THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL
PART 7
CHAPTER XIV
Next
morning, I bethought me, I, too, had business at L—; so I mounted my horse, and
set forth on the expedition soon after breakfast. It was a dull, drizzly
day; but that was no matter: it was all the more suitable to my frame of
mind. It was likely to be a lonely journey; for it was no market-day, and
the road I traversed was little frequented at any other time; but that suited
me all the better too.
As I
trotted along, however, chewing the cud of—bitter fancies, I heard another
horse at no great distance behind me; but I never conjectured who the rider
might be, or troubled my head about him, till, on slackening my pace to ascend
a gentle acclivity, or rather, suffering my horse to slacken his pace into a
lazy walk—for, rapt in my own reflections, I was letting it jog on as leisurely
as it thought proper—I lost ground, and my fellow-traveller overtook me.
He accosted me by name, for it was no stranger—it was Mr. Lawrence!
Instinctively the fingers of my whip-hand tingled, and grasped their charge
with convulsive energy; but I restrained the impulse, and answering his
salutation with a nod, attempted to push on; but he pushed on beside me, and
began to talk about the weather and the crops. I gave the briefest
possible answers to his queries and observations, and fell back. He fell
back too, and asked if my horse was lame. I replied with a look, at which
he placidly smiled.
I was as
much astonished as exasperated at this singular pertinacity and imperturbable
assurance on his part. I had thought the circumstances of our last
meeting would have left such an impression on his mind as to render him cold
and distant ever after: instead of that, he appeared not only to have forgotten
all former offences, but to be impenetrable to all present incivilities.
Formerly, the slightest hint, or mere fancied coldness in tone or glance, had
sufficed to repulse him: now, positive rudeness could not drive him away.
Had he heard of my disappointment; and was he come to witness the result, and
triumph in my despair? I grasped my whip with more determined energy than
before—but still forbore to raise it, and rode on in silence, waiting for some
more tangible cause of offence, before I opened the floodgates of my soul and
poured out the dammed-up fury that was foaming and swelling within.
‘Markham,’
said he, in his usual quiet tone, ‘why do you quarrel with your friends,
because you have been disappointed in one quarter? You have found your
hopes defeated; but how am I to blame for it? I warned you beforehand,
you know, but you would not—’
He said no
more; for, impelled by some fiend at my elbow, I had seized my whip by the
small end, and—swift and sudden as a flash of lightning—brought the other down
upon his head. It was not without a feeling of savage satisfaction that I
beheld the instant, deadly pallor that overspread his face, and the few red
drops that trickled down his forehead, while he reeled a moment in his saddle,
and then fell backward to the ground. The pony, surprised to be so
strangely relieved of its burden, started and capered, and kicked a little, and
then made use of its freedom to go and crop the grass of the hedge-bank: while
its master lay as still and silent as a corpse. Had I killed him?—an icy
hand seemed to grasp my heart and check its pulsation, as I bent over him,
gazing with breathless intensity upon the ghastly, upturned face. But no;
he moved his eyelids and uttered a slight groan. I breathed again—he was
only stunned by the fall. It served him right—it would teach him better
manners in future. Should I help him to his horse? No. For
any other combination of offences I would; but his were too unpardonable.
He might mount it himself, if he liked—in a while: already he was beginning to
stir and look about him—and there it was for him, quietly browsing on the
road-side.
So with a
muttered execration I left the fellow to his fate, and clapping spurs to my own
horse, galloped away, excited by a combination of feelings it would not be easy
to analyse; and perhaps, if I did so, the result would not be very creditable
to my disposition; for I am not sure that a species of exultation in what I had
done was not one principal concomitant.
Shortly,
however, the effervescence began to abate, and not many minutes elapsed before
I had turned and gone back to look after the fate of my victim. It was no
generous impulse—no kind relentings that led me to this—nor even the fear of
what might be the consequences to myself, if I finished my assault upon the
squire by leaving him thus neglected, and exposed to further injury; it was,
simply, the voice of conscience; and I took great credit to myself for
attending so promptly to its dictates—and judging the merit of the deed by the
sacrifice it cost, I was not far wrong.
Mr.
Lawrence and his pony had both altered their positions in some degree.
The pony had wandered eight or ten yards further away; and he had managed,
somehow, to remove himself from the middle of the road: I found him seated in a
recumbent position on the bank,—looking very white and sickly still, and
holding his cambric handkerchief (now more red than white) to his head.
