CHAPTER IV. MISS MARCHMONT.

aid:“Iprizeherasmybestfriend.Sheisjustnowgivingmeadeepdelight:sheisbringingbacktomyheart,inwarmandbeautifullife,realities—notmereemptyideas,butwhatwereoncerealities,andthatIlonghavethoughtdecayed,dissolved,mixedinwithgrave-mould.Ipossessjustnowthehours,thethoughts,thehopesofmyyouth.Irenewtheloveofmylife—itsonlylove—almostitsonlyaffectionforIamnotaparticularlygoodwoman:Iamnotamiable.YetIhavehadmyfeelings,strongandconcentratedandthesefeelingshadtheirobjectwhich,initssingleself,wasdeartome,astothemajorityofmenandwomen,arealltheunnumberedpointsonwhichtheydissipatetheirregard.WhileIloved,andwhileIwasloved,whatanexistenceIenjoyed!WhatagloriousyearIcanrecall—howbrightitcomesbacktome!Whatalivingspring—whatawarm,gladsummer—whatsoftmoonlight,silveringtheautumnevenings—whatstrengthofhopeundertheice-boundwatersandfrost-hoarfieldsofthatyear’swinter!ThroughthatyearmyheartlivedwithFrank’sheart.OmynobleFrank—myfaithfulFrank—mygoodFrank!somuchbetterthanmyself—hisstandardinallthingssomuchhigher!ThisIcannowseeandsay:iffewwomenhavesufferedasIdidinhisloss,fewhaveenjoyedwhatIdidinhislove.ItwasafarbetterkindoflovethancommonIhadnodoubtsaboutitorhim:itwassuchaloveashonoured,protected,andelevated,nolessthanitgladdenedhertowhomitwasgiven.Letmenowask,justatthismoment,whenmymindissostrangelyclear,—letmereflectwhyitwastakenfromme?ForwhatcrimewasIcondemned,aftertwelvemonthsofbliss,toundergothirtyyearsofsorrow? “Idonotknow,”shecontinuedafterapause:“Icannot—cannotseethereasonyetatthishourIcansaywithsincerity,whatInevertriedtosaybefore,InscrutableGod,Thywillbedone!AndatthismomentIcanbelievethatdeathwillrestoremetoFrank.Ineverbelievedittillnow.” “Heisdead,then?”Iinquiredinalowvoice. “Mydeargirl,”shesaid,“onehappyChristmasEveIdressedanddecoratedmyself,expectingmylover,verysoontobemyhusband,wouldcomethatnighttovisitme.Isatdowntowait.OncemoreIseethatmoment—Iseethesnowtwilightstealingthroughthewindowoverwhichthecurtainwasnotdropped,forIdesignedtowatchhimrideupthewhitewalkIseeandfeelthesoftfirelightwarmingme,playingonmysilkdress,andfitfullyshowingmemyownyoungfigureinaglass.Iseethemoonofacalmwinternight,floatfull,clear,andcold,overtheinkymassofshrubbery,andthesilveredturfofmygrounds.Iwait,withsomeimpatienceinmypulse,butnodoubtinmybreast.Theflameshaddiedinthefire,butitwasabrightmassyetthemoonwasmountinghigh,butshewasstillvisiblefromthelatticetheclocknearedtenherarelytarriedlaterthanthis,butonceortwicehehadbeendelayedsolong. “Wouldheforoncefailme?No—notevenforonceandnowhewascoming—andcomingfast—toatoneforlosttime.‘Frank!youfuriousrider,’Isaidinwardly,listeninggladly,yetanxiously,tohisapproachinggallop,‘youshallberebukedforthis:Iwilltellyouitismyneckyouareputtinginperilforwhateverisyoursis,inadearerandtenderersense,mine.’Therehewas:IsawhimbutIthinktearswereinmyeyes,mysightwassoconfused.IsawthehorseIhearditstamp—IsawatleastamassIheardaclamour.Wasitahorse?orwhatheavy,draggingthingwasit,cro