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| 1 | No need, O Steerforth, to have said, when we last spoke together,
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| 2 | in that hour which I so little deemed to be our parting-hour - no
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| 3 | need to have said, 'Think of me at my best!' I had done that ever;
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| 4 | and could I change now, looking on this sight!
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| 5 | They brought a hand-bier, and laid him on it, and covered him with
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| 6 | a flag, and took him up and bore him on towards the houses. All
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| 7 | the men who carried him had known him, and gone sailing with him,
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| 8 | and seen him merry and bold. They carried him through the wild
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| 9 | roar, a hush in the midst of all the tumult; and took him to the
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| 10 | cottage where Death was already.
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| 11 | But when they set the bier down on the threshold, they looked at
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| 12 | one another, and at me, and whispered. I knew why. They felt as
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| 13 | if it were not right to lay him down in the same quiet room.
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| 14 | We went into the town, and took our burden to the inn. So soon as
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| 15 | I could at all collect my thoughts, I sent for Joram, and begged
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| 16 | him to provide me a conveyance in which it could be got to London
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| 17 | in the night. I knew that the care of it, and the hard duty of
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| 18 | preparing his mother to receive it, could only rest with me; and I
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| 19 | was anxious to discharge that duty as faithfully as I could.
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| 20 | I chose the night for the journey, that there might be less
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| 21 | curiosity when I left the town. But, although it was nearly
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| 22 | midnight when I came out of the yard in a chaise, followed by what
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| 23 | I had in charge, there were many people waiting. At intervals,
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| 24 | along the town, and even a little way out upon the road, I saw
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| 25 | more: but at length only the bleak night and the open country were
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| 26 | around me, and the ashes of my youthful friendship.
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| 27 | Upon a mellow autumn day, about noon, when the ground was perfumed
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| 28 | by fallen leaves, and many more, in beautiful tints of yellow, red,
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| 29 | and brown, yet hung upon the trees, through which the sun was
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| 30 | shining, I arrived at Highgate. I walked the last mile, thinking
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| 31 | as I went along of what I had to do; and left the carriage that had
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| 32 | followed me all through the night, awaiting orders to advance.
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| 33 | The house, when I came up to it, looked just the same. Not a blind
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| 34 | was raised; no sign of life was in the dull paved court, with its
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| 35 | covered way leading to the disused door. The wind had quite gone
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| 36 | down, and nothing moved.
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| 37 | I had not, at first, the courage to ring at the gate; and when I
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| 38 | did ring, my errand seemed to me to be expressed in the very sound
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| 39 | of the bell. The little parlour-maid came out, with the key in her
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| 40 | hand; and looking earnestly at me as she unlocked the gate, said:
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| 41 | 'I beg your pardon, sir. Are you ill?'
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| 42 | 'I have been much agitated, and am fatigued.'
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| 43 | 'Is anything the matter, sir? - Mr. James? -'
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| 44 | 'Hush!' said I. 'Yes, something has happened, that I have to break
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| 45 | to Mrs. Steerforth. She is at home?'
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| 46 | The girl anxiously replied that her mistress was very seldom out
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| 47 | now, even in a carriage; that she kept her room; that she saw no
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| 48 | company, but would see me. Her mistress was up, she said, and Miss
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| 49 | Dartle was with her. What message should she take upstairs?
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| 50 | Giving her a strict charge to be careful of her manner, and only to
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| 51 | carry in my card and say I waited, I sat down in the drawing-room
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| 52 | (which we had now reached) until she should come back. Its former
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| 53 | pleasant air of occupation was gone, and the shutters were half
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| 54 | closed. The harp had not been used for many and many a day. His
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| 55 | picture, as a boy, was there. The cabinet in which his mother had
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| 56 | kept his letters was there. I wondered if she ever read them now;
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| 57 | if she would ever read them more!
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| 58 | The house was so still that I heard the girl's light step upstairs.
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| 59 | On her return, she brought a message, to the effect that Mrs.
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| 60 | Steerforth was an invalid and could not come down; but that if I
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| 61 | would excuse her being in her chamber, she would be glad to see me.
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| 62 | In a few moments I stood before her.
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| 63 | She was in his room; not in her own. I felt, of course, that she
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| 64 | had taken to occupy it, in remembrance of him; and that the many
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| 65 | tokens of his old sports and accomplishments, by which she was
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| 66 | surrounded, remained there, just as he had left them, for the same
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| 67 | reason. She murmured, however, even in her reception of me, that
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| 68 | she was out of her own chamber because its aspect was unsuited to
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| 69 | her infirmity; and with her stately look repelled the least
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| 70 | suspicion of the truth.
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| 71 | At her chair, as usual, was Rosa Dartle. From the first moment of
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| 72 | her dark eyes resting on me, I saw she knew I was the bearer of
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| 73 | evil tidings. The scar sprung into view that instant. She
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| 74 | withdrew herself a step behind the chair, to keep her own face out
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| 75 | of Mrs. Steerforth's observation; and scrutinized me with a
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| 76 | piercing gaze that never faltered, never shrunk.
