ODE TO DESPAIRThou spectre of terrific mien,Lord of the hopeless heart and hollow eye,In whose fierce train each form is seenThat drives sick Reason to insanity!I woo thee with unusual prayer,'Grim visaged, comfortless Despair!'Approach; in me a willing victim find,Who seeks thine iron sway—and calls thee kind!Ah! hide for ever from my sightThe faithless flatterer Hope—whose pencil, gay,Portrays some vision of delight,Then bids the fairy tablet fade away;While in dire contrast, to mine eyesThy phantoms, yet more hideous, rise,And Memory draws, from Pleasure's wither'd flower,Corrosives for the heart—of fatal power!I bid the traitor Love, adieu!Who to this fond, believing bosom came,A guest insidious and untrue,With Pity's soothing voice—in Friendship's name;The woundshegave, nor Time shall cure,Nor Reason teach me to endure.And to that breast mild Patience pleads in vain,Which feels the curse—of meriting it's pain.Yet not to me, tremendous power!Thy worst of spirit-wounding pangs impart,With which, in dark conviction's hour,Thou strik'st the guilty unrepentant heart!But of Illusion long the sport,That dreary, tranquil gloom I courtWhere my past errors I may still deploreAnd dream of long-lost happiness no more!To thee I give this tortured breast,Where Hope arises but to foster pain;Ah! lull it's agonies to rest!Ah! let me never be deceiv'd again!But callous, in thy deep reposeBehold, in long array, the woesOf the dread future, calm and undismay'd,Till I may claim the hope—that shall not fade!
ODE TO DESPAIRThou spectre of terrific mien,Lord of the hopeless heart and hollow eye,In whose fierce train each form is seenThat drives sick Reason to insanity!I woo thee with unusual prayer,'Grim visaged, comfortless Despair!'Approach; in me a willing victim find,Who seeks thine iron sway—and calls thee kind!Ah! hide for ever from my sightThe faithless flatterer Hope—whose pencil, gay,Portrays some vision of delight,Then bids the fairy tablet fade away;While in dire contrast, to mine eyesThy phantoms, yet more hideous, rise,And Memory draws, from Pleasure's wither'd flower,Corrosives for the heart—of fatal power!I bid the traitor Love, adieu!Who to this fond, believing bosom came,A guest insidious and untrue,With Pity's soothing voice—in Friendship's name;The woundshegave, nor Time shall cure,Nor Reason teach me to endure.And to that breast mild Patience pleads in vain,Which feels the curse—of meriting it's pain.Yet not to me, tremendous power!Thy worst of spirit-wounding pangs impart,With which, in dark conviction's hour,Thou strik'st the guilty unrepentant heart!But of Illusion long the sport,That dreary, tranquil gloom I courtWhere my past errors I may still deploreAnd dream of long-lost happiness no more!To thee I give this tortured breast,Where Hope arises but to foster pain;Ah! lull it's agonies to rest!Ah! let me never be deceiv'd again!But callous, in thy deep reposeBehold, in long array, the woesOf the dread future, calm and undismay'd,Till I may claim the hope—that shall not fade!
ODE TO DESPAIRThou spectre of terrific mien,Lord of the hopeless heart and hollow eye,In whose fierce train each form is seenThat drives sick Reason to insanity!I woo thee with unusual prayer,'Grim visaged, comfortless Despair!'Approach; in me a willing victim find,Who seeks thine iron sway—and calls thee kind!
ODE TO DESPAIR
Ah! hide for ever from my sightThe faithless flatterer Hope—whose pencil, gay,Portrays some vision of delight,Then bids the fairy tablet fade away;While in dire contrast, to mine eyesThy phantoms, yet more hideous, rise,And Memory draws, from Pleasure's wither'd flower,Corrosives for the heart—of fatal power!
I bid the traitor Love, adieu!Who to this fond, believing bosom came,A guest insidious and untrue,With Pity's soothing voice—in Friendship's name;The woundshegave, nor Time shall cure,Nor Reason teach me to endure.And to that breast mild Patience pleads in vain,Which feels the curse—of meriting it's pain.
Yet not to me, tremendous power!Thy worst of spirit-wounding pangs impart,With which, in dark conviction's hour,Thou strik'st the guilty unrepentant heart!But of Illusion long the sport,That dreary, tranquil gloom I courtWhere my past errors I may still deploreAnd dream of long-lost happiness no more!
To thee I give this tortured breast,Where Hope arises but to foster pain;Ah! lull it's agonies to rest!Ah! let me never be deceiv'd again!But callous, in thy deep reposeBehold, in long array, the woesOf the dread future, calm and undismay'd,Till I may claim the hope—that shall not fade!
The feelings of a mind which could dictate such an address, appeared to Emmeline so greatly to be lamented, and so unlikely to be relieved, that the tender and painful compassion she had ever been sensible of for her unhappy friend, was if possible augmented. Full of ideas almost as mournful as those by which they had been inspired, she went to bed, but not to tranquil sleep. Her spirits, worn by her journey, and oppressed by her concern for Lady Adelina, were yet busy; and instead of the uneasy images which had pursued her while she waked, they represented to her others yet more terrifying. She beheld, in her dreams, Godolphin wildly seeking vengeance of Fitz-Edward for the death of his sister. Then, instead of Fitz-Edward, Lord Delamere appeared to be the object of his wrath, and mutual fury seemed to animate them against the lives of each other. To them, her uncle, in all the phrenzy of grief and despair, succeeded; overwhelmed her with reproaches for the loss of his only son, and tore her violently away from Godolphin, who in vain pursued her.
