Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Vol. 3, July, 1851Various
History
Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Vol. 3, July, 1851
Various
American literature -- Periodicals; Civilization -- Periodicals; Culture -- Periodicals
Although we hid ourselves in this retirement for several months, I did
not consider it necessary to adopt the further security of changing my
name. I yielded to the prudence of avoiding a collision with the dwarf,
if he still lived; but I shrank from the meanness of denying myself to
any demand that might be made upon us, should my retreat be discovered.
All links between us and London were broken. For three months, Astræa
had had no communication with any body. Her friends and relations might
have supposed that she was dead, which she wished them to think. She
knew that she was dead to the world, and that she should never re-enter
it; and she only looked forward to the moment when she might put her
house in order, and sit down for the rest of her life in tranquillity
and obscurity. In the beginning, this was a gladdening prospect to her;
her high spirits and bounding enthusiasm sped onward into the future,
and filled it with images of love in a state of beatitude; but as time
advanced, and the dreary sea fell dismally on her ears, and the long
walks on the beach had lost their freshness, and there was nothing to be
read in each others' faces, which had not been read there ten thousand
times over--except, perhaps, an increasing look of care and
anxiety--this prospect of settling down, alone, away from human
intercourse, without any object to live for, without motives to
exertion--without aims, purpose, occupation--with a brand upon us that
seemed stamped upon our foreheads, so that we dared not venture into the
haunts of our fellow-men, lest they should shun us or expel us from
among them--this prospect, as time advanced, grew darker and darker, and
Astræa, still buoyant and energetic, and strong in her resolves,
relinquished slowly the charming pictures she had drawn in her
imagination, and came down to the most prosaic views of our position,
tinged from day to day with tints that grew more and more sombre. The
bright colors of the poetry had all faded.
With the agent of my property in the north I was in constant
correspondence. To him alone I confided my address, and through him
received all letters and communications that were left for me in London
or elsewhere. Strange to say, that for three months no intelligence
reached us concerning the dwarf; nor had I any means of procuring
information, unless I intrusted my agent with my secret, which I
considered unsafe. I was unwilling to originate any inquiry on the
subject. It was for him to seek me, not for me to follow him. He could
have had no difficulty in reaching me by a letter, and his silence
seemed to imply either that he had abandoned all further thoughts of
revenge, or, which was more likely, that he was dead.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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