weary steps across the desolate downs to
meet my fate, now too certain for the agony of doubt. Almost fainting
I slowly approached the fatal waters; when we had quitted the town we
heard their roaring[.] I whispered to myself in a muttering
voice--"The sound is the same as that which I heard in my dream. It is
the knell of my father which I hear."[42]

The rain had ceased; there was no more thunder and lightning; the wind
had paused. My heart no longer beat wildly; I did not feel any fever:
but I was chilled; my knees sunk under me--I almost slept as I walked
with excess of weariness; every limb trembled. I was silent: all was
silent except the roaring of the sea which became louder and more
dreadful. Yet we advanced slowly: sometimes I thought that we should
never arrive; that the sound of waves would still allure us, and that
we should walk on for ever and ever: field succeeding field, never
would our weary journey cease, nor night nor day; but still we should
hear the dashing of the sea, and to all this there would be no end.
Wild beyond the imagination of the happy are the thoughts bred by
misery and despair.

At length we reached the overhanging beach; a cottage stood beside the
path; we knocked at the door and it was opened: the bed within
instantly caught my eye; something stiff and straight lay on it,
covered by a sheet; the cottagers looked aghast. The first words that
they uttered confirmed what I before knew. I did not feel shocked or
overcome: I believe that I asked one or two questions and listened to
the answers. I har[d]ly know, but in a few moments I sank lifeless to
the ground; and so would that then all had been at an end!

CHAPTER VIII

I was carried to the next town: fever succeeded to convulsions and
faintings, & for some weeks my unhappy spirit hovered on the very
verge of death. But life was yet strong within me; I recovered: nor
did it a little aid my returning health that my recollections were at
first vague, and that I was too weak to feel any violent emotion. I
often said to myself, my father is dead. He loved me with a guilty
passion, and stung by remorse and despair he killed himself. Why is it
that I feel no horror? Are these circumstances not dreadful? Is it not
enough that I shall never more meet the eyes of my beloved father;
never more hear his voice; no caress, no look? All cold, and stiff,
and dead! Alas! I am quite callous: the night I was out in was fearful
and the cold