 | Pictures of country life |  |
PASSAGES FROM THE
MARRIED LIFE OF ELEANOR HOMES.
A good many years ago I fell in love and was married.
“How did it happen?”
Why, how does it ever happen? “I doubt if the sagest
philosopher of them all could explain how the like happened
unto him, and therefore it were presumptuous to expect a
woman to make luminous so great a mystery.”
“You think a woman might understand her own heart, even
though a philosopher might fail to?”
“Audacious! Don't you know that women shine faintly at
best, and by reflection?”
“Really, I don't know. I never thought about it.”
“Many women never do, and pass through life without ever
being sufficiently grateful for the blessings they are permitted
to enjoy. However, I believe the minds of the sexes are wholly
dissimilar, even when of an equal power. Women know more,
but acquire less than men; they do not investigate and analyze,
and infer and conclude—their inferences and conclusions are
of time nature has said of every one of them—
She shall be mine, and I will make
A lady of my own.”
upon her intuitions, there would not be among us so many
miserable bewailings. All women have more or less genius—
which, after all, is simply power of suspending the reasoning
and reflecting faculties, and suffering the light which, whatever
it be, is neither external nor secondary, to flow in. But I
proposed to tell a story, and repeat, I fell in love, and was
married.
“Did I really love?”
I suppose so; indeed I am quite certain, from intimations
now and then received, that it was one phase of that capability
which lives under wrinkles and grey hairs, in all the freshness
of youth. But it is difficult to define the exact limit of positive
love—it shades itself by such fine gradations into pity and
passion, friendship and frenzy. The state of feeling I fell into
was none of these latter, I am quite sure, and yet I should be
loth to affirm it was that condition of self-abnegation which
admits of no consideration aside from the happiness of the
object beloved; for, if I remember rightly, there came to me at
rare intervals some visions of my own personal interests and
pleasures. And yet I had no hesitancy in pledging myself to
love, honor, and obey, because I had no idea that these pledges
conflieted with the widest liberty. Was not he to whom I should
make these pledges a most excellent and honorable gentleman,
wishes? To be sure he was. Did he not always prefer my-pleasure
to his own, or rather have no pleasure but mine? So
he was pleased to say, and for my part, I never doubted it.
We took long moonlight walks together—talked sentiment,
of course—read poetry, and now and then quarrelled prettily
about the shade of a rose, or the pencilling of a tulip, and
interspersed our discourse with allusions to our cottage that
was to be. Should it be smothered in trees or open to the
sun?
“Just as you prefer, my dear.”
“Oh, no, darling! it shall all be just as you say.”
Could I have a pot of geraniums and a canary bird to
brighten my cottage window?
“A thousand of them,” if I chose; but my own self would be
the grace that graced all other graces—the beautifier of every
beauty beside.
What should our recreations be? That was an absurd-question,
and soon dismissed. The introduction of a foreign
element would never be necessary into society so perfect as we
two should compose.
So we were married—never having exchanged a single
thought concerning the great duties and responsibilities of life
—I, for my part, having no slightest conception of the homely
cares and ingenious planning; of the fearing and hoping,
patience, forbearance, and endurance, that must needs make a
part of life's drama, wherever enacted.
The bridal veil was never looked through after the bridal
day; consequently the world took another coloring before very
long. I must be allowed to say I was not yet twenty, as some
then, and must also relate some little incidents and particulars
of my married life that gave ineffaceable colors to my maturer
mind and character.
My husband's name was Henry Doughty—Harry, I used to
call him, partly because the designation pleased him, and partly
because I entertained a special dislike for the name of Doughty.
I gave a much better one away for it, however.
My maiden name was Homes—Eleanor Homes—Nellie, they
called me among my friends, before I was married; afterward,
when the novelty of calling me Mrs. Doughty was over, they
said poor Nell.
We had not been an hour from church—my bridemaids were
about me, among them my haughty sister Katharine, who had
not very cordially received her new relative. Some one rallied
me on my promise to obey, and asked Mr. Doughty how he
proposed to enforce my obligation.
“Oh, after this sort,” he replied gaily, brandishing the little
switch-cane he was playing with about my shoulder. I turned
carelessly, and the point of it struck my eye.
