Be rivals only in your love.

THE

BROADWAY

ANNUAL

A MISCELLANY OF

ORIGINAL LITERATURE

IN

POETRY AND PROSE.



LONDON AND NEW YORK:

GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS.

          BY WILLIAM M. ROSSETTI.

• Rain-washed for hours, the streets at last were dried.
• Profuse and pulpy sea-weed on the beach,
• Pushed by the latest heavy tide some way
• Across the jostled shingle, was too far
• For washing back, now that the sea at ebb
• Left an each time retreating track of foam.
• There were the wonted tetchy and sidelong crabs,
• With fishes silvery in distended death.

• No want of blue now in the upper sky:—
• 10But also many piled-up flat grey clouds,
• Threatening a stormy night-time; and the sun
• Sank, a red glare, between two lengthened streaks,
• Hot dun, that stretched to southward; and at whiles
• The wind over the water swept and swept.

• The townspeople, and, more, the visitors,
• Were passing to the sea-beach through the streets,
• To take advantage of the lull of rain.
• The English “Rainy weather” went from mouth
• To mouth, with “Very” answered, or a shrug
• 20Of shoulders, and a growl, and “Sure to be!
• Began the very day that we arrived.”

• “Yes,” answered one who met a travelling friend;
• “I had forgotten that in England you
• Must carry your umbrella every day.
• Au Englishman's a centaur of his sort,
• Man cross-bred with umbrella. All the same,
• I say good-bye to France and Italy,
• Now that I'm here again. Excuse me now,
• As I was going up into the town
• 30To feast my eyes on British tiles and slates.”

• So on he walked, looking about him. Rows
• Of houses were passed by, irregular;
• Many compacted of the shingle-stones,
• Round, grey or white—with each its garden patch



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• Now as the outskirts neared; and down the streets
• Which crossed them he was catching glimpses still
• Of waves which whitening shattered out at sea.

• The road grew steep here, climbing up a slope
• Strewn with October leaves, which followed him,
• 40Or drifted edgeways on. The grey advanced,
• Half colour and half dusk, along the sky.

• A dead leaf from a beech-tree loosed itself,
• And touched across his forehead. As he raised
• His eyes, they caught a window, and he stopped—
• An opened upper window of a house
• With close-drawn blinds. A man was settled there,
• Eager in looking out, yet covertly.
• He watched, nor moved his eyes from that he watched.

• The passenger drew close beside the rails,
• 50Looking attentively. “Why, Grey,” he cried;
• “Can that be you, Grey? I had thought you'd been——”
• The face turned sharply on him, and the eyes
• Glanced down, and both hands pulled the window shut.

• Pushing a wicket gate, the other went
• On to the door, expecting it to unclose.
• The garden was but scantly stocked with flowers,
• And these were fading mostly, thinly leaved,
• The earth-plots littered with the fall of them.
• Stately some dahlia-clusters yet delayed,
• 60Crimson, alternating with flame-colour.
• He stretched his fingers to the velvet bloom
• Of one, and drew a petal 'twixt them. Then
page: 450  
• The plaited flower fell separate all to earth
• By ring and ring; only the calyx stood
• Upon its stalk. The autumn time was come.
• Out of the bordering box stiff plantain grew.
• Scarce would the loose trees have afforded shade,
• So lessened was the bulk between their boughs,
• Had there been sun to cast it. In the grass
• 70Rested the moisture of the recent rain.

• No one seemed coming; so he walked some steps
• Backward, and peered: no sign of any one.
• He knocked, and at the touch the door unclosed.

• “Don't you remember, years ago, your friend,
• And correspondent since, John Harling?”

• “Oh,
• I know you, sir, of course—I did at once.”

• “ Sir! Why, how now? Between old friends like us?
• How many letters that begin ‘ Dear John ,’
• In your handwriting, I have asked after,
• 80These eight years, in some scores of postes-restantes!
• Too many, I should hope, for us to Sir
• Each other now. But only tell me, Grey——”

• Grey said, “Come up, come up.”

• There was a haste
• About his words and manner, and he seemed
• To half forget what first he meant to do.
• He paused at the stairs' foot; then, with a glance
• Thrown backward at his friend, who stayed for him,
• He mounted hurriedly, two steps at once.
• They had not shaken hands yet. Harling his
• 90Had proffered with the words he uttered first,
• But Grey had not appeared to notice it.