It must have been a powerful blow; but half the credit—or the blame of it
(which you please) must be attributed to the whip, which was garnished with a
massive horse’s head of plated metal. The grass, being sodden with rain,
afforded the young gentleman a rather inhospitable couch; his clothes were
considerably bemired; and his hat was rolling in the mud on the other side of
the road. But his thoughts seemed chiefly bent upon his pony, on which he
was wistfully gazing—half in helpless anxiety, and half in hopeless abandonment
to his fate.
I
dismounted, however, and having fastened my own animal to the nearest tree, first
picked up his hat, intending to clap it on his head; but either he considered
his head unfit for a hat, or the hat, in its present condition, unfit for his
head; for shrinking away the one, he took the other from my hand, and
scornfully cast it aside.
‘It’s good
enough for you,’ I muttered.
My next
good office was to catch his pony and bring it to him, which was soon
accomplished; for the beast was quiet enough in the main, and only winced and
flirted a trifle till I got hold of the bridle—but then, I must see him in the
saddle.
‘Here, you
fellow—scoundrel—dog—give me your hand, and I’ll help you to mount.’
No; he
turned from me in disgust. I attempted to take him by the arm. He
shrank away as if there had been contamination in my touch.
‘What, you
won’t! Well! you may sit there till doomsday, for what I care. But
I suppose you don’t want to lose all the blood in your body—I’ll just
condescend to bind that up for you.’
‘Let me
alone, if you please.’
‘Humph;
with all my heart. You may go to the d—l, if you choose—and say I sent
you.’
But before
I abandoned him to his fate I flung his pony’s bridle over a stake in the
hedge, and threw him my handkerchief, as his own was now saturated with
blood. He took it and cast it back to me in abhorrence and contempt, with
all the strength he could muster. It wanted but this to fill the measure
of his offences. With execrations not loud but deep I left him to live or
die as he could, well satisfied that I had done my duty in attempting to save
him—but forgetting how I had erred in bringing him into such a condition, and
how insultingly my after-services had been offered—and sullenly prepared to
meet the consequences if he should choose to say I had attempted to murder
him—which I thought not unlikely, as it seemed probable he was actuated by such
spiteful motives in so perseveringly refusing my assistance.
Having
remounted my horse, I just looked back to see how he was getting on, before I
rode away. He had risen from the ground, and grasping his pony’s mane,
was attempting to resume his seat in the saddle; but scarcely had he put his
foot in the stirrup, when a sickness or dizziness seemed to overpower him: he
leant forward a moment, with his head drooped on the animal’s back, and then
made one more effort, which proving ineffectual, he sank back on the bank,
where I left him, reposing his head on the oozy turf, and to all appearance, as
calmly reclining as if he had been taking his rest on his sofa at home.
I ought to
have helped him in spite of himself—to have bound up the wound he was unable to
staunch, and insisted upon getting him on his horse and seeing him safe home;
but, besides my bitter indignation against himself, there was the question what
to say to his servants—and what to my own family. Either I should have to
acknowledge the deed, which would set me down as a madman, unless I
acknowledged the motive too—and that seemed impossible—or I must get up a lie,
which seemed equally out of the question—especially as Mr. Lawrence would
probably reveal the whole truth, and thereby bring me to tenfold
disgrace—unless I were villain enough, presuming on the absence of witnesses,
to persist in my own version of the case, and make him out a still greater
scoundrel than he was. No; he had only received a cut above the temple,
and perhaps a few bruises from the fall, or the hoofs of his own pony: that
could not kill him if he lay there half the day; and, if he could not help
himself, surely some one would be coming by: it would be impossible that a
whole day should pass and no one traverse the road but ourselves. As for
what he might choose to say hereafter, I would take my chance about it: if he
told lies, I would contradict him; if he told the truth, I would bear it as
best I could. I was not obliged to enter into explanations further than I
thought proper. Perhaps he might choose to be silent on the subject, for
fear of raising inquiries as to the cause of the quarrel, and drawing the
public attention to his connection with Mrs. Graham, which, whether for her
sake or his own, he seemed so very desirous to conceal.