“It was your own fault?” was his first exclamation. The
pain of the wound was intense, but it was the harsh words that
made the tears come. I was frightened when I saw them, for
I felt that it was an awful impropriety to cry then and there,
and putting by all proffered remedies as though the little accident
were quite unworthy of attention, I smiled, nay, even
affected to laugh, and said it was solely and entirely my own
foolish fault, and moreover, that I always cried on like occasions
—not, of course, on account of any suffering, but owing to a
nervous susceptibility I could not overcome.
Katharine, meantime, to augment the criminality of the
offence, was proffering various medicines; among them, she
brought me at this juncture, a towel, wet with I know not
what.
“Take it away again,” said Mr. Doughty; “nothing I so
much dislike as nervous susceptibility—pray don't encourage it.”
Katharine would not speak, but she replied by a very significant
look, and, to conciliate both, I accepted the towel, but
did not apply it to the wounded eye—swollen and red by this
time to an unsightly degree; in truth, I was afraid to do so.
My sensations were certainly new, as I thus trifled with my
afflictions, forcing myself even to make pitiable advances
toward my offender, in the hope of winning him to some little
display of tenderness, for the sake of appearances wholly, for I
was not in the mood to receive them appreciatively just then.
I was singularly unfortunate, however, and might have spared
myself the humiliation.
I had succeeded, in some sort, in reviving my spirits, for it is
hard to dampen the ardor of a young woman on her wedding-day,
when my enthusiasm received another check. I was sitting
at the window, that I might find some excuse for my occasional
abstraction in observation, and also to keep the wounded eye
away from the company. Happening once to change my position,
my husband said to me: “Keep your face to the window,
my dear madam; your ridiculous applications have made your
eye really shocking!”
“Why, Harry!” I said—if I had taken time to think, I
would not have said anything; but the unkindness was so obvious
it induced the involuntary exclamation, and everybody saw
that I felt myself injured.
By some sisterly subterfuge, Kate decoyed me into her own
room, where my husband did not take occasion to seek me very
soon. When he did so, he patted my cheek and said half-playfully,
“I have come to scold you, Nell.”
My heart beat fast. He had felt my absence, then, and was
come with some tender reproach. I began to excuse myself,
when he interrupted me with an exclamation of impatience.
He was sorry to find me so impetuous and womanish—exhibitions
of any emotion, but more especially of tender emotion,
were in bad taste. I must manage in some way to control my
impulses, and also to discriminate—he was always pleased to
be called Harry, when we were alone, but in miscellaneous
company a little more formality was usual!
“Your name is not so beautiful,” I replied, angrily, “that
you should want to hear it unnecessarily.”
He elevated his eyebrows a little, and smiled one of his peculiar
smiles, never too sweet to be scornful.
I hid my face in my sister's pillow, and almost wished I
might never lift it up.
Seeing me shaken with suppressed sobs, he bent over me and
kissed my forehead, much as we give a child a sugar-plum after
having whipped it, and left me with the hope that I would compose
myself, and not wrong my beauty by such ill-timed tears!
Excellent advice, but not very well calculated to aid me in
its execution. Many times after that I wronged such poor
beauty as I brought to him, by my ill-timed tears.
The story of the accident, and of my crying on my wedding-day
went abroad with many exaggerations, and my husband
gave me to understand, without any direct reference to anything
that had taken place, that I had unnecessarily brought reproach
a year; my parents—foolish old folks! could not bear the
thought of giving me up at once—as if the hope to make all
things as they were, were not utterly useless, after I had once
given myself up.
The experiment proved a delusion—empty of comfort to all
parties concerned; and here let me say, that if two persons,
when they are once married, cannot find happiness with each
other, no third party can in any wise mend the matter.
I think now if there had been no one to strengthen my
obstinacy, and hinder such little conciliations as, unobserved, I
might have proffered, our early differences might have been
healed over without any permanent alienation.
However well two persons may have known each other
before marriage, the new relation develops new characteristics,
and necessitates a process of assimilation, difficult under the
most genial circumstances.
Of course my family took my part, whether or not I was in the
right, and thus sustained I took larger liberties, sometimes, than
it was wise to take—trifled and played with all my husband's
predilections—called them whimsies, if I noticed them, but for the
most part affected an unconsciousness of their existence. For
instance, I had a foolish habit of turning through books and
papers in a noisy way, which I perserved in rather in consequence
of his admonitions than in spite of them.
One night he did not come home at the usual time. I grew
impatient, uneasy, and at last, in spite of Kate's sneer, took my
station at the window to watch for him: in a minute or two
thereafter he came up the walk. I opened the door and my
arms at the same time, crying, “How glad I am!”