• Harling had caught the look of the other's face
• Where twilight in the doorway glimmered fresh,
• And he had fancied it was pale and worn,
• And anxious as with watchings through the night.
• But in the room the light no longer served
• For one to see the other, how the weeks



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• Had changed him, and the months and years. The room
• Was dim between the window-blinds and dusk.

• 100Now seated—“As you see, John,” Grey began,
• “This is a bed-room. I have not had time
• To trouble myself yet about the house.”

• “You are but just arrived, then?”

• “Yes, but just.”
• He was about to say some more, but stopped.

• “And now,” said Harling, “you shall tell me all
• About yourself. And how and where's your wife?
• What is it brought you down here? Have you left
• Oxford, in which your practice was so good?
• Or are you here on holidays? I come
• 110Upon you by an unexpected chance.
• There must be something to be learned, I know;
• Chances are not all chance-work. Tell me all.”

• His friend rose up at this; and Harling saw
• His knuckles on his forehead, at his hair,
• And thought his eyes grew larger through the dark.
• Grey touched him on the shoulder, drawing breath
• To speak with, but he then again sat down.

• “Why, first I ought to hear your news, I think,”
• At last he answered, swallowing the gasps
• 120Which came into his mouth, and clipped his words.
• “Though travellers have a vested right to lie,
• I'll take it all on trust.” He forged a laugh.

• Harling grew certain there was something now
• His friend had got to tell, and must, but feared.
• He knew how such a fear, by yielding grows,
• And would have had him speak it out at once.
• Nevertheless he answered, “As you will.
• And yet I have but little left to say
• Since my last letter. But the whole is this.
• 130But let us first have light before we talk,
• That we may know each other once again.
• I shall not flatter you if grizzled hairs
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• Prove to outnumber your original brown,
• But tell you truth. You tell the truth of me.
• I am more than half a Frenchman, I believe,
• By this time. That's no compliment, say I,
• For a John Bull at heart, and I am one;
• Thank God, a Tory, and hang the Marseillaise!”

• “No lights, no lights,” Grey answered, moodily.
• 140“Can we not talk again as once we used,
• Through twilight and through evening into night,
• Knowing, without a light, it was we two?—
• I little thought then it would come to this,”
• He added, and his voice was only sad.
• “And it is well, too, that the light should come,
• For then perhaps you will have made a guess,
• By seeing me, before I tell it you.
• My dear old friend, it's needless now to attempt
• To hide it. I am wretched—that's the word.
• 150I am a fool not to have got the thing
• Over already, for it has to come
• At last. But there's a minute's respite still,
• For first you were to tell me of yourself;
• So, Harling, you speak now. But first the light.”

• The other, leaning forward, took his hand,
• And tried to speak some comfort; but the words
• Faltered between his lips. For he was sure
• That, if he had already heard this grief,
• He would not talk of comfort, but sit dumb.

• 160The lights were come now, and each looked on each.
• The traveller's face was bronzed, and his hair crisp
• And close, and his eyes steady—all himself
• Compact and prompt to any chance. And yet
• He was essentially the same who went,
• To find his level, forth eight years ago,
• Unformed, florid-complexioned, easy-tongued:
• Travel and time had only mellowed him.
• Grey was the same in feature, not in fact.
• His face was paler that was always pale;
• 170The forehead something wrinkled, and the lips
• Arid and meagre, faded, marked with lines;
• The eyes had sunken further in the head,



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• With a dark ridge to each, and grizzled brows;
• His hair, though as of old, was brown and soft.
• The difference was less, but more the change.
• Each looked on each some minutes: neither spoke.
• His friend was clothed in black, as Harling saw,
• Who now resumed the thread of his discourse.

• “As for my own adventures, they are few:
• 180For, after I left Rome—the storm will burst,
• Be sure, at Rome, before the year is done—
• I went straight back to Paris. Politics,
• You know, I've stood aloof from all the year;
• But even with me, too, they have done their work.
• My poor Louise was dead—shot down, I learned,
• Upon the people's barricades in June:
• She turned up quite a Red Republican
• After their twenty-fourth of February;
• And my successor in her graces fell
• 190With her—both fighting and yelling side by side.
• I could not but curse at them through my teeth
• With her own sacré-Dieu's—the whole of them
• Who get up revolutions and revolts.
• And then they swore I was an Orleanist,
• An English spy, or something; and indeed
• I found myself, the scanty days I stopped,
• A centre-piece for all the blackest looks.
• At least I thought so. Many of my friends,
• Besides, were gone, waiting for better times
• 200When next they come to Paris. So I left
• Disgusted, and crossed over. Why should I
• Quit England and dear brother Tories? still,
• Although I do now think of settling here,
• Perhaps, before another twelvemonth goes,
• The South will tempt me back—sooner, perhaps.
• I must, I think, die travelling in the South.”

