When the next post from England arrived, he saw, among the letters which were delivered to him, one directed by the hand of Emmeline. He flew to his own room, and with trembling hands broke the seal.
It was short, and he fancied unusually cold. Towards it's close, she mentioned that she was going to Bath for a few weeks with a friend, and as she did not know where she should lodge,thought he had better not write till she was again fixed at Woodfield.
That she should go to Bath in July, with a nameless friend, and quit so abruptly her beloved Mrs. Stafford—that she should apparently wish to evade his letters, and make her actual residence a secret—were a cloud of circumstances calculated to persuade him that some mystery involved her conduct; a mystery which the fatal letter served too evidently to explain.
As if fire had been laid to the train of combustibles which had, since the receipt of it, been accumulating in the bosom of Delamere, his furious and uncontroulable spirit now burst forth. A temporary delirium seized him; he stamped round the room, and ran to his pistols, which fortunately were not charged. The noise he made brought Millefleur into the room, whom he instantly caught by the collar, and shaking him violently, cried—
'Scoundrel!—why are not these pistols loaded?'
'Eh! eh! Monsieur!' exclaimed Millefleur, almost strangled-'que voudriez vous?—vos pistolets!—Mon Dieu! que voudriez vous avec vos pistolets?'
'Shootyouperhaps, you blockhead!' raved Delamere, pushing furiously from him the trembling valet—then snatching up the pistols, he half kicked, half pushed him out of the room, and throwing them after him, ordered him to clean and load them: after which he locked the door, and threw himself upon the bed.
The resolution he had made in his cooler moments, never again to yield to such impetuous transports of passion, was now forgotten. He could not conquer, he could not even mitigate the tumultuous anguish which had seized him; but seemed rather to call to his remembrance all that might justify it's excess.
He remembered how positively Emmeline had forbidden his returning to England, tho' all he asked was to be allowed to see her for a few hours. He recollected her long and invincible coldness; her resolute adherence to the promise she need not have given; and forgetting all the symptoms which he had before fondly believed he had discovered of her returning his affection, he exaggerated every circumstance that indicated indifference, and magnified them into signs of absolute aversion.
Tho' he could not forget that Fitz-Edward had assisted him in carrying Emmeline away, and had on all occasions promoted his interest with her, that recollection did not at all weaken theprobability of his present attachment; for such was Delamere's opinion of Fitz-Edward's principles, that he believed he was capable of the most dishonourable views on the mistress, or even on the wife of his friend. He tortured his imagination almost to madness, by remembering numberless little incidents, which, tho' almost unattended to at the time, now seemed to bring the cruellest conviction of their intelligence—particularly that on the night he had taken Emmeline from Clapham, Fitz-Edward was found there; tho' neither his father or himself, who had repeatedly sent to his lodgings, could either find him at home or get any direction where to meet with him. Almost all his late letters too had been dated from Tylehurst, where it was certain he had passed the greatest part of the summer.—Fitz-Edward, fond of society, and courted by the most brilliant circles, shut himself up in a country house, distant from all his connections. And to what could such an extraordinary change be owing, if not to his attachment to Emmeline Mowbray?
Irritated by these recollections, he gave himself up to all the dreadful torments of jealousy—jealousy even to madness; and he felt this corrosive passion in all it's extravagance. It was violent in proportion to his love and his pride, and more insupportably painful in proportion to it's novelty; for except once at Swansea, when he fancied that Emmeline in her flight was accompanied by Fitz-Edward, he had never felt it before; however they might serve him as a pretence, Rochely and Elkerton were both too contemptible to excite it.
The night approached; and without having regained any share of composure, he had at length determined to quit Nice the next day, that his mother and Crofts might not be gratified with the sight of his despair, and triumph in the detected perfidy of Emmeline.
Lady Montreville and her daughter were out when the letters arrived; and he now apprehended that when they returned Millefleur might alarm them by an account of his frantic behaviour, and that they would guess it to have been occasioned by his letters from England. Starting up, therefore, he called the poor fellow to him, who was not yet recovered from his former terrifying menaces; and who approached, trembling, the table where Delamere sat; his dress disordered, his eyes flashing fire, and his lips pale and quivering.
'Come here, Sir!' sternly cried he.
Millefleur sprung close to the table.
'Have you cleaned and loaded my pistols?'
'Monsieur—je, je m'occupais—je, je—Monsieur, ils sont——'
'Fool, of what are you afraid?—what does the confoundedpoltrontremble for?'
'Mais Monsieur—c'est que—que—mais Monsieur,je ne scais!'
'Tenez, Mr. Millefleur!' said Delamere sharply—'Remember what I am going to say. Something has happened to vex me, and I shall go out to-morrow for a few days, or perhaps I may go to England. My mother is to know nothing of it, but what I shall myself tell her; therefore at your peril speak of what has happened this evening, or of my intentions for to-morrow. Come up immediately, and put my things into my portmanteaus, and put my fire arms in order. I shall take you with me. David need not be prepared till to-morrow. I shall go on horseback and shall want him also. The least failure on your part of executing these orders, you will find very inconvenient—you know I will not be trifled with.'
Millefleur, frightened to death at the looks and voice of his master, dared not disobey; and Delamere employing him in putting up his cloaths till after Lady Montreville came in, was, he thought, secure of his secresy. He then made an effort, tho' a successless one, to hide the anguish that devoured him; and went down to supper. He found, that besides their constant attendant Crofts, his mother and sister were accompanied by two other English gentlemen, and a French man of fashion and his sister, who full of the vivacity and gaiety of their country, kept up a lively conversation with Miss Delamere and the Englishmen. But Delamere hardly spoke—his eyes were wild and inflamed—his cheeks flushed—and deep sighs seemed involuntarily to burst from his heart. Lady Montreville observed him, and then said—
'Surely, Frederic, you are not well?'
'Not very well,' said he; 'but I am otherwise, merely from the intolerable heat. I have had the head-ache all day.'
'The head-ache!' exclaimed his mother—'Why then do you not go to bed?'
'No,' answered he, 'I am better up. Since the heat is abated, I am in less pain. I will take a walk by the fine moon that I see is rising, and be back again presently—and to-morrow,' continuedhe—'to-morrow, I shall go northward for a month. I cannot stay under this burning atmosphere.'
Then desiring the company not to move on his account, he arose from table and hastened away.
