e same time a not
ungrateful consciousness that for the moment my present tranquillity
might be best.

This was my condition--a not unpleasant one--when suddenly the now
well-known symptoms of the visitation to which I had become subject
suddenly seized upon me,--the leap of the heart; the sudden, causeless,
overwhelming physical excitement, which I could neither ignore nor allay.
I was terrified beyond description, beyond reason, when I became
conscious that this was about to begin over again: what purpose did it
answer; what good was in it? My father indeed understood the meaning of
it though I did not understand; but it was little agreeable to be thus
made a helpless instrument, without any will of mine, in an operation of
which I knew nothing; and to enact the part of the oracle unwillingly,
with suffering and such a strain as it took me days to get over. I
resisted, not as before, but yet desperately, trying with better
knowledge to keep down the growing passion. I hurried to my room and
swallowed a dose of a sedative which had been given me to procure sleep
on my first return from India. I saw Morphew in the hall, and called him
to talk to him, and cheat myself, if possible, by that means. Morphew
lingered, however, and, before he came, I was beyond conversation. I
heard him speak, his voice coming vaguely through the turmoil which was
already in my ears, but what he said I have never known. I stood staring,
trying to recover my power of attention, with an aspect which ended by
completely frightening the man. He cried out at last that he was sure I
was ill, that he must bring me something; which words penetrated more or
less into my maddened brain. It became impressed upon me that he was
going to get some one--one of my father's doctors, perhaps--to prevent
me from acting, to stop my interference, and that if I waited a moment
longer I might be too late. A vague idea seized me at the same time, of
taking refuge with the portrait,--going to its feet, throwing myself
there, perhaps, till the paroxysm should be over. But it was not there
that my footsteps were directed. I can remember making an effort to open
the door of the drawing-room, and feeling myself swept past it, as if by
a gale of wind. It was not there that I had to go. I knew very well where
I had to go,--once more on my confused and voiceless mission to my
father, who understood, although I could not understand.

Yet as it was daylight, and all was clea