• He made an end of speaking. Grey looked up.
• “Is there no more?” he asked. He said, “No more.”

• Grey's face turned whiter, and his fingers twitched.
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• 210“It is my turn to speak, then”:—and he rose,
• Taking a candle: “come this way with me.”

• They stepped aside into a neighbouring room.
• Grey walked with quiet footsteps, and he turned
• So noiselessly the handle of the door
• That Harling fancied some one lay asleep
• Inside. The hand recovered steadiness.

• The room was quite unfurnished, striking chill.
• A rent in the drawn window-blind betrayed
• A sky unvaried, moonless, cloudless, black.
• 220Only two chairs were set against the wall,
• And, not yet closed, a coffin placed on them.

• Harling's raised eyes inquired why he was brought
• Hither, and should he still advance and look.
• “It is my wife,” said Grey; “look in her face.”
• This in a whisper, holding Harling's arm,
• And tightened fingers clenched the whispering.

• Harling could feel his forehead growing moist,
• And sought in vain his friend's averted eyes.
• Their steps, suppressed, creaked on the uncovered boards:
• 230They stood beside the coffin's foot and head.
• Both gazed in silence, with bowed faces—Grey
• With bony chin pressed into bony throat.

• The woman's limbs were straight inside her shroud.
• The death which brooded glazed upon her eyes
• Was hidden underneath the shapely lids;
• But the mouth kept its anguish. Combed and rich
• The hair, which caught the light within its strings,
• Golden about the temples, and as fine
• And soft as any silk-web; and the brows
• 240A perfect arch, the forehead undisturbed;
• But the mouth kept its anguish, and the lips,
• Closed after death, seemed half in act to speak.
• Covered the hands and feet; the head was laid



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• Upon a prayer-book, open at the rite
• Of solemnizing holy matrimony.
• Her marriage-ring was stitched into the page.

• Grey stood a long while gazing. Then he set
• The candle on the ground, and on his knees
• Close to her unringed shrouded hand, he prayed,
• 250Silent. With eyes still dry, he rose unchanged.

• They left the room again with heeded steps.
• On friendly Harling lay the awe of death
• And pity: he took his seat without a sound.
• Some of the hackneyed phrases almost passed
• His lips, but shamed him, and he held his peace.

• “Harling,” said Grey, after a pause, “you think
• No doubt that this is all—her death is all.
• Harling, when first I saw you in the street,
• I feared you meant to come and speak to me;
• 260So hid myself and waited till you knocked;
• Waited behind the door until you knocked,
• Longing that you, perhaps, would go. When I
• Had opened it, I think I called you Sir—
• Did you not chide me? Do you know, it seemed
• So strange to me that any one I knew
• Before this happened should be here the same,
• And know me for the same that once I was,
• I could not quite imagine we were friends.
• It is not merely death would make one feel
• 270Like this—no, there is something more behind
• Harder than death, more cruel. Let me wait
• Some moments; then no help but I must tell.”

• He gathered up his face into his hands
• From chin to temples, only just to think
• And not be seen. He had not seated him,
• But leaned against the chair. Nor Harling spoke.

• “Two months are gone now,” Grey pursued. “We two
• Lived lovingly. I had to come down here,
• And here I met a surgeon of the town.
• 280Hell only knows—I cannot tell you—why,
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• I asked him to return with me, and spend
• A fortnight at our house. Perhaps I wrote
• The whole of this to you when it occurred.
• His name is Luton.”

• Here he chose to pause.
• “Perhaps: I am not certain,” Harling said.

• “I think you might be certain,” answered Grey,
• “If you're my friend.” But then he checked himself,
• Adding: “Forgive me. I am not, you see,
• Myself to-night—this night, nor many nights,
• 290Nor many nights to come. Well, he agreed.
• Of course, he must agree; else I should not
• Have been like this, disgraced, made almost mad.”

