I must finish my story, though it seems hardly worth telling, since
my nephew, my tower of strength and trust, had suddenly sunk away
from me in the prime of his manhood.
The light seemed gone out of the whole world, and my heart felt dull
and dead, as if I could never heed or care for anything again. Even
Dermot's illness did not seem capable of stirring me to active
anxiety in this crushed, stupid state, with no one to speak to of
what lay heavy on my heart, no one even to write to; for who would
venture to read my letters? nay, I had not energy even to write to
poor Miss Woolmer. We got into a way of going on day after day with
Dora's little meals, the backgammon, and the Mayne Reid, till
sometimes it felt as if it had always been thus with us from all
time, and always would be; and at others it would seem as if it were
a dream, and that if I could but wake, I should be making tea for
Harold in our cheerful little drawing-room at Mount Eaton. At last I
had almost a morbid dread of breaking up this monotonous life, and
having to think what to do or where to go. The Randall Horsmans must
long for our departure, and my own house was in a state of
purification, and uninhabitable.
The doctor said that Dora must be moved as soon as it could be
managed, for in that London attic she could have no impulse towards
recovery; and while it still seemed a fearful risk, he sent us off to
St.
Pages:
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370