His brain was in such a tumult that he could do nothing, however—nothing but upbraid himself for his folly and madness, “What have I done?—what have I done?” he moaned, as he thought of the anguish that he must have inflicted upon the poor girl, who had slowly pined away, and was now dying—dying through his wretched blindness and want of faith.
He tried to excuse himself—pleaded his term of bitter suffering, but could get no absolution from his own stern judgment. He had doubted one who was all that was purity and truth, and here was his punishment—a bitter one indeed!
He prayed mentally that she might be spared, that he might ask her forgiveness—forgiveness that he knew he should receive—and then covered his face with his hands, as a feeling of hope came upon him that he might still be able to save her. He might, he thought, bring joy to her heart even yet.
A sudden stoppage nearly threw him out of the cab; and, looking up hastily, it was to find that a barrier was across the street, from which hung a red lantern.
The street was narrow, and he could see beyond, while the driver was sulkily backing and turning his horse, that the paving-stones were all up, and the inevitable long fosse and hill of earth lay by the side.
He sank back shuddering, for it looked as if a grave were yawning in the path; and, with a low moan of despair, he covered his face once more, and tried to reason with himself that this was merely a superstitious fancy.
But all in vain. There was the long, dark cutting fixed upon the retina of his eye; and he could see nothing else as the cab slowly went back over much of the ground already traversed. What was more, his distempered fancy magnified and added to it, so that he could see trains of mourners, the clergyman, hear the solemn words of the burial service; and these the revolving wheels and the rattling cab kept repeating, till at last it settled itself down into a constant reiteration of the words, “In the midst of life we are in death,”—“In the midst of life we are in death,” till he grew almost frantic, and stopped his ears in vain against the weird, funereal sound.
At last, after wearying himself by trying to bring reason to bear, the cab reached the comparative freedom of London Bridge; and then he began to think of the hour, and wondered whether there would be a train.
“Perhaps I shall be in time,” he thought, as he sprang out of the cab, and, paying the fare, ran up to the doors, where a porter was standing.
“You should have gone to the other gate, sir,” said the man sharply.