The Works of George W. M. Reynolds — page 38: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE POND | 21 assisting at a very criminal proceeding, for she compre- hended full well that the ruin of an innocent lady was in contemplation. The effects of the champagne cheered her no longer; she was affrighted at the black turpitude wherein she was mixed up, — a turpitude as black as the darkness which surrounded her. It was the first time in her life she had ever experienced feelings so completely remorseful. She struggled against them; she endeavoured to cheer herself with the thought of the reward she had already received and of the further proofs of Marchmont’s liberality which she was yet to have, but these reflections failed now as a talisman to expel unpleasant thoughts from her imagination. She wished that she had not entered into this conspiracy. She was not so depraved that if it had been propounded to her all in a moment, she would have plunged headlong into it, but she had been gradually drawn in and enmeshed as it were in its trammels, till she had gone too far to retreat. The pitchy darkness of the night and the mournful moaning of the wind filled her soul with images of terror. How she wished that she had not to pass the pond, or that it was already passed. How glad she should be, she said to herself, when once more safe in her chamber at the farmhouse. Marchmont had told her that she would not again have to visit Oaklands at night, and this was at least some consola- tion. But, oh, how she wished that the remainder of the route was accomplished! It was so dark that she could scarcely see her way, and thus her progress was slow, while ever and anon the wind seemed to be speaking to her in human tones, as if reproach- ing her for the wickedness wherein she had played a part. And then, too, these sounds — at times when the wind sank somewhat — resembled the moans of murder borne upon the agitated air. Occasionally, too, she fancied that she heard footsteps approaching rapidly from behind, and she shud- dered at the thought of being seized upon by lurking robbers, — shuddered, too, more deeply still at the reflection that this same road might possibly become the scene of another hideous tragedy, — herself the victim. And ever and anon through the deep darkness, shapes — darker than that dark- ness — appeared to flit, so that there were moments when she shrank within herself, when she trembled to the very confines of her being, while she felt as if awful horror would CONNIE DOOKS (C(O)