'Do, my good Crofts,' said Lady Montreville—'do follow Frederic—he frightens me to death—he is certainly very ill.'
Crofts hesitated a moment, being in truth afraid to interfere with Delamere's ramble while he was in a humour so gloomy; but on her Ladyship's repeating her request, dared not shew his reluctance. He went out therefore under pretence of following him; while the party present, seeing Lady Montreville's distress, almost immediately departed.
Crofts walked on without much desire to fulfill his commission; for Delamere, whenever he was obliged to associate with him, treated him generally with coldness, and sometimes rudely. There was, however, very little probability of his overtaking him; for Delamere had walked or rather run to a considerable distance from the street where his mother lived, and then wandering farther into the fields, had thrown himself upon the grass, and had forgotten every thing but Emmeline—'Emmeline and Fitz-Edward gone together!—the mistress on whom he had so fondly doated!—the friend whom he had so implicitly trusted!' These cruel images, drest in every form most fatal to his peace, tormented him, and the agony of disappointed passion seemed to have affected his brain. Deep groans forced their way from his oppressed heart—he cursed his existence, and seemed resolutely bent, in the gloominess of his despair, to shake it off and free himself from sufferings so intolerable.
To the first effusions of his phrenzy, a sullen calm, more alarming, succeeded. He fixed his eyes on the moon which shone above him, but had no idea of what he saw, or where he was; his breath was short, his hands clenched; he seemed as if, having lost the power of complaint, he was unable to express the pain that convulsed his whole frame.
While he continued in this situation, a favourite little spaniel of his mother's, of which he had from a boy been fond, ran up to him and licked his hands and face. The caresses of an animal he had so long remembered, touched some chord of the heart that vibrated to softer emotions than those which had for the last three hours possessed him—he burst into tears.
'Felix!' said he, sobbing, 'poor Felix!'
The dog, rejoicing to be noticed, ran barking round him; and presently afterwards, with hurried steps, came Miss Delamere, leaning on the arm of Crofts.
'My God!' exclaimed she, almost screaming, 'here he is! Oh Frederic, you have so terrified my mother! and Mr. Crofts has been two hours in search of you. Had it not been for the dog, we should not now have found you. Mr. Crofts has returned twice to the house without you.'
'Mr. Crofts may return then a third time,' said Delamere, 'and cease to give himself such unnecessary trouble.'
'But you will come with us, brother?—Surely you will now come home?'
'At my leisure,' replied he, sternly—'Lady Montreville need be under no apprehensions about me. I shall be at home presently. But I will not be importuned! I will not be watched and followed! and above all, I will not have a governor!'
So saying, he turned from them and walked another way; while they, seeing him so impracticable, could only return to report what they had seen to Lady Montreville. Delamere, however, who had taken another way, entered the house at the same moment.
Lady Montreville had strictly questioned Millefleur as to the cause of his master's disorder; and the poor fellow, who dared not relate the furious passion into which he had fallen on reading his letter, trembled, prevaricated, stammered, and looked so white, that her Ladyship, more alarmed, fancied she knew not what; and full of terror, had sent out Crofts a second time, and the servants different ways, in search of her son. At length Crofts returning the second time without success, Miss Delamere went with him herself; and the dog following her, led her to her brother. But before their return, Lady Montreville's apprehensions had arisen to such an height, that a return of her fits seemed to threaten her, and with difficulty was she brought to her senses when she saw him before her; and when he, moved by the keenness of her sorrow at his imaginary danger, assured her, in answer to her repeated enquiries, that he was merely affected by the heat; that he had no material complaint, and should be quite well and in his usual spirits when he returned from the excursion he proposed going upon the next day. Then, being somewhat appeased, his mother suffered him to retire; and called her counsellor, Mr.Crofts, to debate whether in such a frame of mind she ought to allow the absence of Delamere? Crofts advised her by all means to let him go. He suspected indeed that the anonymous letter had occasioned all the wild behaviour he had been witness to, and thought it very likely that Delamere might be going to England. But he knew that James Crofts and his fair associates were prepared for the completion of their project if he did; and his absence was, on account of Crofts' own affairs, particularly desirable.
For these reasons, he represented to Lady Montreville that opposition would only irritate and inflame her son, without inducing him to stay. He departed, therefore, the next morning, without any impediment on the part of his mother; but was yet undecided whither to go. While Crofts, no longer thwarted by his observation, or humbled by his haughty disdain, managed matters so well, that in spite of the pride of noble blood, in spite of her reluctance to marry a commoner, he conquered and silenced all the scruples and objections of Miss Delamere; and a young English clergyman, a friend of his, coming to Nice, as both he and Crofts declared,by the meerest accident in the world, just about that time, Crofts obtained her consent to a private marriage; and his friend took especial care that no form might be wanting, to enable him legally to claim his bride, on their return to England.
Emmeline had now been near a month at Bath, whence she had not written to Delamere. She had seldom done so oftener than once in six or eight weeks; and no reason subsisted at present for a more frequent correspondence.
Far from having any idea that he would think her temporary removal extraordinary, she had not attempted to conceal it from him; and of his jealousy of Fitz-Edward she had not the remotest suspicion. For tho' Mrs. Ashwood's hints, and the behaviour of James Crofts, had left no doubt of their ill opinion of her, yet she never supposed them capable of an attempt to impress the same idea on the mind of Delamere; and had no notion of the variety of motives which made the whole family of the Crofts, with which Mrs. Ashwood was now connected, solicitous to perpetuate theevil by propagating the scandalous story they had themselves invented.
Unconscious therefore of the anguish which preyed upon the heart of her unhappy lover, Emmeline gave her whole attention to Lady Adelina, and she saw with infinite concern the encreasing weakness of her frame; with still greater pain she observed, that by suffering her mind to dwell continually on her unhappy situation, it was no longer able to exert the powers it possessed; and that, sunk in hopeless despondence, her intellects were frequently deranged. Amid these alienations of reason, she was still gentle, amiable and interesting; and as they were yet short and slight, Emmeline flattered herself, that the opiates which her physician (in consequence of the restless and anxious nights Lady Adelina had for some time passed) found it absolutely necessary to administer, might have partly if not entirely occasioned this alarming symptom.
