CHAPTER IX. HIS STORY.
It is a fortnight since I wrote a line here..
Last Sunday week I made a discovery—in truth, two discoveries—after which I lost myself, as it were, for many days.
It will be advisable not to see any more of that family. Not that I have any proof that they are the family—the name itself, Johnson, and their acknowledged plebeian origin, is sufficient evidence to the contrary. But, if they had been!
The mere supposition, coming, instinctively, that Sunday night, before reason argued it down—was enough to cause me twelve such hours as would be purchased dearly with twelve years of life—even a life full of such happiness as, I then learnt, is possible for a man. But not for me.—Never for me!
This phase of the subject is, however, so exclusively my own, that even here I will pass it over. It will be conquered by-and-by—being discovered in time.
I went to the marriage—having promised. She said, Doctor Urquhart never breaks his promises. No. There is one promise—nay, vow—kept unflinchingly for twenty years, could it be broken now? It never could. Before it is too late—I will take steps to teach myself that it never shall.
I only joined the marriage-party during the ceremony. They excused me the breakfast, speeches, &c.—Treherne knew I was not well. Also, she said I looked “over-worked,”—and there was a kind of softness in her eye, the pity that all women have, and so readily show.
She looked the very picture of a white fairy, or a wood-nymph—or an angel, sliding down on a sunshiny cloud to a man asleep.—He wakes and it is all gone.
While the register was being signed—and they wished me to be one of the attesting witnesses—an idea came into my mind.