Thus
reasoning, I trotted away to the town, where I duly transacted my business, and
performed various little commissions for my mother and Rose, with very laudable
exactitude, considering the different circumstances of the case. In
returning home, I was troubled with sundry misgivings about the unfortunate
Lawrence. The question, What if I should find him lying still on the damp
earth, fairly dying of cold and exhaustion—or already stark and chill? thrust
itself most unpleasantly upon my mind, and the appalling possibility pictured
itself with painful vividness to my imagination as I approached the spot where
I had left him. But no, thank heaven, both man and horse were gone, and
nothing was left to witness against me but two objects—unpleasant enough in
themselves to be sure, and presenting a very ugly, not to say murderous
appearance—in one place, the hat saturated with rain and coated with mud,
indented and broken above the brim by that villainous whip-handle; in another,
the crimson handkerchief, soaking in a deeply tinctured pool of water—for much
rain had fallen in the interim.
Bad news
flies fast: it was hardly four o’clock when I got home, but my mother gravely
accosted me with—‘Oh, Gilbert!—Such an accident! Rose has been shopping
in the village, and she’s heard that Mr. Lawrence has been thrown from his
horse and brought home dying!’
This
shocked me a trifle, as you may suppose; but I was comforted to hear that he
had frightfully fractured his skull and broken a leg; for, assured of the
falsehood of this, I trusted the rest of the story was equally exaggerated; and
when I heard my mother and sister so feelingly deploring his condition, I had
considerable difficulty in preventing myself from telling them the real extent
of the injuries, as far as I knew them.
‘You must
go and see him to-morrow,’ said my mother.
‘Or
to-day,’ suggested Rose: ‘there’s plenty of time; and you can have the pony, as
your horse is tired. Won’t you, Gilbert—as soon as you’ve had something
to eat?’
‘No,
no—how can we tell that it isn’t all a false report? It’s highly im-’
‘Oh, I’m
sure it isn’t; for the village is all alive about it; and I saw two people that
had seen others that had seen the man that found him. That sounds
far-fetched; but it isn’t so when you think of it.’
‘Well, but
Lawrence is a good rider; it is not likely he would fall from his horse at all;
and if he did, it is highly improbable he would break his bones in that
way. It must be a gross exaggeration at least.’
‘No; but
the horse kicked him—or something.’
‘What, his
quiet little pony?’
‘How do
you know it was that?’
‘He seldom
rides any other.’
‘At any
rate,’ said my mother, ‘you will call to-morrow. Whether it be true or false,
exaggerated or otherwise, we shall like to know how he is.’
‘Fergus
may go.’
‘Why not
you?’
‘He has
more time. I am busy just now.’
‘Oh! but,
Gilbert, how can you be so composed about it? You won’t mind business for
an hour or two in a case of this sort, when your friend is at the point of
death.’
‘He is
not, I tell you.’
‘For
anything you know, he may be: you can’t tell till you have seen him. At
all events, he must have met with some terrible accident, and you ought to see
him: he’ll take it very unkind if you don’t.’
‘Confound
it! I can’t. He and I have not been on good terms of late.’
‘Oh, my
dear boy! Surely, surely you are not so unforgiving as to carry your
little differences to such a length as—’
‘Little
differences, indeed!’ I muttered.
‘Well, but
only remember the occasion. Think how—’
‘Well,
well, don’t bother me now—I’ll see about it,’ I replied.
And my
seeing about it was to send Fergus next morning, with my mother’s compliments,
to make the requisite inquiries; for, of course, my going was out of the
question—or sending a message either. He brought back intelligence that
the young squire was laid up with the complicated evils of a broken head and
certain contusions (occasioned by a fall—of which he did not trouble himself to
relate the particulars—and the subsequent misconduct of his horse), and a
severe cold, the consequence of lying on the wet ground in the rain; but there
were no broken bones, and no immediate prospects of dissolution.
It was
evident, then, that for Mrs. Graham’s sake it was not his intention to
criminate me.
CHAPTER XV
That day
was rainy like its predecessor; but towards evening it began to clear up a
little, and the next morning was fair and promising. I was out on the
hill with the reapers. A light wind swept over the corn, and all nature
laughed in the sunshine. The lark was rejoicing among the silvery
floating clouds. The late rain had so sweetly freshened and cleared the
air, and washed the sky, and left such glittering gems on branch and blade,
that not even the farmers could have the heart to blame it. But no ray of
sunshine could reach my heart, no breeze could freshen it; nothing could fill
the void my faith, and hope, and joy in Helen Graham had left, or drive away
the keen regrets and bitter dregs of lingering love that still oppressed it.
