Everything was very pleasant, in
spite of the cold blusterous March weather. Do you know what my last
journey was like, Lotta? It was the long dreary journey from Foretdechene
to St. Katharine's Wharf, when Mr. Hawkehurst advised and arranged my
return to England. I had been sitting quite alone in a balcony
overlooking the little town. It was after midnight, but the lights were
still burning: I can see the lamplit windows shining through the night
mist as I write this, end the sense of the hopeless misery of that time
comes back to me like the breath of some freezing wind. I can find no
words to tell you how desolate I was that night, or how hopeless.
I dared not think of my future life; or of the next day, that was to be
the beginning of that hopeless future. I was obliged to bind my thoughts
to the present and all its dreariness; and a kind of dull apathetic
feeling, which was too dull for despair, took possession of me that
night. While I was sitting there Mr. Hawkehurst came to me, and told me
that my father had become involved in a quarrel, under circumstances of a
very shameful nature, which I need not tell you, darling. He recommended
me to leave Foretdechene--indeed, almost insisted that I should do so. He
wanted to rescue me from that miserable life. Your lover had noble and
generous impulses even then, you see, dear; at his worst he was not all
bad, and needed only your gentle influence to purify and elevate his
character.
Pages:
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280