Still, however, the busy imagination of Emmeline perpetually represented to her impending sorrow, and her terror hourly encreased. She figured to herself the decided phrenzy, or the death of her poor friend; and unable to conquer apprehensions which she was yet compelled to conceal, she lived in a continual effort to appear chearful, and to soothe the wounded mind of the sufferer, by consolatory conversation; while she watched her with an attention so sedulous and so painful, that only the excellence of her heart, which persuaded her she was engaged in a task truly laudable, could have supported her thro' such anxiety and fatigue.
She was, however, very desirous that as Mr. Godolphin was now in England he might be acquainted with his sister's calamitous and precarious situation; and she gently hinted to Lady Adelina, how great a probability she thought there was, that such a man as her brother was represented to be, would in her sorrow and her suffering forget her error.
But by the most distant idea of such an interview, she found Lady Adelina so violently affected, that she dared not again urge it; and was compelled, in fearful apprehension, to await the hour which would probably give the fair penitent to that grave, where she seemed to wish her disgrace and affliction might be forgotten.
To describe the anxiety of Emmeline when that period arrived, is impossible; or the mingled emotions of sorrow and satisfaction, pleasure and pity, with which she beheld the lovely andunfortunate infant whose birth she had so long desired, yet so greatly dreaded.
Lady Adelina had, till then, wished to die. She saw her child—and wished to live.—The physical people who attended her, gave hopes that she might.—Supported by the tender friendship of Emmeline, and animated by maternal fondness, she determined to attempt it.
Emmeline, now full of apprehension, now indulging feeble hopes, prayed fervently for her recovery; and zealously and indefatigably attended her with more than her former solicitude. For three days, her hopes gradually grew stronger; when on the evening of the third, as she was sitting alone by the side of the bed where Lady Adelina had fallen into a quiet sleep, she suddenly heard a sort of bustle in the next room; and before she could rise to put an end to it, a gentleman to whom she was a stranger, walked hastily into that where she was. On seeing her, he started and said—
'I beg your pardon, Madam—but I was informed that here I might find Lady Adelina Trelawny.'
The name of Trelawny, thus suddenly and loudly pronounced, awakened Lady Adelina. She started up—undrew the curtain—and fixing her eyes with a look of terrified astonishment on the stranger, she exclaimed, faintly—'Oh! my brother!—my brother William!' then sunk back on her pillow, to all appearance lifeless.
Mr. Godolphin now springing forward, caught the cold and insensible hand which had opened the curtain; and throwing himself on his knees, cried—
'Adelina! my love! are you ill?—have I then terrified and alarmed you? Speak to me—dear Adelina—speak to me!'
Emmeline, whose immediate astonishment at his presence had been lost in terror for his sister, had flown out of the room for the attendants, and now returning, cried—
'You have killed her, Sir!—She is certainly dead!—Oh, my God! the sudden alarm, the sudden sight of you, has destroyed her!'
'I am afraid it has!' exclaimed Godolphin wildly, and hardly knowing what he said—'I am indeed afraid it has! My poor sister—my unhappy, devoted Adelina!—have I then found you only to destroy you? But perhaps,' continued he, after a moment's pause, during which Emmeline and the nurse were chafing the hands and temples of the dying patient—'perhaps she may recover.Send instantly for advice—run—fly—let me go myself for assistance.'
He would now have run out of the room; but Emmeline, whose admirable presence of mind this sudden scene of terror had not conquered, stopped him.
'Stay, Sir,' said she, 'I beseech you, stay. You know not whither to go. I will instantly send those who do.'
She then left the room, and ordered a servant to fetch the physician; for she dreaded least Mr. Godolphin should discover the real name and quality of the patient to those to whom he might apply; and on returning to the bed side, where Lady Adelina still lay without any signs of existence, and by which her brother still knelt in speechless agony, her fears were again alive, least when the medical gentlemen arrived, his grief and desperation should betray the secret to them. While her first apprehension was for the life of her friend, these secondary considerations were yet extremely alarming—for she knew, that should Lady Adelina recover, her life would be for ever embittered, if not again endangered, by the discovery which seemed impending and almost inevitable.
The women who were about her having now applied every remedy they could think of without success, began loudly to lament themselves. Emmeline, commanding her own anguish, besought them to stifle their's, and not to give way to fruitless exclamations while there was yet hope, but to continue their endeavours to recover their lady. Then addressing herself to Mr. Godolphin, she roused him from the stupor of grief in which he had fallen, while he gazed with an impassioned and agonizing look on the pale countenance of his sister.
'Pardon me, Sir,' said she, 'if I entreat you to go down stairs and await the arrival of the advice I have sent for. Should my poor friend recover, your presence may renew and encrease the alarm of her spirits, and embarrass her returning recollection; and should she not recover, you had better hear such mournful tidings in any place rather than this.'
'Oh! if Idohear them,' answered he, wildly, 'it matters little where. But Iwillwithdraw, Madam, since you seem to desire it.'
He had hardly seen Emmeline before. He now turned his eyes mournfully upon her—'It is, I presume, Miss Mowbray,' saidhe, 'who thus, with an angel's tenderness in an angel's form, would spare the sorrows of a stranger?'
Emmeline, unable to speak, led the way down to the parlour, and Godolphin silently followed her.
'Go back,' said he, tremulously, as soon as they reached the room—'go back to my sister; your tender assiduity may do more for her than the people about her. Your voice, your looks, will soothe and tranquillize her, should she awaken from her long insensibility. Ah! tell her, her brother came only to rescue her from the misery of her unworthy lot—Tell her his affection, his brotherly affection, hopes to give her consolation; and restore her—if it may yet be—to her repose. But go, dearest Miss Mowbray go!—somebody comes in—perhaps the physician.'
Emmeline now opening the parlour door, found it to be indeed the physician she expected; and with a fearful heart she followed him, informing him, as they went up stairs, that the sudden appearance of Mrs. St. Laure's brother, whom she had not seen for two or three years, had thrown her into a fainting fit, from which not all their endeavours had recovered her.
He remonstrated vehemently against the extreme indiscretion of such an interview. Emmeline, who knew not by what strange chain of circumstances it had been brought about, had nothing to reply.
So feeble were the appearances of remaining life, that the physician could pronounce nothing certainly in regard to his patient. He gave, however, directions to her attendants; but after every application had been used, all that could be said was, that she was not actually dead. As soon as the physician had written his prescription and retired, Emmeline recollected the painful state of suspense in which she had left Mr. Godolphin, and trying to recover courage to go thro' the painful scene before her, she went down to him.
