Country life -- Fiction; Vicars, Parochial -- England -- Fiction
“‘Look at your work!’ she cried to him, as he stood gazing in stupor on
the face of the girl. ‘You said she was yours, not mine; take her. You
may have her now you have killed her.’
“‘He may have killed her; but you have MURDERED her, madam,’ I said, as
I took the man by the arm, and led him away, yielding like a child. But
the moment I got him out of the house, he gave a groan, and, breaking
away from me, rushed down a road leading from the back of the house
towards the home-farm. I followed, but he had disappeared. I went on;
but before I could reach the farm, I heard the gallop of a horse, and
saw him tearing away at full speed along the London road. I never heard
more of him, or of the story. Some women can be secret enough, I assure
you.”
I need not follow the rest of our conversation. I could hardly doubt
whose was the story I had heard. It threw a light upon several things
about which I had been perplexed. What a horror of darkness seemed to
hang over that family! What deeds of wickedness! But the reason was
clear: the horror came from within; selfishness, and fierceness of
temper were its source—no unhappy DOOM. The worship of one’s own will
fumes out around the being an atmosphere of evil, an altogether
abnormal condition of the moral firmament, out of which will break the
very flames of hell. The consciousness of birth and of breeding,
instead of stirring up to deeds of gentleness and “high emprise,”
becomes then but an incentive to violence and cruelty; and things which
seem as if they could not happen in a civilized country and a polished
age, are proved as possible as ever where the heart is unloving, the
feelings unrefined, self the centre, and God nowhere in the man or
woman’s vision. The terrible things that one reads in old histories, or
in modern newspapers, were done by human beings, not by demons.
I did not let my friend know that I knew all that he concealed; but I
may as well tell my reader now, what I could not have told him then. I
know all the story now, and, as no better place will come, as far as I
can see, I will tell it at once, and briefly.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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