Pickwick Abroad: or, The Tour in France — page 348: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Pickwick Abroad. 287 ‘6 Madness !”’ he cried, raising his head, and looking intently at me, ‘Madness !” he repeated. «© Madness!’ I replied with awful composure: “all my family —my parents—my relatives have died of it, or in the fear of it. The unnatural lustre you observed in my eyes, is the beginning of my madness !”’ | And having uttered these words, I suddenly rose, retreated to my chamber, and having locked the door, fell upon my knees to breathe a prayer to heaven for the welfare of the young heart I had just ren- _ dered desolate and forlorn. As soon as I knew that Melville, who had in vain demanded another - Interview, was departed, I sent for my aunt, and candidly confessed to her all that had passed. The poor creature, although she could not do otherwise than applaud the conduct of her niece throughout the trial to which I had been subjected, was nevertheless deeply distressed at the sudden blight which all her fond hopes relative to my welfare had received. She however concealed her own sorrows, and endea- voured to diminish mine. | | ‘“< We must leave England; my dear aunt,”’ said I, firmly. ‘* And wherefore ?” exclaimed she. ‘¢ Because, my dear aunt,” said I in a decided tone of voice, “ that young man loves me, and, in his generous affection, is capable of daring every thing to make me his bride. -And I should die did I see children spring from our union—Oh! that would accelerate my madness—because I should have wantonly entailed a hereditary curse upon an innocent race of beings. My dear aunt—let us hasten and depart.” It was necessary for my happiness that this measure should be promptly executed. A hasty note apprized the unhappy Melville of my determination to quit the neighbourhood, and never see him more; and in a day or two, my aunt and I were on our road to Paris, with the hope of finding, in the gaieties of that un- rivalled metropolis, some distraction from the sorrows that had oppressed us, : For some time change of scene and the diversions of the French capital helped to win my mind from perpetually brooding over the cause of my sorrows. But at length a settled melancholy usurped the place of gaiety—and I became a prey to the darkest and most hopeless despair. I loved—and was beloved again—and yet my union with him, who would have given worlds to espouse me, was impossible Then, in the moments of my most profound grief, would I demand of heaven wherefore I was thus persecuted ? One morning I took up an English newspaper, and the first para- graph that struck my eyes was the following:— “The mysterious disappearance of Mr. John Melville, the only son — and heir of the wealthy commoner of Kent, has given rise to the most alarming suspicions. By a memorandum-book which the young gen- tleman accidentally (it is supposed) left in a desk in his bed-chamber, it appears that he was the victim of a disappointed passion: and other circumstances have led to the fear that he has destroyed himself. His aged father is in a state more easily conceived than described !” My brain whirled as I read this terrible statement; and the idea ECORNICLOOOKS (C(O)