As she opened the door, he met her.
'I have seen the doctor,' said he, in a broken and hurried voice—'and from his account I am convinced Adelina is dying.'
'I hope not,' faintly answered Emmeline. 'There is yet a possibility, tho' I fear no great probability of her recovery.'
'My Adelina!' resumed he, walking about the room—'my Adelina! for whose sake I so anxiously wished to return to England—Gracious God! I am come too late to assist her! Some strangemystery surely hangs over her! Long lost to all her friends, I find her here dying! The sight of me, instead of relieving her sorrow seems to have accelerated her dissolution! And you, Madam, to whose goodness she appears to be so greatly indebted—may I ask by what fortunate circumstance, lost and obscure as she has been, she has acquired such a friend?'
Emmeline, shuddering at the apprehension of enquiries she found it impossible to answer, was wholly at a loss how to reply to this. She knew not of what Mr. Godolphin was informed—of what he was ignorant; and dreaded to say too much, or to be detected in a false representation. She therefore, agitated and hesitating, gravely said—
'It is not now a time, Sir, to ask any thing relative to Lady Adelina. I am myself too ill to enter into conversation; and wish, as you have been yourself greatly affected, that you would now retire, and endeavour to make yourself as easy as you can. To-morrow may, perhaps, afford us more chearful prospects—or at least this cruel suspense will be over, and the dear sufferer at peace.'
She sobbed, and turned away. Godolphin rising, said in a faultering voice—
'Yes, I will go! since my stay can only encrease the pain of that generous and sensible heart. I will go—but not to rest!—I cannot rest! But do you try, most amiable creature! to obtain some repose—Try, I beseech you, to recover your spirits, which have been so greatly hurried.'
He knew not what he said; and was hastening out of the room, when Emmeline, recollecting how ardently Lady Adelina had desired the concealment of her name and family, stopped him as he was quitting her.
'Yet one thing, Captain Godolphin, allow me to entreat of you?'
'What can I refuse you?' answered he, returning.
'Only—are you known at Bath?'
'Probably I may. It is above three years since I was in England, and much longer since I have been here. But undoubtedly some one or other will know me.'
'Then do indulge me in one request. See as few people as you can; and if you accidentally meet any of your friends, do not say that Lady Adelina is here.'
'Not meet any one if I can avoid it!—and if I do, not speak ofmy sister! And why is all this?—why this concealment, this mystery?—why—'
Emmeline, absolutely overcome, sat down without speaking. Godolphin, seeing her uneasiness, said—
'But I will not distressyou, Madam, by farther questions. Your commands shall be sufficient. I will stifle my anxiety and obey you.' Then bowing respectfully, he added—'To-morrow, at as early an hour as I dare hope for admittance, I shall be at the door. Heaven bless and reward the fair and gentle Miss Mowbray—and may it have mercy on my poor Adelina!'—He sighed deeply, and left the house.
Lady Adelina, tho' not so entirely insensible, was yet but little amended. But as what alteration there was, was for the better, Emmeline endeavoured to recall her own agitated and dissipated spirits. The extraordinary scene which had just passed, was still present to her imagination; the last words of Godolphin, still vibrated in her ears. 'Fair and gentle Miss Mowbray!' repeated she. 'He knows my name; yet seems ignorant of every thing that relates to his sister!'
Her astonishment at this circumstance was succeeded by reflecting on the unpleasant task she must have if Mr. Godolphin should again enquire into her first acquaintance with his sister. To relate to him the melancholy story she had heard, would, she found, be an undertaking to which she was wholly unequal; and she was equally averse to the invention of a plausible falsehood. From this painful apprehension she meditated how to extricate herself; but the longer she thought of it, the more she despaired of it. The terrors of such a conversation hourly augmented; and wholly and for ever to escape from it, she sometimes determined to write. But from executing that design, was withheld by considering that if Godolphin was of a fiery and impetuous temper, he would probably, without reflection or delay, fly to vengeance, and precipitate every evil which Lady Adelina dreaded.
After having exhausted every idea on the subject, she could think of nothing on which her imagination could rest, but to send to Mrs. Stafford, acquaint her with the danger of Lady Adelina, and conjure her if possible to come to her. This she knew she would do unless some singular circumstance in her own family prevented her attention to her friends.
Resolved to embrace therefore this hope, she dispatched anhasty billet by an express to Woodfield; and then betook herself to a bed on the floor, which she had ordered to be placed by the side of that where Lady Adelina, in happy tho' dangerous insensibility, still seemed to repose almost in the arms of death.
Emmeline could not, however, obtain even a momentary forgetfulness. Tho' she could not repent her attention to the unhappy Lady Adelina, she was yet sensible of her indiscretion in having put herself into the situation she was now in; the cruel, unfeeling world would, she feared, condemn her; and of it's reflections she could not think without pain. But her heart, her generous sympathizing heart, more than acquitted—it repaid her.
Towards the middle of the night, Lady Adelina, who had made two or three faint efforts to speak, sighed, and again in faint murmurs attempted to explain herself. Emmeline started up and eagerly listened; and in a low whisper heard her ask for her child.
Emmeline ordered it instantly to be brought; and those eyes which had so lately seemed closed for ever, were opened in search of this beloved object: then, as if satisfied in beholding it living and well, they closed again, while she imprinted a kiss on it's little hand. She then asked for Emmeline; who, delighted with this apparent amendment, prevailed on her to take what had been ordered for her. She appeared still better in a few moments, but was yet extremely languid.
'I have had a dreadful dream, my Emmeline,' said she, at length—'a long and dreadful dream! But it is gone—you are here; my poor little boy too is well; and this alarming vision will I hope haunt me no more.'
Emmeline, who feared that the dream was indeed a reality, exhorted her to think only of her recovery; of which, added she cheerfully, we have no longer any doubt.
'Comfortable and consoling angel!' sighed Lady Adelina—'your presence is surely safety. Do not leave me!'
Emmeline promised not to quit the room; and elate with hopes of her friend's speedy restoration to health, fell herself into a tranquil and refreshing slumber.
On awakening the next morning, she found Lady Adelina much better; but still, whenever she spoke, dwelling on her supposed dream, and sometimes talking with that incoherence which had for some weeks before so greatly alarmed her. Her own dread of meeting Godolphin was by no means lessened;and to prevent an immediate interview, she dispatched to him a note.