While I
stood with folded arms abstractedly gazing on the undulating swell of the corn,
not yet disturbed by the reapers, something gently pulled my skirts, and a
small voice, no longer welcome to my ears, aroused me with the startling
words,—‘Mr. Markham, mamma wants you.’
‘Wants me,
Arthur?’
‘Yes.
Why do you look so queer?’ said he, half laughing, half frightened at the
unexpected aspect of my face in suddenly turning towards him,—‘and why have you
kept so long away? Come! Won’t you come?’
‘I’m busy
just now,’ I replied, scarce knowing what to answer.
He looked
up in childish bewilderment; but before I could speak again the lady herself
was at my side.
‘Gilbert,
I must speak with you!’ said she, in a tone of suppressed vehemence.
I looked
at her pale cheek and glittering eye, but answered nothing.
‘Only for
a moment,’ pleaded she. ‘Just step aside into this other field.’
She glanced at the reapers, some of whom were directing looks of impertinent
curiosity towards her. ‘I won’t keep you a minute.’
I
accompanied her through the gap.
‘Arthur,
darling, run and gather those bluebells,’ said she, pointing to some that were
gleaming at some distance under the hedge along which we walked. The
child hesitated, as if unwilling to quit my side. ‘Go, love!’ repeated
she more urgently, and in a tone which, though not unkind, demanded prompt
obedience, and obtained it.
‘Well,
Mrs. Graham?’ said I, calmly and coldly; for, though I saw she was miserable,
and pitied her, I felt glad to have it in my power to torment her.
She fixed
her eyes upon me with a look that pierced me to the heart; and yet it made me
smile.
‘I don’t
ask the reason of this change, Gilbert,’ said she, with bitter calmness: ‘I know
it too well; but though I could see myself suspected and condemned by every one
else, and bear it with calmness, I cannot endure it from you.—Why did you not
come to hear my explanation on the day I appointed to give it?’
‘Because I
happened, in the interim, to learn all you would have told me—and a trifle
more, I imagine.’
‘Impossible,
for I would have told you all!’ cried she, passionately—‘but I won’t now, for I
see you are not worthy of it!’
And her
pale lips quivered with agitation.
‘Why not,
may I ask?’
She
repelled my mocking smile with a glance of scornful indignation.
‘Because
you never understood me, or you would not soon have listened to my traducers—my
confidence would be misplaced in you—you are not the man I thought you.
Go! I won’t care what you think of me.’
She turned
away, and I went; for I thought that would torment her as much as anything; and
I believe I was right; for, looking back a minute after, I saw her turn half
round, as if hoping or expecting to find me still beside her; and then she
stood still, and cast one look behind. It was a look less expressive of
anger than of bitter anguish and despair; but I immediately assumed an aspect
of indifference, and affected to be gazing carelessly around me, and I suppose
she went on; for after lingering awhile to see if she would come back or call,
I ventured one more glance, and saw her a good way off, moving rapidly up the
field, with little Arthur running by her side and apparently talking as he
went; but she kept her face averted from him, as if to hide some uncontrollable
emotion. And I returned to my business.
But I soon
began to regret my precipitancy in leaving her so soon. It was evident
she loved me—probably she was tired of Mr. Lawrence, and wished to exchange him
for me; and if I had loved and reverenced her less to begin with, the
preference might have gratified and amused me; but now the contrast between her
outward seeming and her inward mind, as I supposed,—between my former and my
present opinion of her, was so harrowing—so distressing to my feelings, that it
swallowed up every lighter consideration.
But still
I was curious to know what sort of an explanation she would have given me—or
would give now, if I pressed her for it—how much she would confess, and how she
would endeavour to excuse herself. I longed to know what to despise, and
what to admire in her; how much to pity, and how much to hate;—and, what was
more, I would know. I would see her once more, and fairly satisfy myself
in what light to regard her, before we parted. Lost to me she was, for
ever, of course; but still I could not bear to think that we had parted, for
the last time, with so much unkindness and misery on both sides. That
last look of hers had sunk into my heart; I could not forget it. But what
a fool I was! Had she not deceived me, injured me—blighted my happiness
for life? ‘Well, I’ll see her, however,’ was my concluding resolve, ‘but
not to-day: to-day and to-night she may think upon her sins, and be as
miserable as she will: to-morrow I will see her once again, and know something
more about her. The interview may be serviceable to her, or it may
not. At any rate, it will give a breath of excitement to the life she has
doomed to stagnation, and may calm with certainty some agitating thoughts.’