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| 77 | 'I am sorry to observe you are in mourning, sir,' said Mrs.
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| 78 | Steerforth.
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| 79 | 'I am unhappily a widower,' said I.
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| 80 | 'You are very young to know so great a loss,' she returned. 'I am
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| 81 | grieved to hear it. I am grieved to hear it. I hope Time will be
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| 82 | good to you.'
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| 83 | 'I hope Time,' said I, looking at her, 'will be good to all of us.
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| 84 | Dear Mrs. Steerforth, we must all trust to that, in our heaviest
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| 85 | misfortunes.'
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| 86 | The earnestness of my manner, and the tears in my eyes, alarmed
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| 87 | her. The whole course of her thoughts appeared to stop, and
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| 88 | change.
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| 89 | I tried to command my voice in gently saying his name, but it
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| 90 | trembled. She repeated it to herself, two or three times, in a low
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| 91 | tone. Then, addressing me, she said, with enforced calmness:
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| 92 | 'My son is ill.'
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| 93 | 'Very ill.'
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| 94 | 'You have seen him?'
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| 95 | 'I have.'
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| 96 | 'Are you reconciled?'
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| 97 | I could not say Yes, I could not say No. She slightly turned her
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| 98 | head towards the spot where Rosa Dartle had been standing at her
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| 99 | elbow, and in that moment I said, by the motion of my lips, to
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| 100 | Rosa, 'Dead!'
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| 101 | That Mrs. Steerforth might not be induced to look behind her, and
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| 102 | read, plainly written, what she was not yet prepared to know, I met
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| 103 | her look quickly; but I had seen Rosa Dartle throw her hands up in
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| 104 | the air with vehemence of despair and horror, and then clasp them
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| 105 | on her face.
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| 106 | The handsome lady - so like, oh so like! - regarded me with a fixed
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| 107 | look, and put her hand to her forehead. I besought her to be calm,
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| 108 | and prepare herself to bear what I had to tell; but I should rather
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| 109 | have entreated her to weep, for she sat like a stone figure.
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| 110 | 'When I was last here,' I faltered, 'Miss Dartle told me he was
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| 111 | sailing here and there. The night before last was a dreadful one
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| 112 | at sea. If he were at sea that night, and near a dangerous coast,
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| 113 | as it is said he was; and if the vessel that was seen should really
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| 114 | be the ship which -'
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| 115 | 'Rosa!' said Mrs. Steerforth, 'come to me!'
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| 116 | She came, but with no sympathy or gentleness. Her eyes gleamed
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| 117 | like fire as she confronted his mother, and broke into a frightful
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| 118 | laugh.
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| 119 | 'Now,' she said, 'is your pride appeased, you madwoman? Now has he
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| 120 | made atonement to you - with his life! Do you hear? - His life!'
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| 121 | Mrs. Steerforth, fallen back stiffly in her chair, and making no
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| 122 | sound but a moan, cast her eyes upon her with a wide stare.
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| 123 | 'Aye!' cried Rosa, smiting herself passionately on the breast,
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| 124 | 'look at me! Moan, and groan, and look at me! Look here!' striking
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| 125 | the scar, 'at your dead child's handiwork!'
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| 126 | The moan the mother uttered, from time to time, went to My heart.
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| 127 | Always the same. Always inarticulate and stifled. Always
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| 128 | accompanied with an incapable motion of the head, but with no
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| 129 | change of face. Always proceeding from a rigid mouth and closed
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| 130 | teeth, as if the jaw were locked and the face frozen up in pain.
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| 131 | 'Do you remember when he did this?' she proceeded. 'Do you
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| 132 | remember when, in his inheritance of your nature, and in your
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| 133 | pampering of his pride and passion, he did this, and disfigured me
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| 134 | for life? Look at me, marked until I die with his high
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| 135 | displeasure; and moan and groan for what you made him!'
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| 136 | 'Miss Dartle,' I entreated her. 'For Heaven's sake -'
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| 137 | 'I WILL speak!' she said, turning on me with her lightning eyes.
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| 138 | 'Be silent, you! Look at me, I say, proud mother of a proud, false
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| 139 | son! Moan for your nurture of him, moan for your corruption of him,
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| 140 | moan for your loss of him, moan for mine!'
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| 141 | She clenched her hand, and trembled through her spare, worn figure,
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| 142 | as if her passion were killing her by inches.
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| 143 | 'You, resent his self-will!' she exclaimed. 'You, injured by his
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| 144 | haughty temper! You, who opposed to both, when your hair was grey,
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| 145 | the qualities which made both when you gave him birth! YOU, who
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| 146 | from his cradle reared him to be what he was, and stunted what he
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| 147 | should have been! Are you rewarded, now, for your years of
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| 148 | trouble?'
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| 149 | 'Oh, Miss Dartle, shame! Oh cruel!'