'Sir,'I am happy in having it in my power to assure you that our dear patient is much better. But as uninterrupted tranquillity is absolutely necessary, that, and other considerations, induce me to beg you will forbear coming hither to day. You may depend on having hourly intelligence, and that we shall be desirous of the pleasure of seeing you when the safety of my friend admits it.I have the honour to be, Sir,your most humble servant,Emmeline Mowbray.'Sept.20,17—.
'Sir,
'I am happy in having it in my power to assure you that our dear patient is much better. But as uninterrupted tranquillity is absolutely necessary, that, and other considerations, induce me to beg you will forbear coming hither to day. You may depend on having hourly intelligence, and that we shall be desirous of the pleasure of seeing you when the safety of my friend admits it.
I have the honour to be, Sir,your most humble servant,Emmeline Mowbray.'
Sept.20,17—.
To this note, Mr. Godolphin answered—
'If Miss Mowbray will only allow me to wait on her for one moment in the parlour, I will not again trespass on her time till I have her own permission.W. G.'
'If Miss Mowbray will only allow me to wait on her for one moment in the parlour, I will not again trespass on her time till I have her own permission.
W. G.'
This request, Emmeline was obliged, with whatever reluctance, to comply with. She therefore sent a verbal acquiescence; and repaired to the bed-side of Lady Adelina, who had asked for her.
'Will you pardon my folly, my dear Emmeline,' said she languidly—'but I cannot be easy till I have told you what a strange idea has seized me. I seemed, last night, I know not at what time, to be suddenly awakened by a voice which loudly repeated the name of Trelawny. Startled by the sound, I thought I undrew the curtain, and saw my brother William, who stood looking angrily on me. I felt greatly terrified; and growing extremely sick, I lost the vision. But now again it's recollection harrasses my imagination; and the image of my brother, sterner, and with a ruder aspect than he was wont to wear, still seems present before me. Oh! he was accustomed to be all goodness and gentleness, and to love his poor Adelina. But now he too will throw me from him—he too will detest and despise me—Or perhaps,' continued she, after a short pause—'perhaps he is dead. I am not superstitious—but this dream pursues me.'
Emmeline, who had hoped that the very terror of this sudden interview had obliterated it's remembrance, said every thing shethought likely to quiet her mind, and to persuade her that the uneasy images represented in her imperfect slumbers were merely the effect of her weakness and perturbed spirits.
The impression, however, was too strong to be effaced by arguments. It still hung heavy on her heart, irritated the fever which had before been only slight, and deprived her almost entirely of sleep; or if she slept, she again fancied herself awakened by her brother, angrily repeating the name of Trelawny.
Sometimes, starting in terror from these feverish dreams, she called on her brother to pardon and pity her; sometimes in piercing accents deplored his death, and sometimes besought him to spare Fitz-Edward. These incoherences were particularly distressing; as names were often heard by the attendants which Emmeline hoped to have concealed; and it was hardly possible longer to deceive the physician and apothecary who attended her.
With an uneasy heart, and a countenance pensively expressive of it's feelings, she went down to receive Captain Godolphin in the parlour.
'I fear, Miss Mowbray,' said he, as soon as they were seated, 'you will think me too ready to take advantage of your goodness. But there is that appearance of candour and compassion about you, that I determined rather to trust to your goodness for pardon, than to remain longer in a state of suspense about my sister, which I have already found most insupportable. In the note you honoured me with to day you say she is better. Is she then out of danger? Has she proper advice?'
'She has the best advice, Sir. I cannot, however, say that she is out of danger, but'—She hesitated, and knew not how to proceed.
'But—you hope, rather than believe, she will recover,' cried Godolphin eagerly.
'I both hope it and believe it. Mr. Godolphin, you yesterday did me the honour to suppose I had been fortunate enough to be of some service to Lady Adelina; suffer me to take advantage of a supposition so flattering, and to claim a sort of right to ask in my turn a favour.'
'Surely I shall consider it as an honour to receive, and as happiness to obey, any command of Miss Mowbray's.'
'Promise me then to observe the same silence in regard to your sister as I asked of you last night. Trust me with her safety, andbelieve it will not be neglected. But you must neither speak of her to others, or question me about her.'
'Good God! from whence can arise the necessity for these precautions! What dreadful obscurity surrounds her! What am I to fear? What am I to suppose?'
'You will not, then,' said Emmeline, gravely—'you will not oblige me, by desisting from all questions 'till this trifling restraint can be taken off?'
'I will, I do promise to be guided wholly by you; and to bear, however difficult it may be, the suspense, the frightful suspense in which I must remain. Tell me, however, that Adelina is not in immediate danger. But, but' added he, as if recollecting himself, 'may I not apply for information on that head to her physician?'
'Not for the world!' answered Emmeline, with unguarded quickness—'not for the world!'
'Not for the world!'—repeated Godolphin, with an accent of astonishment. 'Heaven and earth! But I have promised to ask nothing—I must obey—and will now release you, Madam.'
Godolphin then took his leave; and Emmeline, whose heart had throbbed violently throughout this dialogue, sat down alone to compose and recollect herself. She saw, that to keep Godolphin many days ignorant of the truth would be impossible: and from the eager anxiety of his questions, she feared that all the horrors Lady Adelina's troubled imagination had represented would be realized—apprehensions, which seemed armed with new terror since she had seen and conversed with this William Godolphin, of whose excellent heart and noble spirit she had before heard so much both from Lady Adelina and Fitz-Edward, and whose appearance seemed to confirm the favourable impression those accounts had given her.
