It was again myself who spoke; she nodded her head in acquiescence, and I felt my prudence evaporating, and rushed from the apartment.
Written down, this interview seems nothing; but to those who feel as we do, the misery of years may be compressed into an hour; and that small room, for both of us, was worse than a torture-chamber.
I have scarcely seen her since, except at meals; but, as I anticipated, my wife was so delighted to learn that she should retain her cousin’s company, that she thought next to nothing of my proposed shooting excursion, except to beg that I would take care of myself, and to wonder how I could like going after those ‘horrid bears’ and ‘awful tigers.’ Indeed, on the whole, I half suspect the little woman is rather glad to get rid of me, and pleased at the idea of having Margaret all to herself for a few weeks; for she has occasionally displayed the faintest touch of jealousy when I have broken up their tête-à-tête conferences. So I have sent them word down to the Fort to lay my ‘dawk’ for me, and I shall start as soon as to-morrow’s sun goes down.
I almost think we shall have a storm first, which would pleasantly clear the air; for the sky has been indigo-colour all to-day, and there is a strange heaviness over everything as I write.
I have been packing my portmanteau and cleaning my weapons, until I have fairly tired myself out; but were I to stop to think, I could never summon courage enough to go. The household is asleep, and has been for hours; and I am sadly in want of rest; for I can hardly keep my eyes open or guide my pen upon the paper—and yet I feel as though I should never sleep again.
Bah! I must be mad or dreaming. I am only starting on an ordinary shooting excursion, and I feel as though I were going to my grave.
This is folly—monomania; I shall be thankful when the hour comes for me to leave.
Madras, October 20th.—It is more than two months since I transcribed a line in this written record of my inmost thoughts—more than two months since that awful, horrible, and most unexpected catastrophe occurred, which I cannot now recall without a shudder, and which, for a time, seemed as if it must obliterate my reason or my life. But I am spared (though I cannot yet say, thank God that it is so); and were it not that my soul seems to die within me, and my energy to languish for want of some one or thing to which I may confide my sorrow, I should not have the courage even now to write the story down. But I must speak, even though it be but to a silent confidant, for my spirit fails for lack of sympathy; and therefore I draw out my old diary, and having read (shall I be ashamed to say with tears?) what I have written in these foregoing pages, proceed to bring the tale to a conclusion.