Pelham — Volume 07 by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton
page 29 of 78 (37%)
page 29 of 78 (37%)
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CHAPTER LXXV. I BREATHED, But not the breath of human life; A serpent round my heart was wreathed, And stung my very thought to strife. --The Giaour. "Thank Heaven, the most painful part of my story is at an end. You will now be able to account for our meeting in the church-yard at _______. I secured myself a lodging at a cottage not far from the spot which held Gertrude's remains. Night after night I wandered to that lonely place, and longed for a couch beside the sleeper, whom I mourned in the selfishness of my soul. I prostrated myself on the mound; I humbled myself to tears. In the overflowing anguish of my heart I forgot all that had aroused its stormier passions into life. Revenge, hatred,--all vanished. I lifted up my face to the tender heavens: I called aloud to the silent and placid air; and when I turned again to the unconscious mound, I thought of nothing but the sweetness of our early love and the bitterness of her early death. It was in such moments that your footstep broke upon my grief: the instant others had seen me,--other eyes had penetrated the sanctity of my regret,--from that instant, whatever was more soft and holy in the passions and darkness of my mind seemed to vanish away like a scroll. I again returned to the intense and withering remembrance which was henceforward to make the very key and pivot of my existence. I again recalled the last night of Gertrude's life; I again shuddered at the low murmured sounds, whose dreadful sense broke slowly upon my soul. I again felt the cold-cold, slimy grasp of those wan and dying fingers; and I again nerved my heart to an iron strength, and vowed |
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