These horrid visions returned so often, drest in new forms of terror, that Emmeline, having long resisted the impression they made upon her, could at length bear them no longer; but shaking off all disposition to indulge sleep on such terms, she arose from her bed, and wrapping herself up in her night gown, went to the window. The dawn did not yet appear; but she sat down by the window, of which she had opened the shutter to watch it's welcome approach.
The morning, for it was between three and four, was mild; the declining stars were obscured by no cloud, and served to shew dimly the objects in the garden beneath her. She softly opened the sash; listened to the low, hollow murmur of the sea; and surveyed the lawn and the hill behind it, which, by the faint and uncertain light, she could just discern. All breathed a certain solemn and melancholy stillness calculated to inspire horror. Emmeline's blood ran cold; yet innocence like her's really fears nothing if free from the prejudices of superstition. She endeavoured to conquer the disagreeable sensations she felt, and to shake off the effects of her dreams; but the silence, and the gloominess of the scene, assisted but little her efforts, and she cast an eye of solicitude towards the Eastern horizon, and wished for the return of the sun.
In this disposition of mind, she was at once amazed and alarmed,by seeing the figure of a man, tall and thin, wrapped in a long horseman's coat, as if on purpose to disguise him, force himself out from between the shrubs which bounded one part of the lawn. He looked not towards the windows; but with folded arms, and his hat over his eyes, was poring on the ground, while with slow steps he crossed the lawn and came immediately under the windows of the house.
When she first perceived him, she had started back from that where she sat; but tho' greatly surprized, she could not forbear watching him: on longer observing his figure, she fancied it was that of a gentleman; and by his slow walk and manner he did not appear to have any design to attack the house. Her presence of mind never forsook her unless where her heart was greatly affected; and she had now courage enough to determine that she would still continue for some moments to observe him, and would not alarm the servants till she saw reason to believe he had ill intentions. She sat therefore quite still; and saw, that instead of making any attempt to enter the house, he traversed the whole side of it next the lawn, with a measured and solemn pace, several times; then stopped a moment, again went to the end, and slowly returned; and having continued to do so near an hour, he crossed the grass, and disappeared among the shrubs from whence he had issued.
Had not Emmeline been very sure that she not only heard his footsteps distinctly as he passed over a gravel walk in his way, but even heard him breathe hard and short, as if agitated or fatigued, she would almost have persuaded herself that it was a phantom raised by her disordered spirits. The longer she reflected on it, the more incomprehensible it seemed, that a man should, at such an hour, make such an excursion, apparently to so little purpose. That it was with a dishonest design there seemed no likelihood, as he made no effort to force his way into the house, which he might easily have done; and had he come on a clandestine visit to any of the servants, he would probably have had some signal by which his confederates would have been informed of his approach. But he seemed rather fearful of disturbing the sleeping inhabitants; his step was slow and light; and on perceiving the first rays of the morning, he 'started like a guilty thing,' and swiftly stepped away to his concealment.
Emmeline continued some time at the window after hisdisappearance, believing he might return. But it soon grew quite light: the gardener appeared at his work; and she was then convinced that he would for that time come no more.
So extraordinary a circumstance, however, dwelt on her mind; nor could she entirely divest herself of alarm. A strange and confused idea that this visitor might be some one not unknown to her, crossed her mind. His height answered almost equally to that of Bellozane, Godolphin, and Fitz-Edward. The latter, indeed, was rather the tallest, and to him she thought the figure bore the greatest resemblance. Yet he had taken leave of her ten days before she left London, and told her he was going down to Mr. Percival's, in Berkshire; where, as he was very anxious to hear of Lady Adelina, he had desired Mrs. Stafford to write to him; (who had done so, and had received an answer of thanks dated from thence before the departure of Emmeline from London). That Fitz-Edward, therefore, should be the person, seemed improbable; yet it was hardly less so that a night ruffian should be on foot so long, without any attempt to execute mischief, or even the appearance of examining how it might be perpetrated. After long consideration, she determined, that lest the first conjecture should be true, she would speak to nobody of the stranger she had seen; but would watch another night, before she either terrified Lady Adelina with the apprehension of robbers, or gave rise to conjectures in her and the servants of yet more disquieting tendency. Having taken this resolution, and argued herself out of all those fears for her personal safety which might have enfeebled a less rational mind, she met Lady Adelina at breakfast with her usual ease, and almost with her usual chearfulness: but she was pale, and her eyes were heavy: Lady Adelina remarked it with concern; but Emmeline, making light of it, imputed it intirely to the fatigue of her journey; and when their breakfast was finished, proposed a walk. To this her friend assented; and while she went to give some orders, and to fetch the crape veil in which she usually wrapped herself, (for even her dress partook something of the mournful cast of her mind), Emmeline, already equipped, went into the lawn, and saw plainly where the stranger had made his way thro' the thick shrubs, and where the flexible branches of a young larch were twisted away, a laurel broken, and that some deciduous trees behind them had lost all their lower leaves; which, having sustained the first frosts, fell on the slightest violence. She markedthe place with her eye; and determined to observe whether, if he came again, it was from thence.