• At this he found his passion would be near
• To drive him to talk wildly: so he kept
• Silence again some moments—then resumed.

• “How should I recollect the days we passed
• Together? There must surely have been enough
• To see, and yet I never saw it once.
• Besides, my patients kept me out all day
• 300Sometimes. It was in August, John, was this—
• The end of August, reaping just begun.
• We've had a splendid harvest, you'll have heard.”

• “Indeed!” the other said, shifting the while
• His posture—and he knew not what to say.

• “Yes, you detect me,” Grey cried bitterly;
• “You know I am afraid of what's to come—
• A coward. Now I do hope I shall speak,
• And tell you all of it without a stop.
• There was a lady staying with us then,
• 310A cousin of my wife's—but older, much;
• So that you understand how I could ask
• This Luton down. Before his time was up,
• He seemed to grow uneasy, and he left,—
• Merely explaining, business called him home.
• I said I had not noticed anything
• Unusual; and yet I sometimes found
• Mary in tears, and could not gather why.
• One day she told me when I questioned her
• It was for thinking of our girl that died
• 320Months back—for that her cousin would begin
• Often to talk to her about her own;



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• So that would make her sad. I thought it strange
• She had not so informed me from the first.
• Her cousin, when I named the point, appeared
• Surprised; but then to recollect herself,
• And answered—I could see, a little piqued—
• She should not cry again because of her.

• “These fits of tears continued. We were now
• Alone together, for the cousin went
• 330Away soon after. Then I could not help
• Seeing her health and strength were giving way:
• Her mind, too, seemed oppressed. She'd hardly leave
• At nights the chair she sat in, for she said
• ‘This is the only place where I can sleep.’
• Yet her affection for me seemed to grow
• A kind of pity for its tenderness.
• Oh! what is now become of her, that I,
• After to-morrow, shall not see her more,
• But have to hide her always from my sight?”

• 340He took some steps, meaning to go again
• And see her corpse; but, meeting Harling's eye,
• Turned and sat down.

• “Is it not,” he pursued,
• With floorward gaze, “hard on me I must tell
• This business word by word, the whole of it,
• While I can see it all before me there,
• And it is clear one word could tell it all?
• Can you not guess the rest, and spare me now?”

• “I will not guess; but you,” said Harling, “keep
• All that remains unspoken; for it wrings
• 350My heart, dear Grey, dear friend, to see you thus.”

• “No, it is better I should speak it out,
• For you would fancy something; and at least
• You will not need to fancy when you know.
• She came to me one morning—(this was like
• A fortnight after he had gone away,
• This Luton)—saying that she found it vain
• Attempting to compose her mind at home;
• That every place made her remember what
• The baby had done or looked there, and she felt
• 360Too weak for that, and meant to see her friends
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• (That is, two sisters some few miles from here).
• She spoke more firmly than I had heard her talk
• A long time past—because I thought it long—
• And I believed she had determined right,
• And so consented. But she only said
• ‘I have made up my mind’—thus waiving all
• Consent on my part—mere sick wilfulness
• I took it for. She left the house. I might
• Have told you she'd a lilac dress, and hair
• 370Worn plain. And so I saw her the last time—
• The last time, God in heaven!” He seized his fists
• Together, and he clutched them toward his throat.

• “Many days passed. She had begged me, feeling sure
• It would excite her, not to write a line,
• And said she would not write, nor let her friends.
• I think I did not tell you, though, how pale
• Her cheeks were; and, in saying this, she sobbed,
• For such a lengthened silence looked like death.

• “Three weeks, or nearly that, had passed away:
• 380A letter on black-bordered paper came.
• It was from Luton. Then I did not know
• The hand, but shall now, if it comes again.
• He wrote that I must go immediately,
• That I was ‘to prepare myself’—some trash:
• He ‘dared not trust his pen to tell me more.’

• “On Thursday I arrived here. I cannot
• Attempt to tell you all about it. When
• You've read this, only call me, and I'll come;
• But I will not be by you while you read.
• 390On the first day I heard it all from him,
• And loathe him for it. I am left alone,
• And all through him.”

• He took a newspaper
• From underneath his pillow, and he showed
• The place to read at. Then he left the room;
• And Harling caught his footfall toward the corpse,
• And touching of his knees upon the boards.

