'Hast thou a wound to heale,
The wyche doth greve thee;
Come thenn unto this welle;
It will relieve thee;
Nolie me tangeries,
And other maladies,
Have there theyr remedies,
Prays'd be the Lord.'
St. Bridget's Well is a beautiful spot, and my desire to see it is a
perfectly laudable one. In strict justice, it is really no concern
of Jane whether my wishes are laudable or not; but it only makes the
case more flagrant when she interferes with the reasonable plans of
a reasonable being. Never since the day we first met have I
harboured a thought that I wished to conceal from Jane (would that
she could say as much!); nevertheless she treats me as if I were a
monster of caprice. As I said before, I wish to visit St. Bridget's
Well, but Jane absolutely refuses to take me there. After we pass
Belvern churchyard we approach two roads: the one to the right
leads to the Holy Well; the one to the left leads to Shady Dell
Farm, where Jane lived when she was a girl. At the critical moment
I pull the right rein with all my force. In vain: Jane is always
overcome by sentiment when she sees that left-hand road. She bears
to the left like a whirlwind, and nothing can stop her mad career
until she is again amid the scenes so dear to her recollection, the
beloved pastures where the mother still lives at whose feet she
brayed in early youth!
Now this is all very pretty and touching.
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