Charles Dickens, Bleak House: Ch. 36

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"My child, my child!" she said.  "For the last time!  These kisses for the last time!  These arms upon my neck for the last time!  We shall meet no more.  To hope to do what I seek to do, I must be what I have been so long.  Such is my reward and doom.  If you hear of Lady Dedlock, brilliant, prosperous, and flattered, think of your wretched mother, conscience-stricken, underneath that mask!  Think that the reality is in her suffering, in her useless remorse, in her murdering within her breast the only love and truth of which it is capable!  And then forgive her if you can, and cry to heaven to forgive her, which it never can!"

We held one another for a little space yet, but she was so firm that she took my hands away, and put them back against my breast, and with a last kiss as she held them there, released them, and went from me into the wood.  I was alone, and calm and quiet below me in the sun and shade lay the old house, with its terraces and turrets, on which there had seemed to me to be such complete repose when I first saw it, but which now looked like the obdurate and unpitying watcher of my mother's misery.

Stunned as I was, as weak and helpless at first as I had ever been in my sick chamber, the necessity of guarding against the danger of discovery, or even of the remotest suspicion, did me service.  I took such precautions as I could to hide from Charley that I had been crying, and I constrained myself to think of every sacred obligation that there was upon me to be careful and collected.  It was not a little while before I could succeed or could even restrain bursts of grief, but after an hour or so I was better and felt that I might return.  I went home very slowly and told Charley, whom I found at the gate looking for me, that I had been tempted to extend my walk after Lady Dedlock had left me and that I was over-tired and would lie down.  Safe in my own room, I read the letter.  I clearly derived from it—and that was much then—that I had not been abandoned by my mother.  Her elder and only sister, the godmother of my childhood, discovering signs of life in me when I had been laid aside as dead, had in her stern sense of duty, with no desire or willingness that I should live, reared me in rigid secrecy and had never again beheld my mother's face from within a few hours of my birth.  So strangely did I hold my place in this world that until within a short time back I had never, to my own mother's knowledge, breathed—had been buried—had never been endowed with life—had never borne a name.  When she had first seen me in the church she had been startled and had thought of what would have been like me if it had ever lived, and had lived on, but that was all then.

What more the letter told me needs not to be repeated here.  It has its own times and places in my story.

My first care was to burn what my mother had written and to consume even its ashes.  I hope it may not appear very unnatural or bad in me that I then became heavily sorrowful to think I had ever been reared.  That I felt as if I knew it would have been better and happier for many people if indeed I had never breathed.  That I had a terror of myself as the danger and the possible disgrace of my own mother and of a proud family name.  That I was so confused and shaken as to be possessed by a belief that it was right and had been intended that I should die in my birth, and that it was wrong and not intended that I should be then alive.

These are the real feelings that I had.  I fell asleep worn out, and when I awoke I cried afresh to think that I was back in the world with my load of trouble for others.  I was more than ever frightened of myself, thinking anew of her against whom I was a witness, of the owner of Chesney Wold, of the new and terrible meaning of the old words now moaning in my ear like a surge upon the shore, "Your mother, Esther, was your disgrace, and you are hers.  The time will come—and soon enough—when you will understand this better, and will feel it too, as no one save a woman can."  With them, those other words returned, "Pray daily that the sins of others be not visited upon your head."  I could not disentangle all that was about me, and I felt as if the blame and the shame were all in me, and the visitation had come down.