Page:The Lady's Book Vol. IV.pdf/22

Rh After having walked many miles in darkness, I heard, to my amazement, the cry of past eight o'clock, I thought it should be near midnight, and it seemed to me that there would be no end of this dismal night. Feet sore, drenched with rain, and exhausted, I resolved to make now for my lodgings, and on my way I went into a che- mist’s, and asked for an ounce of oxalic acid to clean boot-tops. The man looked at me, I fan- cied, as much as to say, you are above cleaning boot-tops, and below wéaring such smart geer. He, er, weighed out the quantity, wrote— “Oxalic Acid—Poison,” on the paper, and ex- tended it towards me without any observation. I took the packet with a steady hand, and having before laid the dollar down oa the counter, was about to leave the shop without receiving the change. He called me back, reminding me of my omission, to my some small confusion.

I had no farther use for these poor coins, and on my way to my home I looked out for:some object on whom to bestow them. I met with none, however; I seemed to myself the only mi- serable creature walking the streets on that night, so joyous to the rest of the world, and joy- less tome. My knock at the door of my lodg- ings was answered by the servant of the house: as she opened the door to me for the last time, and lit and handed me my candle, I invested her with that sort of adventitious dignity which be- longs even to the humblest performers in a great tragedy—my dark destiny seemed to shed a ro- mantic colour on the commonest objects around me. The woman, who was dirty, careless, and stupid, had never been in favour with me; on the contrary, indeed; but now I was softened even towards her, and as she performed these homely little offices for me for the last time, I felt moved, absurd as it may sound, and thank- ing her with a voice of kindness, told her that I was ill, and therefore going early to bed. She wished me good night, just as if I had been a man destined to see the morning. When in the room it struck me that! should want some warm water to dissolve my oxalic acid, and I rang the bell, which was answered by my ijandlady’s daughter. She came up,I knew, in order to display the finery which she wore in honour of the day. I thoughi: “You little know what is passing in the mind of the man whose eye you would sur- prise with these miserable gauds.”” She was no more fitted forthe part of witness to a romantic catastrophe than the maid, for she was plain and squinted; but these are after thoughts—at the time I had no such trash in my contemplation.

While the girl was fetching the water, I strode up and down the room in some perturbation of spirits. This was the most painful interval in the whole of that terrible day tome. The im- possibility of facing the morrow, had completely braced me for my deed before, but this pause at the very point of execution, seemed to relax my purpose; why,I knew not. Ina minute, how- ever, the girl returned with the warm water, and asked me, when about to retire, at what hour I would be called in the morning? I felt a chok- ing sensation as I replied: “‘ At the usual hour.” She then left the room, giving that slam to,the door which reminds a lodger that he has not paid his bill. A moment’s communing with myself, shame for my perturbafien, and an appeal tomy pride, restored me to my resolution, and I was again strung for my purpose. “I walked delibe- rately to the table, mixed the dose, shaking the last grains of the powder from the paper into the glass, and then set it on the looking-glasg stand to cool. I then walked up and down the room, composed, and to the best of my recollection perfectly thoughtless—my mind was either va- cant, or so loaded that it had lost its action. When I concluded that the draught was suffi- ciently cool, I walked up to the toilet, took it, and raised it to my lips with a steady hand; at this instant my eye rested on the reflection of my own face in the mirror, and I felt proud of its composure, and pleased to look on it while I drained the deadly draught. This done, set down the glass with a firm hand, and again walk- ed up and down the room, with some confusion of thought going on in my mind, but no pain or apprehension—those feelings had had their day; they were now gone. Being weary, after a time I laid down on the bed, waiting the action of the poison, and comforting myself with the reflection that the pain would be short, that it would soon be over, and I at peace. Louisa Daventry, I re- member, and my family, did not fill muchtof my thoughts, which were all centered in myself: my anxiety was all about myself, and how I should bear my sufferings, and whether my courage would hold out as the shadow of death darkened my intellect, Strange as it may seem, while thus meditating, my ideas wandered, and a doze came over me, and I slumbered,I should ima- gine for nearly an hour; on waking suddenly, I felt the commomi shock of recollection under ca- Jamitous circumstances, and wondered that my body was still at ease, as the long wick of the candle showed me that my doze had not been short. It will last me out, I thought; and I con- tinued for aboyt half an hour gazing at the dull light and fameying the likenesses of fantastic forms in the gloom beyond it, while the wind howled, and the rain pattered against my win- dow. Then, for the first time, I felt some twinges of pain, which admonished me that the enemy was at work, and which increased gra- dually in violence, till I suffered what I knew to be the usual operation of poison. I thought now of nothing but my pains, and perceived that the work of death was by no means of a dignity cor- responding with its horror. The process grieved my flesh, and shocked my sentiment. As the pains grew sharper I began to repent of what I had done, wishing it undone or over, and fre- quently examined my pulse to ascertain the ex- haustion of my strength—other pains and fancies then possessed me. But I must draw a veil over “the scenc here, for even at this distance of time, are circumstances in it which I cannot bear to remember, much less to commit to paper.