“And what is there so strange in my design?  I might have deceived you; I might have talked of remaining here only a few months; in your anxiety to reach Windsor you would have left me, and without reproach or contention, I might have pursued my plan.  But I disdained the artifice; or rather in my wretchedness it was my only consolation to pour out my heart to you, my brother, my only friend.  You will not dispute with me?  You know how wilful your poor, misery-stricken sister is.  Take my girl with you; wean her from sights and thoughts of sorrow; let infantine hilarity revisit her heart, and animate her eyes; so could it never be, were she near me; it is far better for all of you that you should never see me again.  For myself, I will not voluntarily seek death, that is, I will not, while I can command myself; and I can here.  But drag me from this country; and my power of self control vanishes, nor can I answer for the violence my agony of grief may lead me to commit.”

“You clothe your meaning, Perdita,” I replied, “in powerful words, yet that meaning is selfish and unworthy of you.  You have often agreed with me that there is but one solution to the intricate riddle of life; to improve ourselves, and contribute to the happiness of others:  and now, in the very prime of life, you desert your principles, and shut yourself up in useless solitude.  Will you think of Raymond less at Windsor, the scene of your early happiness?  Will you commune less with his departed spirit, while you watch over and cultivate the rare excellence of his child?  You have been sadly visited; nor do I wonder that a feeling akin to insanity should drive you to bitter and unreasonable imaginings.  But a home of love awaits you in your native England.  My tenderness and affection must soothe you; the society of Raymond’s friends will be of more solace than these dreary speculations.  We will all make it our first care, our dearest task, to contribute to your happiness.”

Perdita shook her head; “If it could be so,” she replied, “I were much in the wrong to disdain your offers.  But it is not a matter of choice; I can live here only.  I am a part of this scene; each and all its properties are a part of me.  This is no sudden fancy; I live by it.  The knowledge that I am here, rises with me in the morning, and enables me to endure the light; it is mingled with my food, which else were poison; it walks, it sleeps with me, for ever it accompanies me.  Here I may even cease to repine, and may add my tardy consent to the decree which has taken him from me.  He would rather have died such a death, which will be recorded in history to endless time, than have lived to old age unknown, unhonoured.  Nor can I desire better, than, having been the chosen and beloved of his heart, here, in youth’s prime, before added years can tarnish the best feelings of my nature, to watch his tomb, and speedily rejoin him in his blessed repose.