“Who am I?” he replied. “In truth, I can hardly tell you who I am. I am one, madam, lost both to himself and the world—an outcast—a wanderer in solitary places—a madman—a dreamer! O, sweet lady!—but I am wrong to speak thus.”
“I know you now,” she said, gaining courage; “your name is Jones, is it not?”
“Ay, madam,” he answered, “that is my unfortunate name; but, if the world knew all—or if you knew all, I would not care for the world.”
“Tell me,” she said, but with some hesitation, as if in doubt whether it was proper to stay.
“I will, if you’ll forgive me,” he said; “but my story is, perhaps, long. Will you walk on?”
Miss Manners proceeded slowly along, with Jones at her side.
“I have now,” resumed the latter, “resided for nearly six years in this village. In my intercourse with the world I had been unfortunate, and retirement was what I sought. I found it here; and, between the study of books and nature, I felt myself happy, and associated but little with my neighbours. I do not weary you?”
“No,” said Miss Manners; “go on.”
“At length,” he continued, “I began to feel that marriage would be an addition to my happiness; and, accordingly, I cast my eyes round among the fair maidens of the village. They fell upon the unfortunate Jessie Renton. She lived within a few doors of me, and I had often seen and admired her in my walks. I thought I loved her—for, at that time, I had not learned what true love was—and offered to make her my wife. I dealt candidly and openly with her. In education, I need not say that I knew she was much beneath me; but she seemed warm-hearted and docile, and I thought it would be a loving pastime for me to make her my pupil. I was not ignorant, however, that she had other lovers; and, although she certainly encouraged my addresses, I saw reason to discontinue my suit. About this time, the awful event took place, the particulars of which are already known to you; and, simply because I had been abroad on the evening of the murder, and near the fatal spot, and partly, no doubt, from the circumstance of my attachment, which I had taken no pains to conceal, suspicion fastened upon me. I will not—indeed I cannot—tell you what laceration of feeling—what distraction of mind—I have since suffered. But you—you, O lady! is it wonderful that I should love you?—you who, when all the world was against me, spoke kindly to me?—you——forgive me, but I love—I adore you; day and night you have been my dream—my idol! But I rave; and yet, do not think me quite mad; for I know I am partly so, and madness knows not itself. O lady!—pardon me! but my heart will not let my tongue speak, lest it should wrong it—could my heart speak, could”——
“Sir—sir!” interrupted Miss Manners; “this is frenzy! I beg, sir, you will desist. So sudden—so”——