The International Monthly, Volume 4, No. 4, November 1, 1851Various
History
The International Monthly, Volume 4, No. 4, November 1, 1851
Various
Art, Modern -- 19th century -- Periodicals; Literature, Modern -- 19th century -- Periodicals; Science -- History -- Periodicals
"Well, but you say, half-seriously, half in jest, 'I
_will_ escape from this prison-house of memory; I will
form new ties, like other men, and before it be too
late; I _will_ marry--aye, but I must love--there is
the difficulty'--difficulty--yes, and heaven be thanked
for it! Recall all the unhappy marriages that have come
to your knowledge--pray have not eighteen out of twenty
been marriages for love? It always has been so, and it
always will. Because, whenever we love deeply, we exact
so much and forgive so little. Be content to find some
one with whom your hearth and your honor are safe. You
will grow to love what never wounds your heart--you
will soon grow out of love with what must always
disappoint your imagination. _Cospetto!_ I wish my
Jemima had a younger sister for you. Yet it was with a
deep groan that I settled myself to a--Jemima.
"Now, I have written you a long letter, to prove how
little I need of your compassion or your zeal. Once
more let there be long silence between us. It is not
easy for me to correspond with a man of your rank, and
not incur the curious gossip of my still little pool of
a world which the splash of a pebble can break into
circles. I must take this over to a post-town some ten
miles off, and drop it into the box by stealth.
"Adieu, dear and noble friend, gentlest heart and
subtlest fancy that I have met in my walk through life.
Adieu--write me word when you have abandoned a
day-dream and found a Jemima.
ALPHONSO.
"_P. S._--For heaven's sake caution and re-caution your
friend the minister, not to drop a word to this woman
that may betray my hiding-place."
"Is he really happy?" murmured Harley as he closed the letter; and he sank
for a few moments into a reverie.
"This life in a village--this wife in a lady who puts down her work to talk
about villagers--what a contrast to Audley's full existence. And I can
never envy nor comprehend either--yet my own--what is it?"
He rose, and moved towards the window, from which a rustic stair descended
to a green lawn--studded with larger trees than are often found in the
grounds of a suburban residence. There were calm and coolness in the sight,
and one could scarcely have supposed that London lay so near.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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