Pleyel was
possessed by some momentary frenzy; appearances had led him into
palpable errors. Whence could his sagacity have contracted this
blindness? Was it not love? Previously assured of my affection
for Carwin, distracted with grief and jealousy, and impelled hither
at that late hour by some unknown instigation, his imagination
transformed shadows into monsters, and plunged him into these
deplorable errors.
This idea was not unattended with consolation. My soul was divided
between indignation at his injustice and delight on account of the
source from which I conceived it to spring. For a long time they
would allow admission to no other thoughts. Surprise is an emotion
that enfeebles, not invigorates. All my meditations were
accompanied with wonder. I rambled with vagueness, or clung to one
image with an obstinacy which sufficiently testified the maddening
influence of late transactions.
Gradually I proceeded to reflect upon the consequences of Pleyel's
mistake, and on the measures I should take to guard myself against
future injury from Carwin. Should I suffer this mistake to be
detected by time? When his passion should subside, would he not
perceive the flagrancy of his injustice and hasten to atone for it?
Did it not become my character to testify resentment for language
and treatment so opprobrious? Wrapped up in the consciousness of
innocence, and confiding in the influence of time and reflection to
confute so groundless a charge, it was my province to be passive
and silent.
Pages:
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466