wait long: before the year is out I shall be free. My uncle has had
another and more deadly attack. I see its trace in his face, in his
step, in his whole form and bearing. The only obstacle between us is
fading away. Can I grieve when I think it,--grieve when life with you
spreads smiling beyond the old man's grave? And why should age, that has
survived all passion, stand with its chilling frown, and the miserable
prejudices the world has not conquered, but strengthened into a creed,--
why should age stand between youth and youth? I feel your mild eyes
rebuke me as I write. But chide me not that on earth I see only you.
And it will be mine to give you wealth and rank! Mine to see the homage
of my own heart reflected from the crowd who bow, not to the statue, but
the pedestal. Oh, how I shall enjoy your revenge upon the proud! For I
have drawn no pastoral scenes in my picture of the future. No; I see you
leading senates, and duping fools. I shall be by your side, your
partner, step after step, as you mount the height, for I am ambitious,
you know, William; and not less because I love,--rather ten thousand
times more so. I would not have you born great and noble, for what then
could we look to,--what use all my schemes, and my plans, and aspirings?
Fortune, accident, would have taken from us the great zest of life, which
is desire.

When I see you, I shall tell you that I have some fears of Olivier
Dalibard; he has evidently some wily project in view. He, who never
interfered before with the blundering physician, now thrusts him aside,
affects to have saved the old man, attends him always. Dares he think to
win an influence, to turn against me,--against us? Happily, when I shall
come back, my uncle will probably be restored to the false strength which
deceives him; he will have less need of Dalibard; and then--then let the
Frenchman beware! I have already a plot to turn his schemes to his own
banishment. Come to Southampton, then, as soon as you can,--perhaps the