• And this is what he feverishly perused:—



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• “ Coroner's Inquest—A Distressing Case .

• An inquest was held yesterday, before
• 400The County Coroner, into the cause
• Of the decease of Mrs. Mary Grey,
• A married lady. Public interest
• Was widely excited.

• “When the Jury came
• From viewing the corpse, in which are seen remains
• Of no small beauty, witnesses were called.

• “Mr. Holmes Grey, surgeon, deposed: ‘I live
• In Oxford, where I practise, and deceased
• Had been my wife for upwards of three years.
• About the middle of September, she
• 410Was suffering much from weakness, and a weight
• Seemed on her mind. The symptoms had begun
• Nearly a month before, and still increased,
• Until at last they gave me great alarm,
• Of which we often spoke. On the eighteenth
• She told me she would like to stay awhile
• With two of her sisters, living on the coast,
• At Barksedge House, not far from here. She went
• Next day. I cannot speak to any more.’

• “The Coroner: ‘How were you first apprised
• 420Of this most melancholy event?’—‘By note
• Addressed to me by Mr. Luton here.’

• “A Juror: ‘Could your scientific skill
• Assign some cause for this debility?’
• ‘No. I believed it was occasioned (so
• She intimated) by a domestic grief
• Quite unconnected with the present case.’

• “The Coroner: ‘You'll know how to excuse
• The question which I feel compelled to put:
• I have a public duty to perform.
• 430Had you, before the period you described,
• Any suspicions ever?’—‘Never once:
• There was no cause for any, I swear to God.’

• “The witness had, throughout his testimony,
• Preserved his calm—though clearly not without
• An effort, which augmented towards the close.

• “Jane Langley: ‘I keep lodgings in the town.
• On the nineteenth September the deceased
• Engaged a bed-room and a sitting-room.
• The name I knew her by was Mrs. Grange.
• 440I saw but very little of her; she kept,
• As much as that well could be, to herself,
• And she would frequently leave home for hours.
• I cannot say I made any remark
• Especially. I found a letter once—
• Just a few words, torn up. ‘Holmes,’ it began.
• ‘This letter is the last you ever will . . .’
• No more, I think. I threw the bits away.
• That was, perhaps, four days before her death.
• On that day, I suppose, as usual,
• 450She left the house: I did not see her, though.
• She was brought home quite dead.’

• “Upon the name
• Of the next witness being called, some stir
• Arose through persons pressing on to look.
• After it had been silenced, and the oath
• Duly administered, the evidence
• Proceeded.

• “Mr. Edward Luton, surgeon:
• ‘I lately here began for the first time
• In my profession. I was introduced
• To Mr. Grey in August. When he left
• 460The seaside, he invited me to pass
• A fortnight at his house, and I agreed.
• On seeing Mrs. Grey, I recognized
• In her a lady I had known before
• Her marriage, a Miss Chalsted. We had met
• In company, and, in particular,
• At some so-called “mesmeric evenings,” held
• At her remote connection's house, the late
• Dr. Duplatt. But now, as Mrs. Grey
• Allowed my presentation to pass off
• 470Without a hint of knowing me, I left
• This point to her, and seemed a stranger: till
• We chanced, the sixth day, to be left alone.
• I talked on just the same, but she was silent.
• At last she answered, and began to speak
• Familiarly of when she knew me first;
• Without explaining—merely as one might talk
• Changing the subject. But I let it pass.
• And yet, when we were next in company,
• Once more she acted new acquaintanceship.
• 480Then, two days after, I believe—one time
• Her cousin, Mrs. Gwyllt, was out by chance—



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• The same thing happened; but she spoke of love
• Now, and the very word half passed her lips.
• Our talk ended abruptly. Mrs. Gwyllt
• Came in, and by her face I saw she had heard.

• “‘This instance was the last we talked alone.
• And I began to hear from Mr. Grey
• His wife was far from well, and had the tears
• Now often in her eyes. This made me feel
• 490Hampered and restless: so I took my leave
• After my first eleven days' stay was gone,
• Saying I had affairs that could not wait.

