Who blames me? Many, no doubt; and I shall be called discontented.

I could not help it: the restlessness was in my nature; it agitated

me to pain sometimes. Then my sole relief was to walk along the

corridor of the third storey, backwards and forwards, safe in the

silence and solitude of the spot, and allow my mind's eye to dwell

on whatever bright visions rose before it--and, certainly, they were

many and glowing; to let my heart be heaved by the exultant

movement, which, while it swelled it in trouble, expanded it with

life; and, best of all, to open my inward ear to a tale that was

never ended--a tale my imagination created, and narrated

continuously; quickened with all of incident, life, fire, feeling,

that I desired and had not in my actual existence.

It is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with

tranquillity: they must have action; and they will make it if they

cannot find it. Millions are condemned to a stiller doom than mine,

and millions are in silent revolt against their lot. Nobody knows

how many rebellions besides political rebellions ferment in the

masses of life which people earth. Women are supposed to be very

calm generally: but women feel just as men feel; they need exercise

for their faculties, and a field for their efforts, as much as their

brothers do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint, too absolute a

stagnation, precisely as men would suffer; and it is narrow-minded

in their more privileged fellow-creatures to say that they ought to

confine themselves to making puddings and knitting stockings, to

playing on the piano and embroidering bags. It is thoughtless to

condemn them, or laugh at them, if they seek to do more or learn

more than custom has pronounced necessary for their sex.

When thus alone, I not unfrequently heard Grace Poole's laugh: the

same peal, the same low, slow ha! ha! which, when first heard, had

thrilled me: I heard, too, her eccentric murmurs; stranger than her

laugh. There were days when she was quite silent; but there were

others when I could not account for the sounds she made. Sometimes

I saw her: she would come out of her room with a basin, or a plate,

or a tray in her hand, go down to the kitchen and shortly return,

generally (oh, romantic reader, forgive me for telling the plain

truth!) bearing a pot of porter. Her appearance always acted as a

damper to the curiosity raised by her oral oddities: hard-featured

and staid, she had no point to which interest could attach. I made

some attempts to draw her into conversation, but she seemed a person

of few words: a monosyllabic reply usually cut short every effort

of that sort.




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