Emmeline now desired that Madelon might come with them to wait on little William, rather than his own maid; as she understood English so ill, that she would be no interruption to their discourse. They then walked arm in arm together towards the sea; and there Lady Adelina, who now enjoyed the opportunity she had so long languished for, opened to her sympathizing friend the sorrows of an heart struggling vainly with a passion she condemned, and sinking under ineffectual efforts to vindicate her honour and eradicate her love.
She knew not that Fitz-Edward had ever written to her. Godolphin, well acquainted with his hand, had kept the letter from her. She knew not that he had applied to Emmeline: and tho' she had torn herself from him, and had vowed never again to write to him, to name him, to hear from him, she involuntarily felt disposed to accuse him of neglect, of ingratitude, of cruelty, for having never attempted to write to her or see her; and added the poignant anguish of jealousy to the dreary horrors of despair. That Fitz-Edward was for ever lost to her, she seemed to be convinced; yet that he should forget her, or attach himself to another, seemed a torment so entirely insupportable, that when her mind dwelt upon it, as it perpetually did, her reason was inadequate to the pain it inflicted; and when she touched on that subject, Emmeline too evidently saw symptoms of that derangement of intellect to which she had once before been a melancholy witness.
With a mind thus unsettled, and a heart thus oppressed, the consequences of touching on the application of Fitz-Edward to herself, might, as Emmeline believed, have the most alarming effect on Lady Adelina. And she dared not therefore name it unless she had the concurrence of Godolphin. She only attempted to soothe and tranquillize her mind, without giving her those assurances of his undiminished attachment, which, she thought, might in the event only encrease her anguish, if her brother remained inflexible. On the other hand, she forbore to remonstrate with her on the necessity there might be to forget him; being too well convinced that the arguments which were to enforce that doctrine, would be useless, and perhaps appear cruel, to a heart so deeply wounded as was that of the luckless, lovely Adelina.
But in pouring her sorrows into the bosom of her friend sheappeared to find consolation. The tender pity of Emmeline was a balm to her wounded mind; and growing more composed, she began to discourse on the singular discovery Emmeline had made, and to enter with some interest into the affairs depending between her and the Marquis of Montreville; and by questions, aided by the natural frankness of Emmeline, at length became acquainted with the happy prospects, which, tho' distant, opened to Godolphin.
This was the only information that seemed to have the power of suspending for a moment the weight of those afflictions which Lady Adelina suffered. 'My brother then,' cried she—'my dear Godolphin, will be happy! And you, my most amiable friend, will constitute, while you share his felicity. Ah! fortunate, thrice fortunate for ye both, was the hour of your meeting; for heaven and nature surely designed ye for each other! Fortunate, too, were those circumstances which divided my Emmeline from Delamere, before indissoluble bonds enchained you for ever. Had it been otherwise; hadyourguardian angel slumbered asmine did; you too, all lovely and deserving as you are, would have been condemned to the bitterest of all lots, and might have discovered all the excellence and worth of Godolphin, when your duty and your honour allowed you no eyes but for Delamere.Yourdestiny is more happy—yet not happier than you deserve. Oh! may it quickly be fixed unalterably; and long, very long, may it endure! So shall your Adelina, for the little while she drags on a reluctant existence, have something on which to lean for the alleviation of her sorrows; and when she shall interrupt your felicity no longer by the sight of cureless calamity, she will, in full confidence, entrust the sole tie she has on earth, the dear and innocent victim of her fatal weakness, to the compassionate bosoms of Godolphin and his Emmeline!'
The tremulous voice and singular manner in which Lady Adelina uttered these words, made Emmeline tremble. She now tried to divert the attention of her poor friend, from dwelling too earnestly either on her own wretchedness or the promised felicity of her brother: but, as if exhausted by the mingled emotions of pain and pleasure, she soon afterwards fell into a deep silence; scarce attending to what was said; and after a long pause, she suddenly called to Madelon, in whose arms her little boy had fallen asleep, and looking at him earnestly a moment, took him from the maid, and carried him towards the house. Emmeline, more and more convinced of her partial intellectual derangement, followedher, dreading lest she should see it encrease, without the power of applying any remedy. Before Lady Adelina reached the gate, which opened from the cliffs to the lawn, she was fatigued by her lovely burthen and forced to stop. Emmeline would then have taken him; but she said 'No!' and sitting down on the ground, held him in her lap, till Barret, who had seen her from a window, came out and took him from her; to which, as to a thing usual, she consented, and then walked calmly home with Emmeline, who, extremely discomposed by the wildness of her manner, was fearful of again introducing any interesting topic, lest she should again touch those fine chords which were untuned in the mind of her unhappy friend; and which seemed occasionally to vibrate with an acuteness that threatened the ruin of the whole fabric. Barret, who afterwards came to assist her in dressing, told her, that within the last six weeks her lady had often been subject to long fits of absence, sometimes of tears; which generally ended in her snatching the child eagerly to her, kissing him with the wildest fondness, and that after having kept him with her some time, and wept extremely, she usually became rational and composed for the rest of the day.
