the mistress of half our wealth, I as a wanderer in foreign countries,
until I came to this Devonshire nest to die. Bertha lives pitied and
admired; for what had I against that charming woman, whom every one but
myself could have been happy with? There had been no witness of the
scene in the dying room except Meunier, and while Meunier lived his
lips were sealed by a promise to me.
Once or twice, weary of wandering, I rested in a favourite spot, and my
heart went out towards the men and women and children whose faces were
becoming familiar to me; but I was driven away again in terror at the
approach of my old insight--driven away to live continually with the
one Unknown Presence revealed and yet hidden by the moving curtain of
the earth and sky. Till at last disease took hold of me and forced me
to rest here--forced me to live in dependence on my servants. And then
the curse of insight--of my double consciousness, came again, and has
never left me. I know all their narrow thoughts, their feeble regard,
their half-wearied pity.
* * * * *
It is the 20th of September, 1850. I know these figures I have just
written, as if they were a long familiar inscription. I have seen them
on this page in my desk unnumbered times, when the scene of my dying
struggle has opened upon me . . .