I did go
on the morrow, but not till towards evening, after the business of the day was
concluded, that is, between six and seven; and the westering sun was gleaming
redly on the old Hall, and flaming in the latticed windows, as I reached it,
imparting to the place a cheerfulness not its own. I need not dilate upon
the feelings with which I approached the shrine of my former divinity—that spot
teeming with a thousand delightful recollections and glorious dreams—all
darkened now by one disastrous truth.
Rachel
admitted me into the parlour, and went to call her mistress, for she was not
there: but there was her desk left open on the little round table beside the
high-backed chair, with a book laid upon it. Her limited but choice
collection of books was almost as familiar to me as my own; but this volume I
had not seen before. I took it up. It was Sir Humphry Davy’s ‘Last
Days of a Philosopher,’ and on the first leaf was written, ‘Frederick
Lawrence.’ I closed the book, but kept it in my hand, and stood facing
the door, with my back to the fire-place, calmly waiting her arrival; for I did
not doubt she would come. And soon I heard her step in the hall. My
heart was beginning to throb, but I checked it with an internal rebuke, and
maintained my composure—outwardly at least. She entered, calm, pale,
collected.
‘To what
am I indebted for this favour, Mr. Markham?’ said she, with such severe but
quiet dignity as almost disconcerted me; but I answered with a smile, and
impudently enough,—
‘Well, I
am come to hear your explanation.’
‘I told
you I would not give it,’ said she. ‘I said you were unworthy of my
confidence.’
‘Oh, very
well,’ replied I, moving to the door.
‘Stay a
moment,’ said she. ‘This is the last time I shall see you: don’t go just
yet.’
I
remained, awaiting her further commands.
‘Tell me,’
resumed she, ‘on what grounds you believe these things against me; who told
you; and what did they say?’
I paused a
moment. She met my eye as unflinchingly as if her bosom had been steeled
with conscious innocence. She was resolved to know the worst, and
determined to dare it too. ‘I can crush that bold spirit,’ thought
I. But while I secretly exulted in my power, I felt disposed to dally
with my victim like a cat. Showing her the book that I still held, in my
hand, and pointing to the name on the fly-leaf, but fixing my eye upon her
face, I asked,—‘Do you know that gentleman?’
‘Of course
I do,’ replied she; and a sudden flush suffused her features—whether of shame
or anger I could not tell: it rather resembled the latter. ‘What next,
sir?’
‘How long
is it since you saw him?’
‘Who gave
you the right to catechize me on this or any other subject?’
‘Oh, no
one!—it’s quite at your option whether to answer or not. And now, let me ask—have
you heard what has lately befallen this friend of yours?—because, if you have
not—’
‘I will
not be insulted, Mr. Markham!’ cried she, almost infuriated at my manner.
‘So you had better leave the house at once, if you came only for that.’
‘I did not
come to insult you: I came to hear your explanation.’
‘And I
tell you I won’t give it!’ retorted she, pacing the room in a state of strong
excitement, with her hands clasped tightly together, breathing short, and
flashing fires of indignation from her eyes. ‘I will not condescend to
explain myself to one that can make a jest of such horrible suspicions, and be
so easily led to entertain them.’
‘I do not
make a jest of them, Mrs. Graham,’ returned I, dropping at once my tone of
taunting sarcasm. ‘I heartily wish I could find them a jesting
matter. And as to being easily led to suspect, God only knows what a
blind, incredulous fool I have hitherto been, perseveringly shutting my eyes
and stopping my ears against everything that threatened to shake my confidence
in you, till proof itself confounded my infatuation!’
‘What
proof, sir?’
‘Well,
I’ll tell you. You remember that evening when I was here last?’
‘I do.’
‘Even then
you dropped some hints that might have opened the eyes of a wiser man; but they
had no such effect upon me: I went on trusting and believing, hoping against
hope, and adoring where I could not comprehend. It so happened, however,
that after I left you I turned back—drawn by pure depth of sympathy and ardour
of affection—not daring to intrude my presence openly upon you, but unable to
resist the temptation of catching one glimpse through the window, just to see
how you were: for I had left you apparently in great affliction, and I partly
blamed my own want of forbearance and discretion as the cause of it. If I
did wrong, love alone was my incentive, and the punishment was severe enough;
for it was just as I had reached that tree, that you came out into the garden
with your friend. Not choosing to show myself, under the circumstances, I
stood still, in the shadow, till you had both passed by.’
