D’Arcy still held the cowed and trembling wretch in his nervous grasp. Ella, pale, almost fainting, had quitted the room. Silent, motionless, horror-stricken, with dilated eyes, I watched, as in a nightmare, the fearful scene, powerless to speak or scream. I saw Philip at length open the door, violently ejecting, almost flinging the man from the room. I saw no more—my trembling limbs refused any longer to sustain me. I sank into the nearest chair, sick—sick, covering my face with my hands, a film before my eyes. On recovering consciousness, I was alone, and all was still. [Illustration] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXVIII. +SHADOWS+ ELLA TO PHILIP D’ARCY. The Retreat, September —, 18—. FORGIVE me for what I am about to write. Indeed, I feel that I am performing a duty, even though my dear mother is ignorant of this step. I must, however, add, that I have the full approbation of one who never fails to judge rightly—I mean our good, sensible friend, Mary Mildmay. Dear Mr. D’Arcy, esteeming and respecting you above all men living, as I do, you will think it strange, when I tell you that I have come to the conclusion, seriously and advisedly, that I can _never_ be your wife; and, believe me, this resolution is _irrevocable_. As a favor, I implore you not to attempt to change my determination. It would be utterly fruitless. Would you know my reasons? They are many. When you honored me, by asking my hand, I was a mere child. I am now a woman, and must exert the prerogative of my sex—that of choice—in a matter which concerns my own happiness, and your future welfare. Know, then, that I am inspired to say to you, that, in marrying me, you will _pass by your destiny_. The impression is so strong that I cannot, if I would, shake it off; but must obey, as if a voice from heaven had spoken. Do you not know, too, that I have sworn never to forsake my beloved mother in her sorrow and her loneliness? And can I falsify my oath? In order to remove all further doubt from your mind, know, likewise, that it is not to _me_ that you owe your life. Poor little Ella nursed you tenderly, it is true, through your convalescence; but it was her dear mother who recalled you, by the magnetism of her health-producing touch, from the trance of death; and, in so doing, she herself nearly perished. If I have yet another reason for thus writing—_that_ I must ever preserve profoundly secret. One parting favor I request: let this make no difference. Come to us as before. Be still a friend—prove thus to me that I have your pardon—for—give—forget. Yes, forget all, except that I shall never cease to pray for your happiness, and that I am, as ever,