There is a certain vow of mine, which, did I marry, _must_ be broken. No man in his senses, or possessing the commonest feelings of justice and tenderness, would give his name to a beloved woman, with the possibility of children to inherit it, and then bring upon each and all of them _the end_, which I have all my life resolutely contemplated as a thing necessary to be done--either immediately before my death, or after it. Therefore, also, it is inevitable. That word--inevitable--always calms me. It is the will of God. If He had meant otherwise, He would have found out a way--perhaps by sending me some good woman to love me, as men are loved sometimes, but not such men as I. There is no fear--or hope--which shall I say?--of any one ever loving me. Sleep, child! You are fast asleep by this hour, I am sure: you once said, you always fall asleep the instant your head touches the pillow. Blessed pillow! precious, tender, lovely head! “Good night.” Sleep well, happy ignorant child. CHAPTER III. HER STORY. |Finished to-morrow.” What a life-time seems to have elapsed since I wrote that line! A month and four days ago, I sat here, waiting for papa and Penelope to come home from their dinner party. Trying to be cheerful--wondering why I was not so: yet with my heart as heavy as lead all the time. I think it will never be quite so heavy any more. Never weighed down by imaginary wrongs and ideal woes. It has known real anguish and been taught wisdom. We have been very near losing our beloved father. Humanly speaking, we should have lost him but for Doctor Urquhart, to whose great skill and unremitting care, Doctor Black himself confessed yesterday, papa has, under God, owed his life. It is impossible for me to write down here the particulars of dear papa's accident, and the illness which followed, every day of which seems at once so vivid and so unreal. I shall never forget it while I live, and yet, even now, am afraid to recall it. Though at the time I seemed afraid of nothing--strong enough for everything. I felt--or it now appears as though I must have done so--as I did on one sunshiny afternoon, at a pic-nic, about a dozen years ago--when I, following Colin Granton, walked round the top of a circular rock, on a ledge two feet wide, a sloping ledge of short slippery grass, where, if we had slipped, it was about ninety perpendicular feet to fall. I shudder to think of that feat, even now; and telling it to Doctor Urquhart in illustration of what I am here mentioning, namely, the quiet unconsciousness with which one sometimes passes through exceeding great danger, he too shuddered, turned deadly white. I never saw a strong man lose colour so suddenly and completely as he does, at times.