‘And how
much of our conversation did you hear?’
‘I heard
quite enough, Helen. And it was well for me that I did hear it; for
nothing less could have cured my infatuation. I always said and thought,
that I would never believe a word against you, unless I heard it from your own
lips. All the hints and affirmations of others I treated as malignant,
baseless slanders; your own self-accusations I believed to be overstrained; and
all that seemed unaccountable in your position I trusted that you could account
for if you chose.’
Mrs.
Graham had discontinued her walk. She leant against one end of the
chimney-piece, opposite that near which I was standing, with her chin resting
on her closed hand, her eyes—no longer burning with anger, but gleaming with
restless excitement—sometimes glancing at me while I spoke, then coursing the
opposite wall, or fixed upon the carpet.
‘You
should have come to me after all,’ said she, ‘and heard what I had to say in my
own justification. It was ungenerous and wrong to withdraw yourself so
secretly and suddenly, immediately after such ardent protestations of
attachment, without ever assigning a reason for the change. You should
have told me all—no matter how bitterly. It would have been better than
this silence.’
‘To what
end should I have done so? You could not have enlightened me further, on
the subject which alone concerned me; nor could you have made me discredit the
evidence of my senses. I desired our intimacy to be discontinued at once,
as you yourself had acknowledged would probably be the case if I knew all; but
I did not wish to upbraid you,—though (as you also acknowledged) you had deeply
wronged me. Yes, you have done me an injury you can never repair—or any
other either—you have blighted the freshness and promise of youth, and made my
life a wilderness! I might live a hundred years, but I could never
recover from the effects of this withering blow—and never forget it!
Hereafter—You smile, Mrs. Graham,’ said I, suddenly stopping short, checked in
my passionate declamation by unutterable feelings to behold her actually
smiling at the picture of the ruin she had wrought.
‘Did I?’
replied she, looking seriously up; ‘I was not aware of it. If I did, it
was not for pleasure at the thoughts of the harm I had done you. Heaven
knows I have had torment enough at the bare possibility of that; it was for joy
to find that you had some depth of soul and feeling after all, and to hope that
I had not been utterly mistaken in your worth. But smiles and tears are
so alike with me, they are neither of them confined to any particular feelings:
I often cry when I am happy, and smile when I am sad.’
She looked
at me again, and seemed to expect a reply; but I continued silent.
‘Would you
be very glad,’ resumed she, ‘to find that you were mistaken in your
conclusions?’
‘How can
you ask it, Helen?’
‘I don’t
say I can clear myself altogether,’ said she, speaking low and fast, while her
heart beat visibly and her bosom heaved with excitement,—‘but would you be glad
to discover I was better than you think me?’
‘Anything
that could in the least degree tend to restore my former opinion of you, to
excuse the regard I still feel for you, and alleviate the pangs of unutterable
regret that accompany it, would be only too gladly, too eagerly
received!’ Her cheeks burned, and her whole frame trembled, now, with
excess of agitation. She did not speak, but flew to her desk, and
snatching thence what seemed a thick album or manuscript volume, hastily tore
away a few leaves from the end, and thrust the rest into my hand, saying, ‘You
needn’t read it all; but take it home with you,’ and hurried from the room.
But when I had left the house, and was proceeding down the walk, she opened the
window and called me back. It was only to say,—‘Bring it back when you
have read it; and don’t breathe a word of what it tells you to any living
being. I trust to your honour.’
Before I
could answer she had closed the casement and turned away. I saw her cast
herself back in the old oak chair, and cover her face with her hands. Her
feelings had been wrought to a pitch that rendered it necessary to seek relief
in tears.
Panting
with eagerness, and struggling to suppress my hopes, I hurried home, and rushed
up-stairs to my room, having first provided myself with a candle, though it was
scarcely twilight yet—then, shut and bolted the door, determined to tolerate no
interruption; and sitting down before the table, opened out my prize and
delivered myself up to its perusal—first hastily turning over the leaves and
snatching a sentence here and there, and then setting myself steadily to read
it through.
I have it
now before me; and though you could not, of course, peruse it with half the
interest that I did, I know you would not be satisfied with an abbreviation of
its contents, and you shall have the whole, save, perhaps, a few passages here
and there of merely temporary interest to the writer, or such as would serve to
encumber the story rather than elucidate it. It begins somewhat abruptly,
thus—but we will reserve its commencement for another chapter.
To be continued
