She waited for the hour to
strike; it was then that she usually went to bed. Her thoughts moved as in
a nightmare; and paramount in this chaotic mass of sensation was an acute
sense of the deception that had been practised on her; with the
consciousness, now firm and unalterable, that it had become impossible for
her to live. When the clock struck she got up from her chair, and the
movement seemed to react on her brain; her thoughts unclouded, and she went
up-stairs thinking clearly of her love of this old house. The old gentleman
in the red coat, his hand on his sword, looked on her benignly; and the
lady playing the spinet smiled as sweetly as was her wont. Emily held up
the candle to the picture of the windmill. She had always loved that
picture, and the sad thought came that she should never see it again.
Dandy, who had galloped up-stairs, stood looking through the banisters,
wagging his tail.
The moment she got into her room she wrote the following note: 'I have
taken an overdose of chloral. My life was too miserable to be borne any
longer. I forgive those who have caused my unhappiness, and I hope they
will forgive me any unhappiness I have caused them.' They were nothing to
her now; they were beyond her hate, and the only pang she felt was parting
with her beloved Dandy.
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