Christian life; Great Britain -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Young women -- Conduct of life -- Fiction
The expectation which I had tried to awaken in her was but feeble in my
own breast; and I at last desisted from my fruitless importunity. But
what course remained for me? Even the poorest shelter I had not the
means to procure. We were in a land of strangers; and many a heart open
to human sympathies was closed against us. To solicit pity was to
provoke suspicion, perhaps to encounter scorn. I myself might return to
my inhospitable home, but what would then become of the unfortunate
Juliet? While I gazed upon the dying figure before me, and weighed the
horrible alternative of leaving her perhaps to perish alone, or
remaining with her exposed to all from which the nature of woman most
recoils, my spirits failed; and the bitter tears of anguish burst from
my eyes. But there are thoughts of comfort which ever hover near the
soul, like the good spirits that walk the earth unseen. There is a hope
that presses for admission into the heart from which all other hope is
fled. 'Juliet,' said I, 'let us commend ourselves to God. It is His will
that we should this night have no protection but His own. Be the
consequence what it may, I will not leave you.'
My unhappy companion answered only by a continuance of that feeble
wailing which was now more the effect of weakness than of grief; while
I, turning from her, addressed myself to Heaven, with a confidence which
they only know who have none other confidence.
CHAPTER XXVI
_It is too late. The life of all_ her _blood
Is touched corruptibly; and_ her _poor brain
(Which some suppose the soul's frail dwelling-house)
Doth, by the idle comments which it makes,
Foretell the ending of mortality._
Shakspeare.
I was startled by the approach of a heavy footstep. Trembling, I
whispered to Miss Arnold an earnest entreaty that she would command
herself, and not invite curiosity, perhaps insult, to our last retreat.
But I asked an impossibility; poor Juliet could not restrain her
sobbing. The step continued to ascend the stair. Though now hopeless of
concealment, I instinctively shrunk aside. But I breathed more freely,
when I perceived through the dusk that the cause of my alarm was a
woman.
Crossing the landing, she knocked at the door adjacent to that which had
been closed against us; then approaching my companion, she enquired into
the cause of her distress. 'She is a stranger, sick, and unfortunate,'
said I, now coming forward. 'The only place where she could this night
find shelter is so distant, that she is quite unable to reach it.'
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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