When Emmeline met Lady Adelina at dinner, she had the satisfaction to find her quite tranquil and easy. As the afternoon proved uncommonly fine, and Emmeline was never weary of contemplating the scenery which surrounded them, she willingly consented to Lady Adelina's proposal of another ramble; that she might see some beautiful cliffs, a little farther from the house than she had yet been. There, she was pleased to find, that her fair friend seemed to call off her mind from it's usual painful occupations to admire the charms, which on one side a very lovely country, and on the other an extensive sea view, offered to their sight.
'You cannot imagine, my Emmeline,' said she, 'how exquisitely beautiful the prospect is from the point of these rocks where we stand, in the midst of summer; now the sun, more distant, gives it a less glowing and rich lustre, and reflects not his warm rays on the sea, and on the white cliffs that hang over it. Here it was, thatindulging that melancholy for which I have too much reason, I made, while my brother was absent last summer, some lines, which, if it was pleasant to repeat one's own poetry, I would read to you, as descriptive at once of the scene, and the state of mind in which I surveyed it.'
Emmeline now earnestly pressing her to gratify the curiosity she had thus raised, at length prevailed upon her to repeat the following
SONNETFar on the sands, the low, retiring tide,In distant murmurs hardly seems to flow,And o'er the world of waters, blue and wideThe sighing summer wind, forgets to blow.As sinks the day star in the rosy West,The silent wave, with rich reflection glows;Alas! can tranquil nature givemerest,Or scenes of beauty, soothe me to repose?Can the soft lustre of the sleeping main,Yon radient heaven; or all creation's charms,'Erase the written troubles of the brain,'Which Memory tortures, and which Guilt alarms?Or bid a bosom transient quiet prove,That bleeds with vain remorse, and unextinguish'd love!
SONNETFar on the sands, the low, retiring tide,In distant murmurs hardly seems to flow,And o'er the world of waters, blue and wideThe sighing summer wind, forgets to blow.As sinks the day star in the rosy West,The silent wave, with rich reflection glows;Alas! can tranquil nature givemerest,Or scenes of beauty, soothe me to repose?Can the soft lustre of the sleeping main,Yon radient heaven; or all creation's charms,'Erase the written troubles of the brain,'Which Memory tortures, and which Guilt alarms?Or bid a bosom transient quiet prove,That bleeds with vain remorse, and unextinguish'd love!
SONNETFar on the sands, the low, retiring tide,In distant murmurs hardly seems to flow,And o'er the world of waters, blue and wideThe sighing summer wind, forgets to blow.
SONNET
As sinks the day star in the rosy West,The silent wave, with rich reflection glows;Alas! can tranquil nature givemerest,Or scenes of beauty, soothe me to repose?
Can the soft lustre of the sleeping main,Yon radient heaven; or all creation's charms,'Erase the written troubles of the brain,'Which Memory tortures, and which Guilt alarms?Or bid a bosom transient quiet prove,That bleeds with vain remorse, and unextinguish'd love!
The 'season and the scene' were brought by this description full on the mind of Emmeline; yet she almost immediately repented having pressed Adelina to repeat to her what seemed to have led her again into her usual tract of sad reflection. She fell, as usual, into one of her reveries, and as they walked homewards said very little. The rest of the evening, however, passed in a sort of mournful tranquillity—Adelina seemed to feel encreasing pleasure as she gazed on her friend; and remembering all her goodness, reflected on the happiness of her brother. But this satisfaction was not of that kind which seeks to express itself in words; and Emmeline, sensible of great anxiety for her and Godolphin, (who would, she knew, be cruelly hurt by the relapse which he feared threatened his sister) and busied in no pleasant conjectures about the person whom she had seen in the lawn, was in no spirits for conversation. Nor did her thoughts, when they wandered toother objects from those immediately before her, bring home much to appease her anxiety. That nothing had yet been heard of Lord and Lady Westhaven, was extremely disquieting. She knew not that the Marquis of Montreville had received a letter for her under cover to him; and that having sent it to Mr. Crofts in another, in order to be forwarded to her, the latter had exercised his political talents, and supposing it related to her claims on Lord Montreville, and probably contained instructions for pursuing them, and that therefore his Lordship would be but little concerned if it never reached the place of its destination, he had very composedly put it into the fire; and undertook, should it be enquired for, to account for it's failure without suffering the name of Lord Montreville to be called in question.
The Marquis, tho' his conscience had been so long under the direction of Sir Richard Crofts that it ought to have acquired insensibility as callous as his own, yet found it sometimes a very troublesome companion; and it often spoke to him so severely on the subject of his niece, that he was more than once on the point of writing to her, to say he was ready to make her the retribution to which his heart told him she had the clearest pretensions, and which his fears whispered that a court of justice would certainly render her.
These qualms and these fears, would inevitably have produced a restoration of the Mowbray estate to it's owner, had they not been counteracted by the influence of the Marchioness of Montreville and Sir Richard Crofts. The Marchioness, now in declining health, felt all the inefficacy of riches, and all the fallacy of ambition; yet could she not determine to relinquish one, or to own that the other had but little power to confer happiness. That Emmeline Mowbray, whom she had despised and rejected, should suddenly become heiress to a large fortune, and that of that fortune her own children should be deprived; that Lord Westhaven should be the instrument to assist her in this hateful transition, and should interfere for this obscure orphan, against the interest of the illustrious family into which he had married; stung her to the soul, and irritated the natural asperity of her temper, already soured by the repeated defection of Delamere, and her own continual ill health, till it was grown insupportable to others, and injurious to herself; since it aggravated all her complaints, and put it out of the power of medicine to relieve her.