Godolphin, who was now about five and twenty, had passed the greatest part of his life at sea. The various climates he had visited had deprived his complexion of much of it's English freshness; but his face was animated by dark eyes full of intelligence and spirit; his hair, generally carelessly dressed, was remarkably fine, and his person tall, light, and graceful, yet so commanding, that whoever saw him immediately and involuntarily felt their admiration mingled with respect. His whole figure was such as brought to the mind ideas of the race of heroes from which he was descended; his voice was particularly grateful to the ear, and hisaddress appeared to Emmeline to be a fortunate compound of the insinuating softness of Fitz-Edward with the fire and vivacity of Delamere. Of this, however, she could inadequately judge, as he was now under such depression of spirits: and however pleasing he appeared, Emmeline, who conceived herself absolutely engaged to Delamere, thought of him only as the brother of Lady Adelina; yet insensibly she felt herself more than ever interested for the event of his hearing how little Fitz-Edward had deserved the warm friendship he had felt for him. And her thoughts dwelling perpetually on that subject, magnified the painful circumstances of the approaching éclaircissemen; while her fears for Lady Adelina's life, who continued to languish in a low fever with frequent delirium, so harrassed and oppressed her, that her own health was visibly affected. But without attending to it, she passed all her hours in anxiously watching the turns of Lady Adelina's disorder; or, when she could for a moment escape, in giving vent to her full heart by weeping over the little infant, whose birth, so similar to her own, seemed to render it to her a more interesting and affecting object. She lamented the evils to which it might be exposed; tho' of a sex which would prevent it's encountering the same species of sorrow as that which had embittered her own life. Of her friendless and desolate situation, she was never more sensible than now. She felt herself more unhappy than she had ever yet been; and would probably have sunk under her extreme uneasiness, had not the arrival of Mrs. Stafford, at the end of three days, relieved her from many of her fears and apprehensions.
Mrs. Stafford no sooner heard from Emmeline that Godolphin was yet ignorant of the true reason of Lady Adelina's concealment, than she saw the necessity of immediately explaining it; and this task, however painful, she without hesitation undertook.
He was therefore summoned to their lodgings by a note from Emmeline, who on his arrival introduced him to Mrs. Stafford, and left them together; when, with as much tenderness as possible, and mingling with the mortifying detail many representations of the necessity there was for his conquering his resentment, she atlength concluded it; watching anxiously the changes in Godolphin's countenance, which sometimes expressed only pity and affection for his sister, sometimes rage and indignation against Fitz-Edward.
Both the brothers of Lady Adelina had been accustomed to consider her with peculiar fondness. The unfortunate circumstance of her losing her mother immediately after her birth, seemed to have given her a melancholy title to their tenderness; and the resemblance she bore to that dear mother, whom they both remembered, and on whose memory their father dwelt with undiminished regret, endeared her to them still more. To these united claims on the heart and the protection of William Godolphin, another was added equally forcible, in a letter written by his father with the trembling hand of anxious solicitude, when he felt himself dying, and when, looking back with lingering affection on the children of her whom he hoped soon to rejoin, he saw with anguish his youngest daughter liable from her situation to deviate into indiscretion, and surrounded by the numberless dangers which attend on a young and beautiful woman, whose husband has neither talents to attach her affections or judgment to direct her actions. Lord Westhaven, conscious of her hazardous circumstances, and feeling in his last moments the keenest anguish, in knowing that his mistaken care had exposed her to them, hoped, by interesting both her brothers to watch over her, that he should obviate the dangers he apprehended. He had therefore, in all their conversations, recommended her to his eldest son; and as he was not happy enough to embrace the younger before he died, had addressed to him a last letter on the same subject.
Such were the powerful ties that bound Mr. Godolphin to love and defend Lady Adelina with more than a brother's fondness. Hastening therefore to obey the dying injunctions of his father, and in the hope of rendering the life of this beloved sister, if not happy, at least honourable and contented, he had heard, that she had clandestinely absented herself from her family, and after a long search had found her abandoned to remorse and despair; her reputation blasted; her health ruined; her intellects disordered; and all by the perfidy of a man, in whom he, from long friendship, and his sister, from family connection, had placed unbounded confidence.
Tho' Godolphin had one of the best tempers in the world—atemper which the roughness of those among whom he lived had only served to soften and humanize, and which was immovable by the usual accidents that ruffle others, yet he had also in a great excess all those keen feelings, which fill a heart of extreme sensibility; added to a courage, that in the hour of danger had been proved to be as cool as it was undaunted. Of him might be said what was the glorious praise of immortal Bayard—that he was 'sans peur et sans reproche;'[1]and educated with a high sense of honour himself, as well as possessing a heart calculated to enjoy, and a hand to defend, the unblemished dignity of his family, all his passions were roused and awakened by the injury it had sustained from Fitz-Edward, and he beheld him as a monster whom it was infamy to forgive. Hardly therefore had Mrs. Stafford concluded her distressing recital, than, as if commanding himself by a violent effort, he thanked her warmly yet incoherently for her unexampled goodness to his sister, recommended her still to her generous care, and the friendship of Miss Mowbray, and without any threat against Fitz-Edward, or even a comment on what he had heard, arose to depart. But Mrs. Stafford, more alarmed by this determined tho' quiet resentment and by the expression of his countenance than if he had burst into exclamations and menaces, perceived that the crisis was now come when he must either be persuaded to conquer his just resentment, or by giving it way destroy, while he attempted to revenge, the fame of his sister.
She besought him therefore to sit down a moment; and when he had done so, she told him, that if he really thought himself under any obligations to Miss Mowbray or to her for the services they had been so fortunate as to render Lady Adelina, his making all they had been doing ineffectual, would be a most mortifying return; and such must be the case, if he rashly flew to seek vengeance on Fitz-Edward: 'for that you have such a design,' continued she, 'I have no doubt; allow me, however, to suppose that I have, by doing your sister some good offices, acquired a right to speak of her affairs.'
'Surely,' answered Mr. Godolphin, 'you have; and surely I must hear with respect and attention, tho' possibly not with conviction, every opinion with which you may honour me.'
She then represented to him, with all the force of reason, how little he could remedy the evil by hazarding his own life or by taking that of Fitz-Edward.
'At present,' continued she, 'the secret is known only to me, Miss Mowbray, and Lady Adelina's woman; if it is farther exposed, the heirs of Mr. Trelawny, who are so deeply interested, will undoubtedly take measures to prove that the infant has no just claim to the estate they so eagerly expect. Mr. Trelawny's sister has already entertained suspicions, which the least additional information would give her grounds to pursue, and the whole affair must then inevitably become public. Surely this consideration alone should determine you—why then need I urge others equally evident and equally forcible.'
Godolphin acknowledged that there was much of truth in the arguments she used; but denied that any consideration should influence him to forgive the man who had thus basely and ungenerously betrayed the confidence of his family.
'However,' added he again, checking the heat into which he feared a longer conversation on this subject might betray him—'I have not yet, Madam, absolutely formed the resolution of which you seem so apprehensive; and am indeed too cruelly hurt to be able to talk longer on the subject. Suffer me therefore once more to bid you a good day!'
