Volume Ii Part 23 (1/2)
I have now given you--at full length too--the whole history, up to the catastrophe,--which perhaps may have to be supplied by another hand.
I am here, in this little capital of artists and quarry men, patiently waiting for Bel-ton's arrival, or at least some despatch, which may direct my future movements. It has been a comfort to me to have the task of this recital, since, for the time at least, it takes me out of brooding and gloomy thoughts; and though I feel that I have made out a poor case for myself, I know that I am pleading to a friendly Court and a merciful Chief Justice.
They say that in the few seconds of a drowning agony a man calls up every incident of his life,--from infancy to the last moment,--that a whole panorama of his existence is unrolled before him, and that he sees himself--child, boy, youth, and man--vividly and palpably; that all his faults, his short-comings, and his transgressions stand out in strong colors before him, and his character is revealed to him like an inscription. I am half persuaded this may be true, judging from what I have myself experienced within these few hours of solitude here. Shame, sorrow, and regret are ever present with me. I feel utterly disgraced before the bar of my own conscience. Even of the advantages which foreign travel might have conferred, how few have fallen to my share!--in modern languages I have scarcely made any progress, with respect to works of art I am deplorably ignorant, while in everything that concerns the laws and the modes of government of any foreign State I have to confess myself totally uninformed. To be sure, I have acquired some insight into the rogueries of ”Rouge-et-Noir,” I can slang a courier, and even curse a waiter; but I have some misgivings whether these be gifts either to promote a man's fortune or form his character.
In fact, I begin to feel that engrafting Continental slang upon home ”sn.o.bbery” is a very unrewarding process, and I sorely fear that I have done very little more than this.
I am in a mood to make a clean breast of it, and perhaps say more than I should altogether like to remember hereafter, so will conclude for the present, and with my most sincere affection write myself, as ever, yours,
Jim Dodd.
P. S. It is not impossible that you may have a few lines from me by to-morrow or next day,--at least, if I have anything worth the telling and am ”to the fore” to tell it.
LETTER XXIX. MARY ANNE DODD TO MISS DOOLAN, OF BALLYDOOLAN
Casa Dodd, Florence.
Dearest Kitty,--Seventeen long and closely written pages to you--the warm out-gus.h.i.+ngs of my heart--have I just consigned to the flames.
They contained the journal of my life in Florence,--all my thoughts and hopes, my terrors, my anxieties, and my day-dreams. Why, then, will you say, have they met this fate? I will tell you, Kitty. Of the feelings there recorded, of the emotions depicted, of the very events themselves, nothing--absolutely nothing--now remains; and my poor, distracted, forlorn heart no more resembles the buoyant spirit of yesterday than the blackened embers before me are like the carefully inscribed pages I had once destined for your hand. Pity me, dearest Kitty,--pour out every compa.s.sionate thought of your kindred heart, and let me feel that, as the wind sweeps over the snowy Apennines, it bears the tender sighs of your affection to one who lives but to be loved! But a week ago, and what a world was opening before me,--a world brilliant in all that makes life a triumph! We were launched upon the sunny sea of high society, our ”argosy” a n.o.ble and stately s.h.i.+p; and now, Kitty, we lie stranded, shattered, and s.h.i.+pwrecked.
Do not expect from me any detailed account of our disasters. I am unequal to the task. It is not at the moment of being cast away that the mariner can recount the story of his wreck. Enough if these few lines be like the chance words which, enclosed in a bottle, are committed to the waves, to tell at some distant date and in some far-away land the tale of impending ruin.
It is in vain I try to collect my thoughts: feelings too acute to be controlled burst in upon me at each moment and my sobs convulse me as I write. These lines must therefore bear the impress of the emotions that dictate them, and be broken, abrupt, mayhap incoherent!
He is false, Kitty!--false to the heart that he had won, and the affections where he sat enthroned! Yes, by the blackest treason has he requited my loyalty and rewarded my devotion. If ever there was a pure and holy love, it was mine. It was not the offspring of self-interest, for I knew that he was married; nor was I buoyed up by dreams of ambition, for I always knew the great difficulty of obtaining a divorce. But I loved him, as the cla.s.sic maiden wept,--because it was inconsolable! It is not in my heart to deny the qualities of his gifted nature. No, Kitty, not even now can I depreciate them. How accomplished as a linguist!--how beautifully he drove!--how exquisitely he danced!--what perfection was his dress!--how fascinating his manners!
There was--so to say--an idiosyncrasy--an idealism about him; his watchguard was unlike any other,--the very perfume of his pocket-handkerchief was the invention of his own genius.
And then, the soft flattery of his attentions before the world, bestowed with a delicacy that only high breeding ever understands. What wonder if my imagination followed where my heart had gone before, and if the visions of a future blended with the ecstasies of the present!
I cannot bring myself to speak of his treachery. No, Kitty, it would be to arraign myself were I to do so. My heartstrings are breaking, as I ask myself, ”Is this, then, the love that I inspired? Are these the proofs of a devotion I fondly fancied eternal?” No more can I speak of our last meeting, the agony of which must endure while life remains.
When he left me, I almost dreaded that in his despair he might be driven to suicide. He fled from the house,--it was past midnight,--and never appeared the whole of the following day; another and another pa.s.sed over,--my terrors increased, my fears rose to madness. I could restrain myself no longer, and hurried away to confide my agonizing sorrows to James's ear. It was early, and he was still sleeping. As I stole across the silent room, I saw an open note upon the table,--I knew the hand and seized it at once. There were but four lines, and they ran thus:--
”Dear Jim,--The birds are wild and not very plenty; but there is some capital boar-shooting, and hares in abundance.
”They tell me Lady George is in Florence; pray see her, and let me know how she 's looking.
”Ever yours,
”George Tiverton.
”MAREMMA.”
I tottered to a seat, Kitty, and burst into tears. Yours are now falling for me,--I feel it,--I know it, dearest I can write no more.
I am better now, dearest Kitty. My heart is stilled, its agonies are calmed, but my blanched cheek, my sunken eye, my bloodless lip, my trembling hand, all speak my sorrows, though my tongue shall utter them no more. Never again shall that name escape me, and I charge your friends.h.i.+p never to whisper it to my ears.
From myself and my own fortunes I turn away as from a theme barren and profitless. Of Mary Anne--the lost, the forlorn, and the broken-hearted, you shall hear no more.
On Friday last--was it Friday?--I really forget days and dates and everything--James, who has latterly become totally changed in temper and appearance, contrived to fix a quarrel of some kind or other on Sir Morris Penrhyn. The circ.u.mstance was so far the more unfortunate, since Sir M. had shown himself most kind and energetic about mamma's release, and mainly, I believe, contributed to that result. In the dark obscurity that involves the whole affair, we have failed to discover with whom the offence originated, or what it really was. We only know that James wrote a most indiscreet and intemperate note to Sir Morris, and then hastened away to appoint a friend to receive his message. By the merest accident he detected, in a pa.s.sing travelling-carriage, a well-known face, followed it, and discovered--whom, think you?--but our former friend and neighbor, Dr. Belton.
He was on his way to England with despatches from Constantinople; but, fortunately for James, received a telegraphic message to wait at Florence for more recent news from Vienna before proceeding farther.