Rather than encrease these maladies by opposition, his Lordship was content to yield to delay. And while her haughtiness and violence withheld him on one hand from settling with his niece, Sir Richard assailed him on the other with cool and plausible arguments; and together they obliged him to have recourse to such expedients as gained time, without his having much hope that he could finally detain the property of his late brother from his daughter, who seemed likely to establish her right to it's possession.
At once to indulge his avarice and quiet his conscience, he would willingly have consented to pay her a considerable portion, and to leave her right to the whole undecided; but of such an accommodation there seemed no probability, unless he could win over Lord Westhaven to his interest. He thought, however, that there could be little doubt of his re-uniting the Mowbray estate with his own, by promoting the marriage between Emmeline and Lord Delamere, which he had hitherto so strenuously opposed. But this, he knew, must be the last resort; not only because he was ashamed so immediately to avow a change of opinion in regard to Emmeline, which could have happened only from her change of circumstances, but because the dislike which Lady Montreville had originally conceived towards her, now amounted to the most determined and inveterate hatred.
Bent on conversing fully with Lord Westhaven before he took any measures whatever either to detain or to restore the estate, the Marquis was desirous of seeing him immediately on his arrival in England, and to precede any conversation he might hold with Emmeline. For this reason he kept back all information that related to his son-in-law's return; and tho' he knew that the indisposition of Lord Delamere and his sister had kept Lord Westhaven at Paris almost three weeks, and that they were travelling only twenty miles a day, from thence to Calais, he had withheld even this intelligence from the anxious Emmeline.
Lady Frances Crofts, never feeling any great disposition to filial piety, and having lost, in the giddy career of dissipation, the little sensibility she ever possessed, was soon tired of attending on her mother at Audley Hall. The fretful impatience or irksome lassitude which devoured a mind without resources, and weary of itself, in the melancholy gloom of a sick chamber, soon disgusted and fatigued her; she therefore left Audley Hall in October, andafter staying ten days or a fortnight in Burlington street, where she made an acquaintance with Bellozane, she went to pass the months that yet intervened before it was fashionable to appear in London, at a villa near Richmond; which she had taken in the summer, and fitted up with every ornament luxury could invent or money purchase. She retired not thither, however, to court the sylvan deities: a set of friends of both sexes attended her. Bellozane was very handsome, very lively, very much a man of fashion: Lady Frances, who thought him no bad addition to her train, invited him also. Bellozane became the life of the party; and was soon so much at his ease in the family, and so great a favourite with her Ladyship, at a very early period of their acquaintance, that only her high rank there exempted her from those censures, which, in a less elevated condition, would have fallen on her, from the grave and sagacious personages who are so good as to take upon them the regulation of the world.
Crofts, detained by his office in London, heard more than gave him any pleasure. But like a wise and cautious husband, he forebore to complain. Besides the fear of his wife, which was no inconsiderable motive to silence, he had the additional fear of the martial and fierce-looking French soldier before his eyes; who talked, in very bad English, of such encounters and exploits as made the cold-blooded politician shudder.
When, on Friday evenings, after the business of his office was over, he went down to Richmond, he now always found there this foreign Adonis; and beheld him with mingled hatred and horror, tho' he concealed both under the appearance of cringing and servile complaisance. And when Lady Frances compared the narrow-spirited and mean-looking Crofts, with the handsome, animated, gallant Bellozane, the poor husband felt all the disadvantages of the comparison, and as certainly suffered for it. Scorning to dissimulate with a man whom she thought infinitely too fortunate in being allied to her on any terms, and superior to the censures of a world, the greater part of whom she considered as beings of another species from the daughter of the Marquis of Montreville, her Ladyship grew every day fonder of the Chevalier, and less solicitous to conceal her partiality. She found, too, her vanity and inordinate self love gratified, in believing that this elegant foreigner did justice to her superior attractions, and had been won by them, from that inclination for Emmeline whichhad brought him to England. A conquest snatched fromher, whom she had always considered at once with envy and contempt, was doubly delightful; and Bellozane, with all the volatility of his adopted country, saw nothing disloyal or improper in returning the kind attentions of Lady Frances,en attendantthe arrival of Emmeline; with whom he was a good deal piqued for her having left London so abruptly without informing him whither she was gone. He still preferred her to every other person; but he was not therefore insensible to the kindness, or blind to the charms of Lady Frances; who was really very handsome; and who, with a great portion of the beauty inherited by the Mowbray family, possessed the Juno-like air as well as the high spirit of her mother. In aid of these natural advantages, every refinement of art was exhausted; and by those who preferred it's dazzling effects to the interesting and graceful simplicity of unadorned beauty, Lady Frances, dressed for the opera, might have been esteemed more charming, than Emmeline in her modest muslin night gown; or than the pensive Madona, which, in her widow's dress, was represented by Lady Adelina.
