Fair play : $b a novelSouthworth, Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte
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Fair play : $b a novel
Southworth, Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte
American fiction -- 19th century
She put her hands up to her head, and tried to struggle forth from this
state of mental dullness and confusion. She tried to think and remember
who she was, what had happened, and how she came to this hades of
darkness and desolation! In vain! as well might a newborn infant try to
recall the events of its pre-existence, supposing it ever to have had
one. With all her striving to come forth from chaos, she could only
arrive at a dim, mysterious consciousness of infinite loss and eternal
despair. Was she a disembodied spirit, then? Was this really hell? Had
she come to it? And for what sin? No, but such spirits had not flesh and
blood, as she felt too sensibly that she had.
What then?
The ceaseless beating of the waves upon the shore was a familiar and
suggestive sound, and troubled her with glimpses of memory that flitted
in and out of her mind like ghosts in a graveyard.
It was a trifle that at last struck the electric chain of association,
and restored her to herself. In her blind movements, she touched the
inflated life-preserver that was fastened around her waist. And
instantly, with a shock of returning life, the whole scene of the
catastrophe flashed upon her memory. And she knew that she was cast away
upon that dreary coast on which the lifeboat had been struggling all day
long, and far into the night, and on which it had finally been wrecked!
But whether this coast was a part of the mainland or of an island;
whether it was barren, or clothed with vegetation; whether it was
uninhabited, or peopled with cannibals, she did not know and she did not
care; or what deadly perils and cruel sufferings from the ruthless
savages, or from protracted starvation might await her there, she did
not know and did not care.
Instantly, with the flash of memory had come the knowledge of her one
great sorrow, the loss of her lover and her beloved! Yes, in this awful
hour of doom, Britomarte knew that she loved Justin with an earnestness
that outweighed her hatred of his whole sex and her devotion to the
sacred rights of her own.
And the cry of her broken heart arose wildly on the dark air, amid the
profound stillness of that strange land!—a cry of bitter anguish, not
for the fate of all her late companions, too probably perished in the
sea; not for the feeling of her own horrible state of danger and
desolation worse than death, but for despair at the loss of him whom she
loved as only such souls as hers have power to love.
“Gone! gone! gone! Gone out of my way forever! Oh, this is the sorrow I
dreaded worse than all others in this dark world! the only sorrow I ever
really dreaded! life without him! And now he is gone forever, without
one good word from me to let him know how I loved him! Ah! Heaven, how I
loved him!” She wrung her hands and tore her beautiful hair, and then
flung her arms on high, and cried out again, in the frenzy of longing:
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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