• “‘Between the seventh of September, when
• We parted, and the twenty-third, I saw
• No more of the deceased. Towards seven o'clock
• That evening, I was told a lady wished
• To speak with me. She entered: it was she—
• Deceased. I can't describe how pained I was
• At finding she had left her home like this.
• 500She said she loved me, and conjured me much
• Not to desert her; that that she loved me young;
• That, after we had ceased to meet, she knew
• And married Mr. Grey. Also, that when
• He wrote to her in August I should come,
• Guessing who I must be, she thought it well
• To treat me as a stranger—dreading lest
• Her love (so she assured me) should revive.
• All this through sobs and blushes. I could not
• Make up my mind what conduct to pursue:
• 510I begged her to be calm, and wait awhile,
• And I would write. She left unnerved and weak.

• “‘I took five days, bewildered how to act.
• But on the evening of the fifth, I saw,
• While looking out of window—(it was dusk,
• And almost nightfall)—Mrs. Grey, who paced,
• Muffled in clothes, before my door. I knew
• By this how dangerous it must be to wait
• For a day longer; so I wrote at once
• She absolutely must return to her home.
• 520Nothing was known as yet—all might be well;
• In time she would forget me; and besides
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• I was engaged to marry, and must regard
• Our intercourse as ended.

• “‘She returned
• Next day, the twenty-ninth; and, falling down
• Upon her knees, she cried, with hardly a word,
• Some while, and kept her face between her hands;
• But at the last she swore she would not go,
• But rather die here. It continued thus
• Six days. For she would come and seat herself,
• 530When I was present, in my room, and sit,
• An hour or near, quite silent; or break out
• Into a flood of words—and then, perhaps
• Between two syllables, stop short, and turn
• Round in her chair, and sob, and hide her tears.

• “‘The sixth day, after she had left the house,
• I had an intimation we were watched,
• And certain persons had begun to talk.
• I thought it indispensable to write
• Once more, and tell her the could not remain—
• 540I owed it to myself not to allow
• This state of things to last; that I had given
• The servant orders to deny me, should
• She still persist in calling.

• “‘Towards mid-day
• Of the sixth instant, the deceased once more
• Was at my house, however;—darted through
• The door, which happened to be left ajar,
• And flung herself right down before my feet.
• This day she did not shed a single tear,
• Nor talk at all at random, but was firm:
• 550I mean, unalterably resolute
• In purpose, and her passion more uncurbed
• Than ever: swore it was impossible
• She should return to live with Mr. Grey
• Again; that, were she at her latest hour,
• She still would say so, and die saying so:
• ‘Because’ (I recollect her words) ‘this flame
• All eats me up while I am here with you;
• I hate it, but it eats me—eats me up,
• Till I have now no will to wish it quenched.’
• 560I hope to be excused repeating all
• That I remember to have heard her say.
• She bitterly upbraided me for what
• I last had written to her, and declared
• She hated me and loved me all at once



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• With perfect hate as well as burning love.
• This must have lasted fully half an hour.
• However fearful as to the results,
• I told her simply I could not retract,
• And she must go, or I immediately
• 570Would write to Mr. Grey. I rose at this
• To leave the room.

• “‘She staggered up as well,
• And screamed, and caught about her with her hands:
• I think she could not see. I dreaded lest
• She might be falling, and I held her arm,
• Trying to guide her out. As I did so,
• She, in a hurry, faced on me, and screamed
• Aloud once more, and wanted, as I thought,
• To speak, but, in a second, fell.

• “‘I raised
• Her body in my arms, and found her dead.
• 580I had her carried home without delay,
• And a physician called, whose view concurred
• With mine—that instant death must have ensued
• Upon the rupture of a blood-vessel.’

• “This deposition had been listened to
• In the most perfect silence. At its close
• We understand a lady was removed
• Fainting.

• “The Coroner: ‘You said just now
• That, in your former letter to deceased,
• You told her nothing yet was known. Was not
• 590Her absence traced, then, and suspicion roused?
• Did she inform you?’ ‘She informed me that
• Would not be, for that Mr. Grey and she
• Had mutually consented not to write.
• I have forgotten why.’

• “The Coroner:
• ‘Is Mr. Grey still present?’ Mr. Grey:
• ‘Yes, I am here.’ ‘You heard the last reply;
• Was such the case?’ ‘It was; we had agreed
• To exchange no letters, that her mind might have
• The benefit of more complete repose.’

• 600“A Juror to the witness: ‘Did no acts
• Of familiarity occur between
• Deceased and you?’

• “Here Mr. Grey addressed
• The Coroner, demurring to a reply.