These two friends, after having passed a calm afternoon together, retired early to their respective apartments. Emmeline, who had a repeating watch, given her by Lord Westhaven, wound it up carefully; and having bolted her chamber door, lay down for a few hours; being sure that the anxiety she felt would awaken her before the return of that on which the stranger had appeared the preceding night. Fatigue and long watching closed her eyes; but her slumber was imperfect; and suddenly awaking at some fancied noise, she pressed her repeater, and found it was half past three o'clock.
This was about the time on which the man had appeared the night before; and tho' she felt some fear, she had yet more curiosity to know whether he came again. She arose softly, therefore, and went to the window, which she did not venture to open. But she had no occasion to look towards the shrubbery to watch the coming of the stranger; he was already traversing the length of the house, dressed as before; and with his arms folded, and his head bent towards the ground, he slowly moved in the same pensive attitude.
Emmeline, tho' now impressed with deeper astonishment, summoned resolution narrowly to observe his air and figure. Had nothis hat concealed his face, the obscurity would not have allowed her to examine his features. But tho' the great coat he wore considerably altered the outline of his person, she still thought she discerned the form of Fitz-Edward. His height and his walk confirmed this idea; and the longer she observed him, the more she was persuaded it was Fitz-Edward himself. This conviction was not unaccompanied by terror. She wished to speak to him; and to represent the indiscretion, the madness of his thus risking the reputation of Lady Adelina; and his own life or that of one of her brothers; while the very idea of Godolphin's resentment and danger filled her mind with the most alarming apprehensions. She determined then to open the window and speak to him: yet if it should not be Fitz-Edward? At length she had collected the courage necessary; and knowing that tho' the whole family was yet fast asleep she could easily rouse them, if the person to whom she spoke should not be known to her, and gave her any reason for alarm, she was on the point of lifting up the sash, when the stranger put an end to her deliberations by hastily walking away to his former covert among the shrubs; and she saw him no more.
Emmeline, wearied alike with watchfulness and uneasiness, now went to bed; having at length determined to keep Barret (on whose silence and discretion she could rely) with her the next night; and when the Colonel appeared (for the Colonel she was sure it was) to send her to him, or at least make her witness to what she should herself say to him from the window. The anxiety of her mind made her very low on the early part of the next day; and Lady Adelina was still more so. They dined, however, early; and as the evening was clear, and they had not been out in the morning, Lady Adelina proposed their taking a short walk to the top of the hill behind the house, which commanded a glorious view that Emmeline had not seen; but as it was cold, they agreed to leave little William at home. The grounds of Godolphin behind the house, consisted only of a small paddock, divided from the kitchen garden by a dwarf wall; and the copse, which partly cloathed the hill, and thro' which a footpath went to a village about two miles beyond it. The woody ground ceasing about half way up, opened to a down which commanded the view. They stood admiring it a few moments; and then Emmeline, who could not for an instant help reflecting on what she had seen for two nights, felt something like alarm at being so far from the house. She complainedtherefore that it was cold; and the evening (at this season very short) was already shutting in.
The wind blew chill and hollow among the half stripped trees, as they passed thro' the wood; and the dead leaves rustled in the blast. 'Twas such a night as Ossian might describe. Emmeline recollected the visionary beings with which his poems abound, and involuntarily she shuddered. At the gate that opened into the lawn, Lady Adelina stopped as if she was tired. She was talking of something Godolphin had done; and Emmeline, who on that subject was never weary of hearing her, turned round, and they both leaned for a moment against the gate, looking up the wood walk from which they had just descended. The veil of Lady Adelina was over her face; but Emmeline, less wrapped up, suddenly saw the figure which had before visited the garden, descending, in exactly the same posture, down the pathway, which was rather steep. He seemed unknowingly to follow it, without looking up; and was soon so near them, that Emmeline, losing at once her presence of mind, clasped her hands, and exclaimed—'Good God! who is this?'
'What?' said Lady Adelina, looking towards him.
By this time he was within six paces of the gate; and sprung forward at the very moment that she knew him, and fell senseless on the ground.
Emmeline, unable to save her, was in a situation but little better. Fitz-Edward, for it was really himself, knelt down by her, and lifted her up. But she was without any appearance of life; and he, who had no intention of rushing thus abruptly into her presence, was too much agitated to be able to speak.
'Ah! why would you do this, Sir?' said Emmeline in a tremulous voice. 'What can I do with her?' added she. 'Merciful Heaven, what can be done? Howcouldyou be so cruel, so inconsiderate?'
'Don't talk to me,' said he—'don't reproach me! I am not able to bear it! I suffer too much already! Have you no salts? Have you nothing to give her?'
Emmeline now with trembling hands searched her pockets for a bottle of salts which she sometimes carried. She luckily had it; and, in another pocket, some Hungary water, with which she bathed the temples of her friend, who still lay apparently dead.
She remained some moments in that situation; and Emmeline had time to reflect, which she did with the utmost perturbation,on what would be the consequence of this interview when she recovered her recollection. She dreaded lest the sight of Fitz-Edward should totally unsettle her reason. She dreaded lest Godolphin should know he had clandestinely been there; and she concluded it were better to persuade him to leave them before the senses of Lady Adelina returned.
'How fearfully long she continues in this fainting fit,' cried she, 'and yet do I dread seeing her recover from it.'
'You dread it!—and why dread it?'
