The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 18, No. 109, November, 1866: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and PoliticsVarious
General
The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 18, No. 109, November, 1866: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics
Various
American periodicals
If you can imagine a very heavy weight let somewhat gradually, but
irresistibly, down upon young and tender shoulders, then gently lifted
again, little by little, by a sympathizing and unlooked-for helper, and
lastly tossed by him unexpectedly into the air, only to fall back with
redoubled weight, and crush the frame that was but bowed before, you can
form some idea of what had just happened to me. My mother's death, our
embarrassments, my loneliness, the hard and to me uncongenial work I had
to do, all came upon me together more heavily than at any time since the
first fortnight that I spent at Greenville.
But that was not all. Disappointment is hardly the right word to use;
for I can truly say that I never made any calculations for the future
upon Jim's attentions to me. They were offered so honestly and
respectfully that I instinctively felt I could accept them with perfect
propriety, and perhaps could scarcely with propriety refuse. I had never
once asked myself what they meant, nor whither they tended. But yet I
was used to them now, and had learned to prize them far more than I
knew; and they must be given up. My heart-strings had unconsciously
grown to him, and ought to be torn away. And I think that, beyond grief,
beyond the prospect of lonely toil and poverty henceforth, beyond all
the rest, was the horror of an idea which came upon me, that I had lost
the control of my own mind,--that my peace had passed out of my keeping
into the power of another, who, though friendly to me, neither would nor
could preserve it for me,--that I was doomed to be henceforward the prey
of feelings which I must try to conceal, and perhaps could not for any
length of time, which lowered me in my own eyes, and would do so in
those of others if they were seen by them, which were wrong, and which I
could not help.
These thoughts struck and stung me like so many hornets. Crying,
"Mother! mother!" I sprang from my bed, and fell on my knees beside it.
I did not suppose it would do much good for me to pray; but I said over
and over, if only to stop myself from thinking, "O God, help me! God
have mercy on me!" as fast as I could, till the town clock struck five,
and I knew that I must begin to dress, and compose myself, if I would
appear as usual at six o'clock at the breakfast-table.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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