• “The Coroner: ‘It grieves me very much
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• To pain your feelings; but I feel compelled
• To say the question is a proper one.
• It is the Jury's duty to gain light
• On this exceedingly distressing case;
• The public mind has to be satisfied;
• 610I owe a duty to the public. Let
• The witness answer.’

• “Witness: ‘She would clasp
• Her arms around me in speaking tenderly,
• And kiss me. She has often kissed my hands.
• Not beyond that.’

• “The Juror: ‘And did you
• Respond——’ The Coroner: ‘The witness should,
• I think, be pressed no further. He has given
• His painful evidence most creditably.’

• “The Juror: ‘Did deceased, in all these days,
• Not write to you at all?’ ‘She sent me this:
• 620It is the only letter I received.’

• “A letter here was handed in and read.
• It ran as follows, and it bore the date
• Of twenty-sixth September.

• “‘Dearest Friend,—
• Where is your promise you would write me soon
• My sentence, death or life? This is the third
• Of three long days since last I saw you. Oh!
• To press your hand again, and talk to you,
• And see the moving of your lips and eyes!
• Edward, I'm certain that you cannot know
• 630How much I love you; you must not decide
• Until convinced of it—— But words are dead.
• That, Edward, is a love in very truth
• Which can avail to overcome such shame
• As kept me four whole days from seeing you—
• Four days after my coming quite resolved
• To strive no more, but tell you all my heart.
• As daylight passed, and night devoured the dusk,
• The first time, and the second, and the third,
• I doubted whether I could ever wait
• 640Till dawn—yet waited all the fourth day too,
• Staring upon my hands, and looking strange;
• Yes, and the fifth day's twilight hastened on.
• But love began then driving me about



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• Between my house and your house, to and fro.
• At last I could no more delay, but wept,
• And prayed of Christ (for He discerns it all),
• That, if this thing were sinful unto death,
• He would Himself be first to throw the stone.
• So then I came and saw you, and I spoke.
• 650Did I not make you understand how I
• Had loved you in the budding of my youth;
• And how, when we divided, all my hope
• Went out from me for all the future days,
• And how I married, just indifferent
• To whom I took? Perhaps I did not clear
• This up enough, or cried and troubled you.
• Why did I ever see your face again?
• I had forgotten you; I lived content,
• At peace. Forgotten you! that now appears
• 660Impossible, yet I believe I had.
• Then see what now my life must be—consumed
• With inner very fire, merely to think
• Of you, and having lost my heartless peace.
• How shall I dare to live except with you?’

• “The Coroner to Witness: ‘Had you known
• When you were first acquainted with deceased,
• Before her marriage, that she entertained
• These feelings for you?’—‘Friends of mine would talk
• In a light way about it—nothing more—
• 670And in especial as to mesmerism.
• I knew that such a match could never be;
• Her friends would have been sure to break it off—
• Our prospects were so very different.
• I did not think about it seriously.’

• “‘The letter says that you divided: how
• Did that occur?’—‘I left the neighbourhood
• On account solely of my own affairs.’

• “‘You have deposed that you received a hint
• Your meetings with deceased had been observed.
• 680How did you learn this?’—‘Through the brother-in-law
• Of a young lady that's engaged to me.’

• “The witness here retired. He looks about
• The age of twenty-seven,—in person, tall
• And elegant. His tone at times betrayed
• Much feeling.

• “Mrs. Celia Frances Gwyllt:
• ‘Deceased and I were cousins. In the month
• Of August last I spent a little time
• With her and Mr. Grey. In the first week
• Of last month, I remember hearing her
• 690Speak in a manner I considered wrong
• To Mr. Luton, and she seemed confused
• When she perceived me. Shortly afterwards,
• I took occasion to inform her so.
• This she at first made light of, and alleged
• It was a mere flirtation. I replied,
• I deemed it was my duty to acquaint
• Her husband; when she begged that I would not,
• So that at length I yielded. Then came on
• Some crying fits, which Mr. Grey was led
• 700To ascribe to things I chanced to talk about.
• This and my pledge of silence vexed me much,
• And so, soon after that, I took my leave.’

• “Anne Gorman: ‘I am Mr. Luton's servant.
• On Tuesday was the sixth I had to go
• Out on an errand, with the door ajar,
• When I remembered something I had left
• Behind. On coming back, I saw deceased
• Race through the lobby, and whisk into the room.
• I had been ordered not to let her in.’