“What for?” he said, gliding past me in his quiet way.
“Are you not glad?” I inquired, determined not to be put
out of humor for once; my best feelings had been really
stirred.
“Certainly,” he answered, seating himself in the corner
opposite to me, and opening the evening paper. “I am glad
to get home. I am very tired.”
He did not once look at me as he said this, and Kate completed
my discomfort by saying—
“Well, I suppose Nell is blessed enough to be permitted to
look upon you, even in the distance. She used to have a little
spirit, but I believe marriage has crushed even that out of
her.”
“Humph!” said my husband.
“What do you find interesting in the paper to-night?” I
said, determined to enforce some attention by way of triumph
over Kate. He made a motion which deprecated interruption,
and taking a new novel from his pocket, threw it into my lap.
“Milk for babes!” said Kate, sarcastically. I said nothing,
and she went on provokingly: “Take your plaything away,
child, and don't make a bit of noise with it.”
Here was a happy suggestion. I had failed in my effort to
be agreeable. I would be disagreeable now to my heart's content.
I was at some pains to find an old pair of jagged scissors,
and having found them, I seated myself at my husband's
elbow, and began to saw open the leaves of my book, with the
double purpose of annoying him and convincing Kate that I
had some spirit left yet.
Now and then I glanced towards him to see if his brows were
not knitting, and the angry spot rising in his cheek, but to my
he read on apparently completely absorbed, and wearing a
smile on his face—a little too fixed, perhaps, to be quite spontaneous.
So I went on to the last leaf, cutting and ruffling as noisily
as I could, but I had only my trouble for my pains—he did not
lift his eyes towards me for an instant.
When Kate left us alone, I felt exceedingly uncomfortable—
for I had felt my behavior countenanced by her presence.
After all, I thought, presently, my husband is perhaps quite
unconscious of any effort on my part to annoy him; but
whether he were so or not, my best course, I concluded, would
be to affect unconsciousness of it myself. Thus resolved, I
yawned, naturally I thought, and, as if impulsively, threw down
the book—took the paper from his hand with a wifely privilege,
and seated myself on his knee. He suffered me to sit
there, but neither smiled nor spoke.
“Why don't you say something to me?” I was reduced to
ask at length.
“What shall I say?”
“Why, something sweet, to be sure.”
“Well, sugar-candy—is that sweet enough?”
“What a provoking wretch you are!” I cried, flying out of
the room in hot haste.
I hoped he would forbid my going, or call me back, but he
did neither.
After some tears and a confidential interview with Kate,
that made me more augry with her and with myself than with
my husband, I returned, and found him quietly lolling in the
easy-chair, and eating an apple!
As time went by, Kate's arrogance and insolence towards
Mr. Doughty became insupportable—twenty times I quarrelled
with her, taking his part stoutly against her accusations. One
evening, after one of these accustomed disputations, my husband
said to me—
“Nell, we must take a house of our own; I can't live in this
atmosphere any longer.”
“Why can't you?” I knew why, well enough.
“I don't like your sister Kate.”
“Does she poison the atmosphere, my dainty sir?”
“Yes.”
Of course I flew into a rage and defended Kate with all my
powers. She was my own good sister then, and had done every
thing to make the house pleasant which it was possible for her
to do—I would like to know who would please him.
“You, my dear,” he replied.
The end of the matter was, I refused to go away from my
father's house with him; said I would not be deprived of the
little comfort I now had in the sympathy of, and association
with, my family; he had agreed, I reminded him, before our
marriage, to my remaining at home one year at least—his
promises might pass for nothing with himself, they would not
with me; if he chose to take a house he might do so, but his
housekeeping would be done independently of me; if my
wishes were never to be consulted by him, I should have to
consult them myself—that was all.
I never gave him greater pleasure, he replied provokingly,
than when I consulted my own wishes; for his part, he could
have none in which I did not heartily coneur.
He admitted that he had cordially agreed to my remaining
slightly modified his views; he was not infallible, however, and
probably erred in judgment—indeed, he was quite sure he did,
since I differed from him; he hoped I would pardon his unkind
suggestion, and believe him what he really was, the most faithful
and devoted of husbands.
Amongst my weaknesses was a passion for emeralds. Mr.
Doughty had heard me express my admiration for them many
a time. The day following our little rencounter he came home
an hour earlier than usual, seated himself on the sofa beside
me, and taking two little parcels from his pocket and concealing
them beneath his hand, said playfully—
“Which one will you have, Nell?”
