon his bosom, which was now streaming with his blood! He had taken the momentary opportunity afforded him by her absence at the window to stab himself to the heart with a penknife which he had contrived to conceal upon his person. Horror-struck, the affrighted woman would have called out for a.s.sistance, but, seizing her by the wrist, he sternly stayed her speech and action.
"Not for your life, Ellen--not for your life! It is all useless. I first carefully felt for the beatings of my heart, and then struck where they were strongest. The stream flows now which will soon cease to flow, and but one thing can stop it."
"Oh, what is that, Guy?--let me--"
"Death--which is at hand! Now, Ellen, do you forgive me? I ask no forgiveness from others."
"From my heart I do, believe me."
"It is well. I am weak. Let me place my head upon your bosom. It is some time, Ellen, since it has been there. How wildly does it struggle! Pray, Ellen, that it beat not long. It has a sad office! Now--lips--give me your lips, Ellen. You have forgiven me--all--everything?"
"All, all!"
"It grows dark--but I care not. Yet, throw open the window--I will not rest--I will pursue! He shall not escape me!--Edith--Edith!" He was silent, and sunk away from her embrace upon the floor. In the last moment his mind had wandered to the scene in which, but an hour before, he had witnessed the departure of Edith with his rival, Colleton.
The jailer, alarmed by the first fearful cry of Ellen succeeding this event, rushed with his a.s.sistants into the cell, but too late. The spirit had departed; and they found but the now silent mourner, with folded arms, and a countenance that had in it volumes of unutterable wo, bending over the inanimate form of one whose life and misnamed love had been the bane of hers.
THE END.