Page:All the Year Round - Series 2 - Volume 1.djvu/369

Charles Dickens] kill her. Better for me to glide away quietly, and save her this—that might kill her too; but there would be no disgrace, Mr. Bernard would be indulgent—as regards his tongue at least.

O, I long to be going. I want rest—rest—rest—for in this mind here, about this heart, are caldrons boiling, fires raging, and engines working: I could not go on with that. A day or two more would be the utmost.

. . . . I have just counted out these notes, about seven hundred pounds gone—embezzled. O, demons, furies, be proud of your work! You with the rakes and cards are hell's own precious emissaries; but no, this is not the time—I have done with all that. I must look forward a day or two, and plan a little carefully before I go down to those who have bought my wretched soul. O, why did I not die at my desk and leave an innocent name to my sweet, my lost Dora! Here is her little picture again, her smooth hair and snowy dress, and her shy smile, and look of surprise. Shall I tear it, as I could tear out my own vile heart? When you read these frantic words, these ravings of your guilty husband, whose vanity and folly have brought him to this, O, I would give all the chances of my vile soul to be released from the fiery furnace, and standing by looking down on you. And that prayer, which I did say— But what use are prayers now?

. . . . Morning—I never slept last night . . .. and I think sat in that place until the grey of the morning. Then I went out to walk; such a lovely calm sunrise, so still and solemn and hushed, like the morning of an execution. The honest creatures in their blouses, who till the soil here and bring in marketing, are asleep or just rousing themselves. The gaudy looking hotels are bathed in slumber. Then the sloping Kiesleffstrasse and the balcony in which I so often see the young and pretty girl, decoying the doves and sparrows with crumbs. There is the Victoria Hotel and the Russie and the Quatre Saisons, all shut and solemn as jails. There is the money-lender's, "a Bank," he calls himself, and the post which brings and carries misery, and agonised confessions home. And there is the great red sandstone temple of play, every stone of which has cost hearts and lives, and worlds of ruin and agonies. As I pass by I leave them my last hearty Curse; on them, their administrations, their familiars, and their blood-won money, their works, and their pomps. God, in his justice who has dealt so rigorously with me, may he deal with them, and not delay the reckoning too late!

. . . . As the place wakes up, I have come in again; but I cannot sit down or stop. I must be in motion. If I am not, my heart and soul begin their work again, and I shall die in agony. But I have my own plan for dying. The poor wretch that blew his brains out over their numbers, must have discomposed them sorely. It was not so bad a way to spite them. That blood should surely call to Heaven for vengeance.

. . . . I have been up the hills, out among the woods, walking, rushing about, flying from myself. Mr. Bernard ought to be here by the midday train. I will tell the other to come back at the same time; and to them both I will make confession of the whole. And then, after that—— However, all in good time. Here is the packet of these fatal notes—what remains, at least—so neatly tied up, with a short letter. No tears and ridiculous theatrical repentance. I am going to pay a price sufficient for all that—a heavy reckoning; so I may leave out all that. Surely I am to enter on a long eternal period of penal servitude, and with no commutation. Everything is in order. A letter to Dora? No, no. Better separate all that finally from yesterday. I am not worthy to address a line to her. She is lost to me for ever, and ever, and evermore! They, they—those demons—have torn me from her!

The day is sultry hot, but not so sultry as the furnaces inside here at my heart. The engine is working furiously, and will not let me rest a moment in one spot. I must go out, and out again, into the sun, into the raging sun. This morning is like a dull long night, and I seem to be tossing on a pillow. Go on, go on, move on! But there is stolid oppressive monotony about it. It is an hour yet from noon, when this gambling begins.

. . . . I have come back to my room again, where the woman of the house comes to persecute me. I suppose fearful about her rent. What does she want, then? For God's sake, then, let her go, and leave me in peace!

This ridiculous diary, as I turn it over; what folly, what complacency, and, O, what happiness! And yet I meant well—at least, I think I did. How am I to tell now? . . .. O, hours, go by, and end this. . .. I shall not stay pent within these four white walls. They seem crushing me in—stifling. . .. I must walk,