“The best one!” I replied, reaching out my hand.
“The better one,” he rejoined quickly; “the best of the
two is not elegant—at least it was not till you made it so.”
I withdrew my hand and averted my face. If he and I had
been alone, I might have taken the reproof more kindly; but
Kate heard it all, as it seemed to me she always did every
thing that was disagreeable. I might have made some angry
retort, but a visitor was just then announced—an old classmate
of Mr. Doughty's, whom I had never seen.
“He is come specially to pay his respects to you,” my husband
said as he rose to join him. “You will see him, of
course.”
“If it is my lord's pleasure,” I replied; “bring him to me
when it suits you.”
Involuntarily he put his hand on my hair, and smoothed it
away, glancing over me at the same time from head to foot.
The motion and the glance implied a doubt of my observance
dissatisfaction with myself. The interview was embarrassed and
restrained; I was self-conscious every moment, and crippled
completely by the knowledge, that in my husband's eyes I was
appearing very badly.
I misquoted a familiar line from Shakspeare; expressed admiration
for a popular author, and when asked which of his
works I read with most delight, could not remember the name
of anything I had read.
My discomfiture was completed when my husband said apologetically,
“I dare say that wiser heads than my little Nellie's
have been confused by similar questions—in truth, she is not
quite well to-day.”
The old classmate related some very amusing blunders of his
own, calculated to soothe, but rasping my wounded feelings
only into deeper soreness, and presently the conversation fell
into the hands of the gentlemen altogether; and I am sure it
was felt to be a relief, by all parties, when our guest announced
the expiration of the time to which he was unfortunately
limited. My husband walked down street with him, and
during his brief absence I wrought myself into a state of unwomanly
ugliness, including dissatisfaction with everything
and everybody.
The words “my little Nellie,” which my husband had used,
rung offensively in my ears. My little Nellie, indeed! What
implied ownership and what tender disparagement!
When my husband returned he took no notice of my ill-humor,
but proceeded to his reading as usual. It was never his
habit to read aloud; on this occasion I chose to fancy he had,
in his own estimation, selected a work above my appreciation.
“There, Nell, I forgot!” he exclaimed after a few moments
of silent reading, and he threw into my lap the little box which
I had declined to receive. I did not open it immediately, and
when I did so I expressed neither surprise nor pleasure, though
it contained what I had so much desired to possess—a pin set
with emeralds.
“Very pretty,” I said carelessly, “for those who can wear
such ornaments; as for myself it would only make my plainness
seem the plainer by contrast.” And before the eyes of my
husband, who had thought to make everything right by its
purchase, I transferred it to my sister Kate. From that time
forth it glittered in the faces of both of us daily, but we
neither of us ever mentioned it.
It was not many days after this occurrence that Mr. Doughty
informed me that he was called suddenly, by matters of some
importance to him, to a neighboring State. He did not say
us, but limited the interest entirely to himself—nor did he intimate
by word or act that the necessity of absence involved any
regret. I inquired how long he proposed to remain away—not
when should I expect him.
He was not definitely advised—from one to three months.
We parted without any awakening of tender emotion. Our
letters were brief and formal—containing no hints, on either
side, of a vacuum in life which nothing but the presence of the
other could supply.
I was informed from time to time that affairs protracted
themselves beyond his expectation, but the nature of the affairs
I was left in ignorance of. The prospect of staying at home a
year added nothing to my happiness. Kate and I agreed no
better now that we were alone than before. I secretly
it was not the importunate nature of his business that detained
him, I was quite sure. I grew uneasy, and irritable, wished to
have him back, not for any need my nature had, that he alone
could answer. I wanted him to want to come back—that was all.
Kate accused me of unfilial and unsisterly preference for a
vulgar and heartless man, to my own family.
“The dear old Nell was completely merged in the selfish
Doughty,” she said, “and she might just as well have no sister
for all the comfort I was to her.”
So we kept apart a good deal, and by keeping apart, soon
grew apart pretty thoroughly. In truth our natures had never
been cast in the same mould, and it was impossible that they
should more than touch at some single point now and then.
At the end of six months a portion of my fret and worry
had worked itself into my face. My hair had fallen off and
was beginning to have a faded and neglected look. I was
careless about dress, and suffered my whole outer and inner
person to fall into ruins. By fits I resolved to project my general
discontent into some one of the reforms, I hardly knew
which, when after a day of unusual irksomeness and personal
neglect, my husband unexpectedly returned.
