The Guilty River | Page 5

the world tells me that it is not the common lot
in life of women to marry the object of their first love. A sense of duty
had compelled my mother to part with the man who had won her heart,
in the first days of her maidenhood; and my father had discovered it,
after his marriage. His insane jealousy foully wronged the truest wife,
the most long-suffering woman that ever lived. I have no patience to
write of it. For ten miserable years she suffered her martyrdom; she
lived through it, dear angel, sweet suffering soul, for my sake. At her
death, my father was able to gratify his hatred of the son whom he had
never believed to be his own child. Under pretence of preferring the
foreign system of teaching, he sent me to a school in France. My
education having been so far completed, I was next transferred to a
German University. Never again did I see the place of my birth, never
did I get a letter from home, until the family lawyer wrote from
Trimley Deen, requesting me to assume possession of my house and
lands, under the entail.
I should not even have known that my father had taken a second wife
but for some friend (or enemy)--I never discovered the person--who
sent me a newspaper containing an announcement of the marriage.
When we saw each other for the first time, my stepmother and I met

necessarily as strangers. We were elaborately polite, and we each made
a meritorious effort to appear at our ease. On her side, she found herself
confronted by a young man, the new master of the house, who looked
more like a foreigner than an Englishman--who, when he was
congratulated (in view of the approaching season) on the admirable
preservation of his partridges and pheasants, betrayed an utter want of
interest in the subject; and who showed no sense of shame in
acknowledging that his principal amusements were derived from
reading books, and collecting insects. How I must have disappointed
Mrs. Roylake! and how considerately she hid from me the effect that I
had produced!
Turning next to my own impressions, I discovered in my newly-found
relative, a little light-eyed, light-haired, elegant woman; trim, and
bright, and smiling; dressed to perfection, clever to her fingers' ends,
skilled in making herself agreeable--and yet, in spite of these
undeniable fascinations, perfectly incomprehensible to me. After my
experience of foreign society, I was incapable of understanding the
extraordinary importance which my stepmother seemed to attach to
rank and riches, entirely for their own sakes. When she described my
unknown neighbors, from one end of the county to the other, she took it
for granted that I must be interested in them on account of their titles
and their fortunes. She held me up to my own face, as a kind of idol to
myself, without producing any better reason than might be found in my
inheritance of an income of sixteen thousand pounds. And when I
expressed (in excusing myself for not accompanying her, uninvited, to
the dinner-party) a perfectly rational doubt whether I might prove to be
a welcome guest, Mrs. Roylake held up her delicate little hands in
unutterable astonishment. "My dear Gerard, in your position!" She
appeared to think that this settled the question. I submitted in silence;
the truth is, I was beginning already to despair of my prospects. Kind as
my stepmother was, and agreeable as she was, what chance could I see
of establishing any true sympathy between us? And, if my neighbors
resembled her in their ways of thinking, what hope could I feel of
finding new friends in England to replace the friends in Germany
whom I had lost? A stranger among my own country people, with the
every-day habits and every-day pleasures of my youthful life left

behind me--without plans or hopes to interest me in looking at the
future--it is surely not wonderful that my spirits had sunk to their
lowest ebb, and that I even failed to appreciate with sufficient gratitude
the fortunate accident of my birth.
Perhaps the journey to England had fatigued me, or perhaps the
controlling influences of the dark and silent night proved irresistible.
This only is certain: my solitary meditations under the tree ended in
sleep.
I was awakened by a light falling on my face.
The moon had risen. In the outward part of the wood, beyond which I
had not advanced, the pure and welcome light penetrated easily through
the scattered trees. I got up and looked about me. A path into the wood
now showed itself, broader and better kept than any path that I could
remember in the days of my boyhood. The moon showed it to me
plainly, and my curiosity was