It is a fortnight since I wrote a line here..
Last Sunday week I made a discovery--in truth, two discoveries--after
which I lost myself, as it were, for many days.
It will be advisable not to see any more of that family. Not that I have
any proof that they are _the_ family--the name itself, Johnson, and
their acknowledged plebeian origin, is sufficient evidence to the
contrary. But, if they had been!
The mere supposition, coming, instinctively, that Sunday night, before
reason argued it down--was enough to cause me twelve such hours as would
be purchased dearly with twelve years of life--even a life full of
such happiness as, I then learnt, is possible for a man. But not for
me.--Never for me!
This phase of the subject is, however, so exclusively my own, that
even here I will pass it over. It will be conquered by-and-by--being
discovered in time.
I went to the marriage--having promised. She said, Doctor Urquhart
never breaks his promises. No. There is one promise--nay, vow--kept
unflinchingly for twenty years, could it be broken now? It never could.
Before it is too late--I will take steps to teach myself that it never
shall.
I only joined the marriage-party during the ceremony. They excused me
the breakfast, speeches, &c.--Treherne knew I was not well. Also, she
said I looked "over-worked,"--and there was a kind of softness in her
eye, the pity that all women have, and so readily show.
She looked the very picture of a white fairy, or a wood-nymph--or an
angel, sliding down on a sunshiny cloud to a man asleep.--He wakes and
it is all gone.
While the register was being signed--and they wished me to be one of the
attesting witnesses--an idea came into my mind.
The family must have settled at Rockmount for many years. Probably, the
grandfather, the farmer who wrote himself, plebeianly, "Johnson," was
buried here. Or--if he were dead, but whether it was so or not, I had no
clue--here probably, would be registered the interment of that brother
to whom allusion had been made as "papa's favourite," but in such a
manner, and with such evident distress, that to make further inquiry
about him was impossible. Besides, I must have no more private talk with
her--with the one of the Misses Johnston whom I know best.
This brother--I have calculated his possible age, compared with
theirs. Even were he the eldest of them, he could not now be much above
thirty--if alive. _That person_ would now be at least fifty.
Still, at once and for ever to root up any such morbid, unutterable
fancies, I thought it would be as well to turn over the register-books,
as, without suspicion, it was this day easy to do. On my way home
I stopped at the church--and, helped by the half-stupid sexton and
bell-ringer, went over the village records of, he declared, the last
twenty years, and more. In none of them was once named the family of
Johnston.
No proof, therefore, of my cause of dread--not an atom, not a straw. All
evidence hitherto going directly counter to a supposition--the horror of
which would surpass all horrible coincidences that fate could work out
for a man's punishment. Let me put it aside.
The other thing--God help me! I believe I shall also be able to put
aside--being entirely my own affair--and I myself being the only
sufferer.
Now Treherne is married and away, there will be no necessity to visit at
Rockmount any more.