He was in perfect health, and rejoiced in the possession of
affluent beard and spirits—he was really quite handsome. I
looked at him with wonder, admiration, and some pride—kissed
him and said I was very glad; but there was no thrill in my
heart—no tremor in my voice—the old fires of anger had left
the best part of my nature in ashes, I found. He was sorry to
find me looking so badly—I must go with him on his next adventure
and get back my beauty again! If I could only see
and sallow face into some bloom! And by the way, I
must know her—he was sure I would love her just as he did—
she had done so much to make his banishment from me delightful—no,
not delightful—but bearable. He would defy any
one to be very miserable where she was. She kept about her
under all circumstances such an atmosphere of cheerfulness
and comfort; was so self-sustained and womanly, and yet as
capable of receiving pleasure as a child; as an example of a
beautiful and child-like trait in her disposition, he told with
what almost pious care she preserved every little trinket he
ever gave her. She would clap her hands and laugh like a
very baby over the least trifle bestowed upon her.
I thought of the emerald pin, and of (as doubtless he did)
the contrast my whole character presented to his charming
wonder.
“Ah, me!” he concluded, and fell into a fit of musing. I
did not interrupt him by any poor attempt at cheerfulness I
did not feel.
Before long I succeeded in coaxing upon myself a headache—
slighted the advice proposed, and at nightfall had my pillows
brought to the sofa, and gave up altogether.
I was almost glad to be sick—it would revive in my husband
some of the old tenderness perhaps; but what was my disappointment
when he took up his hat to leave the house.
“What, you are not going out to night?” I inquired in
surprise.
“Why, yes, my dear, why not?”
“If you ask why not, I suppose there is no reason.”
“Is there anything I can do, or shall I send the doctor?”
“No, there is nothing special I need, but I thought you
would stay at home to-night—I am unhappy every way.”
“I am very sorry, but my engagement to-night is imperative—I
promised Jenny I would immediately see some friends
of hers, here.”
I hid my face in my pillows and cried, and I confess there
was some method in my tears—I did not think he would leave
me under such circumstances. I was mistaken—he did.
“Have you seen any house that you thought would suit us?”
I ventured to ask him before long.
“No, I have not been looking for a house.”
He did not follow up my suggestion, and I added, as if I had
but to intimate my wishes to have them carried out, though the
hollowness of the sham was appalling—“I really wish you
would look.” He still was silent, and I continued—“Won't
you?”
He replied, evidently without the slightest interest in the
matter, “Why, yes, when I have time.” He paid no further
attention to my request, however, and when I reminded him of
it again, he said he had forgotten it.
It seemed to me I could not live from one day to another—
change would be a relief, at any rate, and my husband's indifference
to my wishes made me importunate; but from week to
week he put me off with promises and excuses, both of which I
felt were alike false.
He could not see any places. “Inquire of your friends.”
He had, and could not hear of any.
“Why, I saw plenty of houses to let, and was sure I could
secure one any day—would he go with me some time?”
“Yes, certainly at his earliest convenience.'
I awaited his convenience, but it did not come. In very desperation,
I set out myself; but searching without having fixed
upon any locality, size of house, or price to be paid, was only a
waste of time, I felt, and accordingly I wandered about the
streets, looking at the outsides of houses, and now and then inquiring
the terms at the door, but declining in all instances to
examine the premises, or take the slightest step towards the
securing of a house.
“Had you not better consider it a little?” Mr. Doughty said
at length, as if I had not been considering it for six months!
He feared I would find it lonesome—he might be from home
a good deal, such was the unfortunate nature of his prospects.
Where was he going and what for?
He was not going at all that he positively knew of, but his
affairs were in such a state that contigencies might arise at any
time, that would demand his absence for a few weeks or
months.
“A happy state of affairs!” I said with womanish spite;
“I suppose one of the contigencies is your charming cousin
Jenny!”
He would only reply to my foolish accusation by saying it
was quite unworthy of my generous nature—I wronged myself
and him, and also the sweetest and most innocent little creature
in the world.
For some days nothing was said about the house; but I was
a woman, and could not maintain silence on a disagreeable
subject, so I renewed it with the importunate demand to know,
once for all, whether or not we were ever to keep house. Thus
urged, he consented to go with me in search of a house.
The air was biting on the day we set out—the streets
women to walk backward, and bury their faces in their muffs.
