Humane creatures are like climates--some of a temperate atmosphere,
taking even life-long sorrow serenely--never forgetting, and never
exaggerating its cause--never very wretched, if never quite happy.
Others of a more torrid nature have long, sunny seasons of bird-like
cheerfulness and happy forgetfulness, until some slight cause, striking
"the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound," shall startle up
memory--and grief, intensely realized, shall rise to anguish, and a
storm shall pass through the soul, shaking it almost to dissolution, and
the poor subject thinks, if she can think, that her heart must go to
pieces this time! But the storm passes, and nature, instead of being
destroyed, is refreshed and ready for the sunshine and the song-birds
again. The elastic heart throws off its weight, the spirits revive, and
life goes on joyously in harmony with nature.
So it was with Jacquelina, with this sad difference, that as her trouble
was more than sorrow--for it was remorse--it was never quite thrown off.
It was not that her conscience reproached her for the fate of Dr.
Grimshaw, which was brought on by his own wrongdoing, but Marian's
fate--that a wild, wanton frolic of her own should have caused the early
death of one so young, and beautiful, and good as Marian! that was the
thought that nearly drove poor Jacquelina mad with remorse, whenever she
realized it.
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