'Indeed I do. When her recollection returns, it may yet be worse; you know not how nearly gone her intellects have at times been, and the least emotion may render her for ever a lunatic'
'It is the cruelty of her brother,' sternly replied Fitz-Edward, 'that has driven her to this. His rigid conduct has overwhelmed her spirits and broken her heart. Butnow, since wehavemet, we part not till I hear from herself whether she prefers drivingmeto desperation, or quitting, in the character I can now offer her, the cold and barbarous Godolphin.'
'Do not, ah! pray do not attempt to speak to her now. Let me try to get her home; and when she is better able to see you, indeed I will send to you.'
'Can you then suppose I will leave her? But perhaps she is already gone! She seems to be dead—quite dead and cold!'
Nothing but terror now lent Emmeline strength to continue chafing her temples and her hands. In another moment or two the blood began to circulate; and soon after, with a deep sigh, Lady Adelina opened her eyes.
'For pity's sake,' said Emmeline in a low voice—'for pity's sake do not speak to her.' Then addressing herself to her, she said—'Lady Adelina, are you better?'
'Yes.'
'Do you think I can assist you home?'
'She shall not be hurried,' said Fitz-Edward.
'Ah! save me! save me!' exclaimed she, faintly shrieking—'save me!' and clasping her arms round Emmeline, she attempted to rise.
'Am I then grown so hateful to you,' said Fitz-Edward, as he assisted and supported her—'that for one poor moment you will not allow me to approach you. Will no penitence, no sufferings obtain your pity?'
'Take me away, Emmeline!' cried she, in a hurried manner—'ah! take me quick away! Godolphin will come, he will come indeed.—Let us go home—go home before he finds us here!'
'It is as I said!' exclaimed Fitz-Edward: 'her brother has terrified her into madness. But——'
Emmeline, now making an effort to escape falling into a condition as deplorable as was her friend's, said, with some firmness—'Mr. Fitz-Edward, I must entreat you to say nothing about her brother. It is a topic of all others least likely to restore her.'
Adelina still clung to her; and putting away Fitz-Edward with her hand, laid her head on the shoulder of Emmeline, who said—'I fancy you can walk. Shall we go towards home?'
Lady Adelina, without speaking, and still motioning with her hand to Fitz-Edward to leave her, moved on. But so enfeebled was she, that in the very attempt she had again nearly fallen; Emmeline being infinitely too much frightened to lend her much assistance.
'She cannot walk,' cried Fitz-Edward, 'yet will not let me support her. Willyou, Miss Mowbray, accept my arm; perhaps it may enable you to guide better the faultering steps of your friend.'
Emmeline thought that at all events it was better to get her into the house; and therefore taking, in silence, the arm that Fitz-Edward offered her, she proceeded across the lawn. Lady Adelina appeared to exert herself. She quickened her pace a little; and they were soon at a small gate, which opened in a wire fence near the house to keep the cattle immediately from the windows. Here Emmeline determined to make another effort on Fitz-Edward to persuade him to leave them.
'Now,' said she, 'we shall do very well. Had you not better quit us?'
He seemed disposed to obey; when Mrs. Barret, who had seen them from the door, where she had been watching the return of her lady, advanced hastily towards them, and said to Emmeline—'Dear Ma'am, I am so glad you and my lady are come in! The Captain is quite frightened at your being out so late.'
'The Captain!' exclaimed Emmeline.
'Yes, Ma'am, the Captain has been come in about two minutes; he is but just seeing Master Godolphin, and then was coming out to meet you.'
'Take hold of your lady, Barret,' cried Emmeline. Barret ran forward. But Lady Adelina (whom the terror of her brother'sreturn at such a moment had again entirely overcome), was already lifeless in the arms of Fitz-Edward; and Emmeline, whose first idea was to go in and prevent Godolphin from coming out to meet them, could get no farther than the door; where, breathless and almost senseless, she was only prevented from falling by leaning against one of the pillars.
'Your lady is in a fainting fit, Mrs. Barret,' said Fitz-Edward; 'pray assist her.'
The woman at once knew his voice, and saw the situation of her lady; and terrified both by the one and the other, screamed aloud. Godolphin, caressing his nephew in the parlour, heard not the shriek; but a footman who was crossing the hall ran out; and flying by Emmeline, ran to the group beyond her; where, as Mrs. Barret still wildly called for help for Lady Adelina, he proposed to Fitz-Edward to carry her ladyship into the house, which they together immediately did.
This was what Emmeline most dreaded. But there was no time for remonstrance. As they passed her at the door, she put her hand upon Fitz-Edward's arm, and cried—'Oh! stop! for God's sake stop!'
'Why stop?' said he. 'No! nothing shall now detain me; I am determined, andmustgo on!' She saw, indeed, that Godolphin's being in the house only made him more obstinately bent to enter it.
The door of the parlour now opened; and Godolphin saw, with astonishment inexpressible, his sister, to all appearance dead, in the arms of Fitz-Edward; and Emmeline, as pale and almost as lifeless, following her; who silently, and with fixed eyes, sat down near the door.
'What can be the meaning of this?' exclaimed Godolphin. 'Miss Mowbray!—my Emmeline!—my Adelina!'