We turned into streets and out of streets, just as it happened
—Mr. Doughty did not care where he looked—anywhere I
chose;—sometimes we passed whole blocks of houses that
seemed eligible, without once ringing a bell: he did not
suggest looking here or there, made no objection to terms, and
suggested no proposals. Now we turned into a by-street and
examined some dilapidated tenement, and now sought a
fashionable quarter, and went over some grand mansion to be
let for six months only, and furnished!—an exorbitant rent
demanded, of course.
The whole thing was so evidently a sham, that I at last
burst into tears and proposed to go home. Mr. Doughty
assented, and with my face swollen and shining with the cold,
my hands aching and my feet numb, I arrived there in a
condition of outraged and indignant feeling that could go no
further.
I comforted myself as I best could, for nobody comforted
me, and my husband, monopolizing the easy-chair and a great
part of the fire, opened the letters that awaited him.
When he had concluded the reading of the first one—
addressed, as I observed, in a woman's hand—he said suddenly,
“Come here, Nell, and sit on my knee.”
I did so.
“What should you think of taking the house in—street?”
“I should like it very well.”
“I think that would suit us—room for ourselves, and a
visitor now and then, perhaps.”
I did not sit on his knee any longer; I felt instinctively that
that the prospect of having her for a guest had changed the
aspect of affairs.
The house was taken at once, and Mr. Doughty informed me
before long that I had a great happiness in prospect—that of
knowing the little cousin I had heard him speak of.
She came almost before we were settled; impossible, thought
I that I should be jealous; the idea of affinity between her and
Mr. Doughty was so ridiculous. She was white, short, and fat
as a worm in a chestnut, and almost as incapable of thought.
The flax-like hair was so thin you could see her head beneath
it all the time; her cheeks and chin trembled with fatness; her
eyes were of the faintest blue, and cloudy with vague apprehension;
her arms hung stiff and round as two rolling pins, and
her pink and blue silk dresses were pinned up and fringed out,
and greasy: but she was amiable—too simple-hearted and
indolent to be otherwise, indeed.
“She is a child, you see,” said my husband, “and I bespeak
for her childish indulgences; you must not be surprised to find
her arms around my neck any time—playful little kitten, that
she is.”
I was not so much surprised to find her big arms about his
neck, as by the fact which gradually broke in upon me, that
they had power to detain him from the most important duties.
Towards her he was gentle and indulgent to the tenderest
degree—towards me exacting, severe, and unyielding.
If I fretted, he was surprised that I could do so with so
patient an example before me; if I forbore complaint, he gave
me no praise; I had done nothing more than I ought to do.
If I slighted or blamed Jenny, as I was sometimes driven to do,
should treat a mere child, quite incapable of defence or retaliation,
so cruelly.
By turns, I resorted to every device: grave and reserved
dignity, playful badinage, affected indifference, rivalry in dress
and manner, pouting, positive anger, threats of divorce and
separate maintenance—all would not do. I ruined thereby
the slender stock of amiability and fair looks I began with, and
gained nothing. Now I went home for a few days, and now I
affected illness; but I gained nothing, for of all lost things
most difficult to be regained, lost affection is the most hopeless.
This state of feeling could not last always; the nerves of
sensibility could not be laid bare and left bare without becoming
indurated, and by degrees I became incapable of receiving or of
giving enjoyment. In our treatment of one another, my husband
and I fell into a kind of civility which was the result of indifference.
Before folks we said “my dear;” and when we were alone—
but we never were alone—we had ceased to have any of those
momentous nothings to communicate which require to be done
without observation. I had no longer any motive in life—duty
was tiresome, and pleasure a mask that smothered me; love
was a fable, and religion, I knew not what—nothing that
comforted me, for it can only enter the heart that is open to
the sweet influences of love.
In a fit of the most abject depression I swallowed poison, and
lying down on my sofa awaited death with more interest in
the process of its approaches than I had felt for months. The
pain and the burning were easier to bear than I had borne
many and many a time; gradually the world receded, my eyes
indeed got hold of me. A terrible noise filled my ears; my
dead and stiffening body seemed to drop away; I sat upright
and saw about me all familiar and household things. On the
floor beside me lay the picture of Mr. Doughty which I had been
holding in my hand when I fell asleep—the noise of its falling
bad waked me.
“Then it had been only a dream, after all?”
“Why, to be sure; did you not see all along that such
things could not have really happened?”
| Pictures of country life | |