your long silence.
Is that all, my dear Henry? How could you suppose that my first
thought would not fly towards those dear, dear friends whom I love and
who are so deserving of my love?
If this is your present temper, my friend, you will perhaps be glad
to see a letter that has been lying here some days for you; it is from
your cousin, I believe.
Chapter 6
Clerval then put the following letter into my hands. It was from my
own Elizabeth:
My dearest Cousin,
You have been ill, very ill, and even the constant letters of dear
kind Henry are not sufficient to reassure me on your account. You are
forbidden to write to hold a pen; yet one word from you, dear Victor,
is necessary to calm our apprehensions. For a long time I have thought
that each post would bring this line, and my persuasions have
restrained my uncle from undertaking a journey to Ingolstadt. I have
prevented his encountering the inconveniences and perhaps dangers of so
long a journey, yet how often have I regretted not being able to
perform it myself! I figure to myself that the task of attending on
your sickbed has devolved on some mercenary old nurse, who could never
guess your wishes nor minister to them with the care and affection of
your poor cousin. Yet that is over now: Clerval writes that indeed
you are getting better. I eagerly hope that you will confirm this
intelligence soon in your own handwriting.
Get well and return to us. You will find a happy, cheerful home and
friends who love you dearly. Your father s health is vigorous, and he
asks but to see you, but to be assured that you are well; and not a
care will ever cloud his benevolent countenance. How pleased you would
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