• 710“The evidence of Dr. Wallinger
• Ended the case. ‘I was called in to see
• The body of deceased upon the sixth:
• Life then was quite extinct; the cause of death,
• Congestion and effusion of the ventricle.
• Death would be instantaneous. Any strong
• Emotion might have led to that result.’

• “The Coroner, in course of summing up,
• Commented on the evidence, and spoke
• Of deceased's conduct in appropriate terms;
• 720Observing that the Jury would decide
• Upon their verdict from the testimony
• Of the professional witness—which was clear,
• And seemed to him conclusive. He could do
• No less than note the awful suddenness
• With which the loss of life had followed such
• A glaring sacrifice of duty's claims.

• “The Jury gave their verdict in at once:
• ‘Died by the visitation of God.’

• “We learn
• On good authority that the deceased
• 730Belonged to a distinguished family.
• Her husband's scientific eminence
• Is fully and most widely recognized.”

• As Harling finished reading this, he rose
• To call his friend; but, shrinking at the thought,
• He read it all again and lingeringly.

• But, after that, he called in undertone;
• And he received the answer, “Come in here.”
• He entered therefore.

• Grey was huddled o'er
• The coffin, looking hard into her face.
• 740“You know it now,” he said, but did not move.

• “We long have been old friends,” Harling replied.
• “Words are of no avail, and worse than none.
• I need not try to tell you what I feel.”

• Grey now stood straight. “I am to bury her
• The day after to-morrow: I alone
• Shall see her covered in beneath the earth.
• May God be near her in the stead of men,
• And let her rest. Yet there is with her that
• Which she shall carry down into the grave;
• 750Still in the dark her broken marriage-vow
• Under her head: they shall remain together.
• How can I talk like this?” And he broke off.

• “This is a crushing grief indeed, I know,”
• Said Harling; “yet be brave against it. When
• This few days' work is over, Grey, go home,
• And mind to be so occupied as must
• Prevent your dwelling on it. If you choose,
• I will accompany and stay with you.”

• But he replied: “My home will now be here;”
• 760And all the angles of his visage thinned.
• “ He is here I mean to ruin. Shall he still
• Be free to laugh me in his sleeve to scorn,
• And show me pity—pity!—when we meet?
• I have no means of harming him, you think?
• There's such a thing, though, as professional fame,—
• I have it. Where's the name of Luton known?
• [Th]is is my home: I mean to ruin him.”

• “Why, he,” objected Harling, “never did
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• One hair's-breadth wrong to you: his hands are clean
• 770Of all offence to you and yours. For shame!
• It was as blind anguish spoke there—not yourself.”

• “Ah! you can talk like that! But it is I
• Who have to feel—I who can see his house
• From here, and sometimes watch him out and in,
• And think she used to be with him inside.
• And he could bear her coming day by day,
• And see the sobs collecting in her throat,
• And tresses out of order, as she fell
• Before his feet, and made her prayers, and wept!
• 780He bore this! What a heart he must have had!
• Must I be grateful for it? Did he not
• Admit inopportune eyes were watching him?
• He was engaged to marry—yes, and one
• For whom he's bound to keep himself in check,
• And crouch beneath her whims and jealousy:—
• Not that I ever saw her, but I'm sure.
• Besides, he told me she would not be his
• Unless he gains the standing deemed her due,—
• And I'll take care of that.”

• His friend was loath,



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• 790Seeing the burden of his agony,
• To harass him with argument and blame;
• Yet would he not be by to hear him rave,
• And said he now must go.

• “One moment more,”
• Said Grey, and oped the window. Overhead
• The sky was a black veil drawn close as death;
• The lamps gave all the light, prolonged in rows:
• And chill it blew upon them as they gazed,
• Mixed with thin drops of rain, which might not fall
• Straight downward, but kept veering in the wind.
• 800There was a sounding of the sea from far.

• Grey pointed. “That beyond there is the house,
• Turning the street—that where a candle burns
• In the left casement of the upper three.
• That is, no doubt, his shadow on the blind.
• Often I get a glimpse of it from here,
• As when you saw me first this afternoon.
• Shall he not one day pay me down in full?
• John, I can wait; but when the moment comes . . .!”

• He shut the sash. Harling had seen the night,
• 810Equal, unknown, and desolate of stars.