A moment of madness, and other stories (vol. 1 of 3)Marryat, Florence
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A moment of madness, and other stories (vol. 1 of 3)
Marryat, Florence
English fiction -- 19th century; Short stories, English
What was that quick fear which seized me as I listened to her unconscious
words? What that trembling which assailed my limbs, and rendered me
incapable of moving either backwards or forwards? The fear and trembling
fell so suddenly upon me, that I had hardly time to realise their
presence, until they had resolved themselves into a knowledge, fearful as
a thunderbolt from heaven, but certain as that I live—or I must die!
I love her—and she loves me! We have destroyed each other’s happiness.
As this conviction smote me, I dropped her cold fingers, and sinking down
upon the hillock beside which she stood, buried my face in my hands.
Good heavens! how was it that I had never anticipated this—never seen
it coming—never dreamt of such a contingency?—that I had spent day after
day in her company; reading with her, singing with her, riding with her,
listening to her amusing conversation, watching all her womanly kindness
to my wife (ah, my poor wife!), contemplating her beauty from hour to
hour, and never once suspected that I might grow to love her more than
was good or right? And she, the girl whose advent I had dreaded, whose
manners I had so disliked, whose beauty was to me no beauty at all!
Ah, Margaret, Margaret! you may have your revenge now if you will, in
the assurance that never, never more shall the remembrance of that fatal
beauty be purged from my existence.
All was now explained; her worn looks and dispirited appearance; my own
restless and uneasy sensations; the guilty feeling had been growing in
us, surely though unconsciously, for many long days past, and needed but
some such accident as the present to warm it into life.
Have I not reason to wish that I were dead?
I did not sit upon the hillock long; something was waiting to be done,
and that was not the time for thought. I could not even stay to watch her
as she again commenced to pace beneath the moonlight, with the evening
breeze playing with her flimsy raiment, and making it cling about her
graceful figure. I felt that she must be coaxed to return into the house,
and that I was neither the right person nor in a right state of mind to
do it.
So I rose quickly, and explaining the circumstances to Janie’s ayah (an
old woman with more sense than the generality of her tribe), directed her
how to speak soothingly to the young lady, and persuade her to return to
the house, where she need be none the wiser for the untimely stroll which
she had taken; and after a little while I was relieved to see the white
hand in the grasp of the dark one, and the two women, so unlike each
other in all outward appearance, pass into the house together.
So now it is all over; and the grey dawn is here; and as it was not
worth while for me to turn in before going to parade, I sit down to
transcribe the particulars of this adventure before I forget it.
Shall I ever forget it?
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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