The Moonstone - Page 180/404

We will not say this was the language of remorse--we will say it was the

language of hysterics. Indulgent Mr. Godfrey pacified her by taking

a sheet of paper, and drawing out the declaration. She signed it in a

feverish hurry. "Show it everywhere--don't think of ME," she said, as

she gave it to him. "I am afraid, Godfrey, I have not done you justice,

hitherto, in my thoughts. You are more unselfish--you are a better man

than I believed you to be. Come here when you can, and I will try and

repair the wrong I have done you."

She gave him her hand. Alas, for our fallen nature! Alas, for Mr.

Godfrey! He not only forgot himself so far as to kiss her hand--he

adopted a gentleness of tone in answering her which, in such a case,

was little better than a compromise with sin. "I will come, dearest," he

said, "on condition that we don't speak of this hateful subject again."

Never had I seen and heard our Christian Hero to less advantage than on

this occasion.

Before another word could be said by anybody, a thundering knock at the

street door startled us all. I looked through the window, and saw the

World, the Flesh, and the Devil waiting before the house--as typified

in a carriage and horses, a powdered footman, and three of the most

audaciously dressed women I ever beheld in my life.

Rachel started, and composed herself. She crossed the room to her

mother.

"They have come to take me to the flower-show," she said. "One word,

mamma, before I go. I have not distressed you, have I?"

(Is the bluntness of moral feeling which could ask such a question as

that, after what had just happened, to be pitied or condemned? I like to

lean towards mercy. Let us pity it.) The drops had produced their effect. My poor aunt's complexion was like

itself again. "No, no, my dear," she said. "Go with our friends, and

enjoy yourself."

Her daughter stooped, and kissed her. I had left the window, and was

near the door, when Rachel approached it to go out. Another change had

come over her--she was in tears. I looked with interest at the momentary

softening of that obdurate heart. I felt inclined to say a few earnest

words. Alas! my well-meant sympathy only gave offence. "What do you

mean by pitying me?" she asked in a bitter whisper, as she passed to

the door. "Don't you see how happy I am? I'm going to the flower-show,

Clack; and I've got the prettiest bonnet in London." She completed the

hollow mockery of that address by blowing me a kiss--and so left the

room.

I wish I could describe in words the compassion I felt for this

miserable and misguided girl. But I am almost as poorly provided with

words as with money. Permit me to say--my heart bled for her.