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| 150 | 'I tell you,' she returned, 'I WILL speak to her. No power on
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| 151 | earth should stop me, while I was standing here! Have I been silent
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| 152 | all these years, and shall I not speak now? I loved him better
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| 153 | than you ever loved him!' turning on her fiercely. 'I could have
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| 154 | loved him, and asked no return. If I had been his wife, I could
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| 155 | have been the slave of his caprices for a word of love a year. I
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| 156 | should have been. Who knows it better than I? You were exacting,
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| 157 | proud, punctilious, selfish. My love would have been devoted -
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| 158 | would have trod your paltry whimpering under foot!'
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| 159 | With flashing eyes, she stamped upon the ground as if she actually
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| 160 | did it.
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| 161 | 'Look here!' she said, striking the scar again, with a relentless
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| 162 | hand. 'When he grew into the better understanding of what he had
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| 163 | done, he saw it, and repented of it! I could sing to him, and talk
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| 164 | to him, and show the ardour that I felt in all he did, and attain
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| 165 | with labour to such knowledge as most interested him; and I
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| 166 | attracted him. When he was freshest and truest, he loved me. Yes,
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| 167 | he did! Many a time, when you were put off with a slight word, he
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| 168 | has taken Me to his heart!'
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| 169 | She said it with a taunting pride in the midst of her frenzy - for
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| 170 | it was little less - yet with an eager remembrance of it, in which
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| 171 | the smouldering embers of a gentler feeling kindled for the moment.
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| 172 | 'I descended - as I might have known I should, but that he
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| 173 | fascinated me with his boyish courtship - into a doll, a trifle for
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| 174 | the occupation of an idle hour, to be dropped, and taken up, and
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| 175 | trifled with, as the inconstant humour took him. When he grew
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| 176 | weary, I grew weary. As his fancy died out, I would no more have
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| 177 | tried to strengthen any power I had, than I would have married him
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| 178 | on his being forced to take me for his wife. We fell away from one
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| 179 | another without a word. Perhaps you saw it, and were not sorry.
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| 180 | Since then, I have been a mere disfigured piece of furniture
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| 181 | between you both; having no eyes, no ears, no feelings, no
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| 182 | remembrances. Moan? Moan for what you made him; not for your
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| 183 | love. I tell you that the time was, when I loved him better than
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| 184 | you ever did!'
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| 185 | She stood with her bright angry eyes confronting the wide stare,
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| 186 | and the set face; and softened no more, when the moaning was
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| 187 | repeated, than if the face had been a picture.
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| 188 | 'Miss Dartle,' said I, 'if you can be so obdurate as not to feel
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| 189 | for this afflicted mother -'
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| 190 | 'Who feels for me?' she sharply retorted. 'She has sown this. Let
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| 191 | her moan for the harvest that she reaps today!'
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| 192 | 'And if his faults -' I began.
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| 193 | 'Faults!' she cried, bursting into passionate tears. 'Who dares
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| 194 | malign him? He had a soul worth millions of the friends to whom he
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| 195 | stooped!'
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| 196 | 'No one can have loved him better, no one can hold him in dearer
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| 197 | remembrance than I,' I replied. 'I meant to say, if you have no
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| 198 | compassion for his mother; or if his faults - you have been bitter
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| 199 | on them -'
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| 200 | 'It's false,' she cried, tearing her black hair; 'I loved him!'
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| 201 | '- if his faults cannot,' I went on, 'be banished from your
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| 202 | remembrance, in such an hour; look at that figure, even as one you
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| 203 | have never seen before, and render it some help!'
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| 204 | All this time, the figure was unchanged, and looked unchangeable.
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| 205 | Motionless, rigid, staring; moaning in the same dumb way from time
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| 206 | to time, with the same helpless motion of the head; but giving no
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| 207 | other sign of life. Miss Dartle suddenly kneeled down before it,
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| 208 | and began to loosen the dress.
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| 209 | 'A curse upon you!' she said, looking round at me, with a mingled
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| 210 | expression of rage and grief. 'It was in an evil hour that you
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| 211 | ever came here! A curse upon you! Go!'
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| 212 | After passing out of the room, I hurried back to ring the bell, the
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| 213 | sooner to alarm the servants. She had then taken the impassive
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| 214 | figure in her arms, and, still upon her knees, was weeping over it,
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| 215 | kissing it, calling to it, rocking it to and fro upon her bosom
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| 216 | like a child, and trying every tender means to rouse the dormant
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| 217 | senses. No longer afraid of leaving her, I noiselessly turned back
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| 218 | again; and alarmed the house as I went out.
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| 219 | Later in the day, I returned, and we laid him in his mother's room.
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| 220 | She was just the same, they told me; Miss Dartle never left her;
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| 221 | doctors were in attendance, many things had been tried; but she lay
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| 222 | like a statue, except for the low sound now and then.
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| 223 | I went through the dreary house, and darkened the windows. The
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| 224 | windows of the chamber where he lay, I darkened last. I lifted up
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| 225 | the leaden hand, and held it to my heart; and all the world seemed
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| 226 | death and silence, broken only by his mother's moaning.
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