But the encreasing gloom of his countenance, and forced calm of his manner, appeared to be symptoms so unfavourable, that Mrs. Stafford thought there was no hope of being able to prevent an immediate and fatal meeting between him and Fitz-Edward but by engaging him in a promise at least to delay it; this she attempted by the most earnest arguments, and the most pressing persuasions; but all she could obtain was an assurance that he would remain at Bath 'till the next day, and see her again in the evening.
In the mean time the delirium of Lady Adelina, (which had recurred at intervals ever since the transient sight she had of her brother) more frequently, and with more alarming symptoms, returned; and the fever which had at first threatened the loss of her life, now seemed to be fixing on her brain, and to menace, by a total deprivation of reason, reducing her to a condition to which death itself must be preferable. She still, even in her wildest wanderings, knew Emmeline, and still caressed her little boy; but much of her time passed in incoherent and rambling discourse; in which she talked of Fitz-Edward and her brother William, and held with them both imaginary dialogues. Sometimes shedeprecated the wrath of her elder brother: and then her disordered fancy ran to the younger; to him from whom she had, in her early life, found pity and protection in all her little sorrows.
Mrs. Stafford thought it too hazardous to let her again see her brother, while her intellects were thus disarranged; as she trembled lest she should start into actual madness. But it was absolutely necessary to do something; not only because Mr. Godolphin's impatience made every delay dangerous, but because it was hardly possible to keep the secret from the physicians and attendants, who had already heard much more than they ought to have known.
She determined, therefore, after consulting with Emmeline, to introduce Godolphin into the room adjoining to that where Lady Adelina now sat some hours every day in an easy chair. The affecting insanity of his unhappy sister, and the mournful and pathetic entreaties she frequently used, were likely, in the opinion of the fair friends, to effectuate more than their most earnest persuasions; and prevail on him to drop all thoughts of that resentment, which could not cure but might encrease her calamities.
Mrs. Stafford had heard from him, that he gained information as to the place of his sister's residence from the mother of Lady Adelina's woman; who being the reduced widow of a clergyman, resided in the Bishop's alms-houses at Bromley, where her daughter frequently sent her such assistance as her own Å“conomy, or the bounty of her lady, enabled her to supply. A few weeks before, she had sent her a note for ten pounds; and not apprehending that an enquiry would be made of her, had desired her to acknowledge the receipt of it, and direct to her at Bath, where she said her lady was with a Miss Mowbray.
Lady Clancarryl, among many expedients to recover traces of her sister, had at length recollected this widow, and had desired Mr. Godolphin to make immediate enquiry of her.
He had hastened therefore to Bromley, and easily found the poor woman, who was paralytic and almost childish. Her letters were read for her by one of her neighbours; a person, who, being present at the arrival of Mr. Godolphin, immediately found that something was to be got; and busily put into his hands the very letter which had enclosed the note, and which contained the direction.
He eagerly copied the address; and leaving a handsome present for the use of the old widow, he delayed not a moment to set outfor Bath, where he soon found the house, and where he had enquired for Lady Adelina Trelawny.
The servant of the house who opened the door assured him no such person was there. He supposed that for some reason or other she was denied; and insisting on being allowed to go up stairs, had entered the room in the abrupt manner which had so greatly alarmed his sister.
In hopes of counteracting the fatal effects of the discovery which had unavoidably followed this interview, Godolphin was, on his return in the afternoon, introduced into the dining-room, which opened into Lady Adelina's bed-chamber. The door was a-jar; the partition thin; and Mrs. Stafford was pretty well assured that the poor patient would be heard distinctly. Godolphin came in, pale from the conflict of his mind; and all his features expressed anger and sorrow, with which he seemed vainly struggling. He bowed, and sat down in silence.
Mrs. Stafford only was in the room; and as soon as he was seated, said, in a low voice, yet with forced chearfulness—
'Well, Sir, I hope that Miss Mowbray and myself have prevailed on you to drop at present every other design than the truly generous one of healing the wounded heart of our fair unfortunate friend.'
'And shall he who has wounded it,' slowly and sternly replied Godolphin—'shall he who has wounded it so basely, escape me?'
At this instant Lady Adelina, who had been some time silent, exclaimed hastily—'Oh! spare him! my dear brother! and spare your poor Adelina! who will not trouble—who will not disgrace you long!'
'Where is she?' said Godolphin, starting—'Good God! what is it I hear?'
'Your unhappy sister,' answered Mrs. Stafford; 'whom the idea of your determined vengeance has already driven to distraction.'
Again Lady Adelina spoke. Her brother listened in breathless anguish.
'Ah! William!—and areyougrown cruel? You, on whom I depended for pity and protection?'
'Surely,' said he, 'surely she knows I am here?'
'No,' answered Mrs. Stafford, 'she knows nothing. But this fear has incessantly pursued her; and since she saw you she dwells more frequently on it, tho' her erring memory sometimes wanders to other objects.'
'It is very true, my Lord!' cried Lady Adelina, with affected calmness, her thoughts wavering again towards Lord Westhaven—'It is all very true! I have deserved all your reproaches! I am ready to make all the atonement I can! Then you will both of you, my brothers, be satisfied—for William has told me that if I died he should be content, for then all might be forgotten.' She ended with a deep sigh; and Godolphin, wildly starting from his seat, said—
'This is too much! you cannot expect me to bear this!—let me go to her!'
'Would you go then,' answered Mrs. Stafford, 'to confirm her fears and to drive her to deeper desperation? If you see her, it must be to soothe and comfort her; to assure her of your forgiveness, and that you will bury your resentment against——'
'Accursed! doubly accursed be the infamous villain who has driven her to this! And must I bear it tamely! Oh! injured memory of my father!—oh! my poor, undone sister!' He walked about the room; the tears ran from his eyes; and Mrs. Stafford, fearing that his hurried step and deep sobs would be heard by Lady Adelina, determined to bring the scene to a crisis and not to lose the influence she hoped she had gained on his mind. She therefore went into the other room, and shutting the door, advanced with a smile towards the lovely lunatic.
'What will you say, my dear Adelina, if I bring you the best news you can possibly hear?'
'News!' repeated Lady Adelina, looking at her with eyes which too plainly denoted her unsettled mind—'News!—Ah! dear Madam! I know very well that all the world is happy but me; and if you are happy, I am very glad; but as tome—Do you indeed think it is reasonable I should part with him?'
