"Never call me an angel,--never say that again: I cannot bear it. I am not disclaiming,--I am not humble,--I am only cowardly. I cannot explain to you everything; indeed, I hardly know if I understand myself, or Henry, or anything; but thus much I do know, that if Alice Tracy has gained his regard--wildly as he talks in that strange letter--if she has a hold on his affections, I shall bless her every day of my life,--she will have saved me from inexpressible misery. Oh, my dearest dear aunt,--write to Henry, write to Alice to-day,--immediately: do not wait for my uncle's permission--write at once." I seized on the inkstand, and putting paper and pen before her, I stood by in anxious expectation. She sighed heavily, and then said to me:-- "Ellen, will you never again speak openly to me? If you did not care about Henry, what has made you so wretched lately? Why are your spirits broken?--why is your cheek pale and your step heavy? You deceive yourself, my child; you love Henry, and it is only excitement that at this moment gives you false strength." "Whether I ever have loved Henry," I replied, "is a mystery to myself. I think not;--indeed I believe I can truly say that I never loved him; though at one moment I fancied that I did; and if, yesterday, you had come to me and told me that my uncle had consented to my marrying him,--nay, that he wished me to do so;--had you yourself asked me to marry your brother, I should have refused--yesterday, to-day, always." "Then you have quarrelled with him," quickly rejoined Mrs. Middleton; "and this marriage of his is the result of wounded feeling,--perhaps of a misunderstanding between you. Poor Henry!" There was a little irritation in my aunt's manner of saying these last words; and I was on the point of telling her what Henry had proposed and urged upon me in our last interview, and of thus justifying myself from any imputation of having behaved ill to him; but I instantly felt that this would be unfair and ungenerous, especially at this moment. Besides, was I not in his power, and could I venture to accuse him who held in his hands the secret of my fate? So again I shut up my heart, and closed my lips to her who loved me with a love which would have made the discovery of that fatal secret almost amount to a death-blow. She seemed now to understand better my anxiety for the happiness of her brother and of his young wife. She seemed to think that I was conscious of having, in some manner or other, behaved ill to Henry, and driven him to this marriage, and that I was anxious to make all the amends in my power. But when she had drawn the paper before her, and was beginning to write, she put down her pen, and exclaimed: "But if he does not love her, what induced him to choose _her?_ To make us all wretched!--to inflict upon himself such a connection! I cannot understand it!"