'With whom?' said Mrs. Stafford.
'Why, one condition which they insist upon is, that I should give up my poor little one to them, and never ask to see him again. William was the most urgent for this—William, who used to be so good, so gentle, so compassionate to every body! Alas! he is now more cruel and relentless than the rest!'
'So far from it,' said Mrs. Stafford, 'your brother William loves you as much as ever; he will come and tell you so himself if you will only be composed, and talk less strangely.'
'To seeme!' exclaimed she, as if suddenly recovering her recollection—'Oh! when?—where?—how?'
But again it forsook her; and she continued—
'Ah! he comes perhaps to tell me of the blood he has spilt, and to load me with reproaches for having obliged him to destroy a friend whom he once loved. If that is indeed so, why let him come and plunge another dagger in this poor heart, which has always loved him!'
She was silent a moment, and then languidly went on—
'I thought some time since that I saw him, and Miss Mowbray was with him; but it was only a dream, for I know he is in Jamaica: and when hedoescome home, he will harden his heart against me—he will be my judge, and sternly will he judge me—he will forget that he is my brother!'
'Never! my poor Adelina,' cried Godolphin, rushing into the room, 'never can I forget that I am your brother—never can I cease to feel for you compassion and tenderness.'
He would have taken her in his arms; but struck by the dreadful alteration that appeared in her face and figure, he stopt short, and looking at her with silent horror, seemed incapable of uttering what he felt.
She knew him; but could neither speak or shed a tear for some moments. At length, she held out to him her emaciated hand.
'It isindeedWilliam!' said she. 'He seems, too, very sorry for me. My dear brother, do you then pardon and pity the poor Adelina?'
'Both! both!' answered Godolphin, sobbing, and seating himself by her. He threw his arms round her, and her pale cheek rested on his bosom, while her eyes were fixed on his face.
'Stay!' exclaimed she, after a momentary pause, and disengaging herself suddenly from him—'Stay! I have yet another question, if I dared ask it! Do you know all? and have you no blood to answer for, on my account? Will you assure me you will not seek it?'
'For mercy's sake!' said Mrs. Stafford, 'satisfy her, Mr. Godolphin—satisfy her at once—you see to what is owing this alienation of her reason.'
'No,' reassumed the afflicted Adelina, 'you need not answer me; I see you cannot—will not forgive——'
'Name him not, Adelina!' sternly and quickly answered he—'my soul recoils at his idea! I cannot, I will not promise any thing!'
At this period, Emmeline, who was unwilling to trust theservants in such a moment, entered with the infant of Lady Adelina sleeping in her arms.
'See,' said Mrs. Stafford, 'a little unfortunate creature, whose innocence must surely plead forcibly to you: he comes to join our intreaties to you to spare his mother!'
Emmeline laid the infant in the lap of Lady Adelina, who was yet unable to shed a tear. Godolphin beheld it with mingled horror and pity; but the latter sentiment seemed to predominate; and Emmeline, whose voice was calculated to go to the heart, began to try it's influence; and imploring him to be calm, and to promise his sister an eternal oblivion of the past, she urged every argument that should convince him of it's necessity, and every motive that could affect his reason or his compassion.
He gazed on her with reverence and admiration while she spoke, and seemed greatly affected by what she said. Animated by the hope of success, her eyes were lightened up with new brilliancy, and her glowing cheeks and expressive features became more than ever attractive. A convulsive laugh from Lady Adelina interrupted her, and drew the attention of Godolphin entirely to his sister. Emmeline, who saw her reason again forsaking her, took the sleeping baby from her lap. She had hardly done so, before, trying to rise from her chair, she shrieked aloud—for again the image of Fitz-Edward, dying by the hand of her brother, was before her.
'See!' cried she, 'see! there he lies!—he is already expiring! yet William forgives him not! What? would you strike him again? now! while he is dying?—Go! cruel, cruel brother!' attempting to put Godolphin from her—'Go!—Oh! touch me not with those polluted hands, they are stained with human blood!' A convulsive shudder and a deep sigh seemed to exhaust all her remaining strength, and she fell back in her chair, pale and faint; and with fixed, unmeaning eyes, appeared no longer conscious even of the terrors which pursued her.
But the look of incurable anguish which her features wore; the wild import of her words; and the sight of the unfortunate child, who seemed born only to share her wretchedness; could not long be beheld unmoved by a heart like Godolphin's, which possessed all that tenderness that distinguishes the truly brave. Again he threw his arms round his sister, and sobbing, said—
'Hear me, Adelina—hear me and be tranquil! I will promiseto be guided by your excellent friends—I will do nothing that shall give pain to them or to you!'
'Thank God!' exclaimed Emmeline, 'that you at last hear reason! Remember this promise is given to us all.'
'It is,' answered Godolphin; 'but try to make poor Adelina sensible of it.' She no longer understood any thing; but with her eyes shut, and her hands clasped in each other, was at least quiet.
'I cannot bear it!' continued Godolphin—'I must go for a few moments to recover myself!' He then left the room, desiring Emmeline to comfort and compose his sister, who soon afterwards asked hastily what was become of him?
Emmeline, pleased to find she had a clear recollection of his having been with her, now told her that he had most solemnly assured them he would think no more of seeking Fitz-Edward on account of this unhappy affair. As she seemed still, in fearful apprehension, to doubt the reality of this promise, Godolphin, who was only in the next room with Mrs. Stafford, returned, and assured her of his pity, his forbearance and his forgiveness.
After some farther efforts on the part of Emmeline, and protestations on that of Godolphin, tears, which had been long denied to Lady Adelina, came to her relief. She wept, caressed her infant, and blessed and thanked her brother and her friends. When capable of recollection, she knew that towards those whom he had once pardoned, he was incapable of reproach or unkindness; and her mind, eased of the fears which had so long harrassed it, seemed to be recovering it's tone. Still, however, the sense of her own incurable unhappiness, her own irretrievable unworthiness, and the disgrace of having sullied the honour of her family, and given pain to such a brother, overwhelmed her with grief and confusion; while her reason, as it at intervals returned, served only to shew her the abyss into which she had fallen: and she sometimes even regretted those hours of forgetfulness, when she possessed not the power of steady reflection, and when the sad reality was obliterated by wild and imaginary horrors.