The child, with whom Godolphin had been at play, reached out his little arms to Lady Adelina, whom they had placed on a sopha. Godolphin sat him down upon it; and not knowing where to fix his own attention, he looked wildly, first at his sister, and then at Emmeline; while Fitz-Edward, totally regardless of him, knelt by the side of Lady Adelina, and surveyed her and the little boy with an expression impossible to be described.
'For mercy's sake tell me,' Godolphin, as he took the cold and trembling hands of Emmeline in his—'for mercy's sake tell me what all this means? Is my sister, my poor Adelina dead?'
'I hope not!'
'You are yourself almost terrified to death. Your hands tremble. Tell me, I conjure you tell me, what you have met with, and to what is owing the extraordinary appearance of Mr. Fitz-Edward here?'
'That, or any farther enquiry Mr. Godolphin has to make, which may relate to me,' said Fitz-Edward sternly, 'I shall be ready at any other time to answer; but now it appears more necessary to attend to this dear injured creature!'
'Injured, Sir!' cried Godolphin, turning angrily towards him—'Do you come hither to tell me your crimes, or to triumph in their consequence?'
'Oh! for the love of heaven!' said Emmeline, with all the strength she could collect, 'let this proceed no farther. Consider,' added she, lowering her voice, 'the servants are in the room. Reflect on the consequence of what you say.'
'Let every body but Barret go out,' said Godolphin aloud.
The child, whose usual hour of going to rest was already past, had crept up to his mother, heedless of the people who surrounded her, and had dropped asleep on her bosom.
'Should I take Master, Sir?' enquired the nursery maid of Godolphin.
'Leave him!' answered he, fiercely.
Excess of terror now operated to restore, in some measure, to Emmeline the presence of mind it had deprived her of. She found it absolutely necessary to exert herself; and advancing towards Lady Adelina, by whose side Fitz-Edward still knelt, she took one of her hands—'I hope,' said she to Barret, your lady is coming to; she is less pale, and her pulse is returning. Colonel Fitz-Edward, would it not be better for you now to leave us?'
'I must first speak to Lady Adelina.'
'Impossible! you cannot speak to her to-night.'
'Nor can I leave her, Madam, unless she herself dismisses me.—Leave her, thus weak and languid, to meet perhaps on my account reproach and unkindness!'
'Reproach and unkindness! Mr. Fitz-Edward,' said Godolphin, in a passionate tone—'Reproach and unkindness! Do me the favour to say from whom you apprehend she may receive such treatment?'
'From the cruel and unrelenting brother, who has persisted inwishing to divide us, even after heaven itself has removed the barrier between us.'
'Sir,' replied Godolphin, with a stern calmness—'in this house, and in Miss Mowbray's presence,youmay say any thing with impunity, andImay bear this language even from the faithless destroyer of my sister.'
Fitz-Edward now starting from his knees, looked the defiance he was about to utter, when Lady Adelina drew a deep and loud sigh, and Barret exclaimed—'For God's sake, gentlemen, do not go on with these high words. My lady is coming to; but this sort of discourse will throw her again into her fits worse than ever. Pray let me entreat of you both to be pacified.'
'I insist upon it,' said Emmeline, 'that you are calm, or it will not be in my power to stay. I must leave you, indeed I must, Mr. Godolphin! if you would not seemeexpire with terror, and entirely kill your sister, you must be cool.' She was indeed again deprived nearly of her breath and recollection by the fear of their instantly flying to extremities.
Lady Adelina now opened her eyes and looked round her. But there was wildness and horror in them; and she seemed rather to see the objects, than to have any idea of who were with her.
The child, however, was always present to her. 'My dear boy here?' cried she, faintly; 'poor fellow, he is asleep!'
'Shall I take him from you, Ma'am?' asked her woman.
'Oh! no! I will put him to bed myself.' She then again reposed her head as if fatigued, and sighed. 'Twas all,' said she, 'long foreseen. But destiny, they say, must be fulfilled, and fate will have it's way. I wish I had not been the cause of his death, however.'
'Of whose death, dear Madam?' said Barret. 'Nobody is dead; nobody indeed.'
'Did I not hear him groan, and see him die? did not he tell me, I know not what, of my Lord Westhaven? I shall remember it all distinctly to-morrow!'
She now rested again, profoundly sighing; and Emmeline beckoning to Fitz-Edward and Godolphin, took them to the other end of the room, where the arm of the sopha she reclined on concealed them from her view. 'Pray,' said she, addressing herself to them both, 'pray leave her.' Then recollecting that she dared not trust them together, she added—'No, don't both goat once. But indeed it is absolutely necessary to have her kept quite quiet and got to bed as soon as possible.'
'I believe it is,' answered Godolphin. 'Poor Adelina! her dreadful malady is returned.'
'It is indeed,' said Emmeline. 'I have seen it too evidently approaching for some days; and this last shock'—she stopped, and repented she had said so much.
'Mr. Fitz-Edward,' cried Godolphin, 'will you walk with me into another room?'
'Certainly.'
'Oh! no! no!' exclaimed Emmeline with quickness.
They were going out together; but taking an arm of each, she eagerly repeated 'oh! no! no! not together!'
The imagination of Lady Adelina was now totally disordered. She had risen; and carrying the child in her arms, walked towards her brother, who in traversing the apartment with uneasy steps was by this time near the door; while Fitz-Edward was at the other end of the room, where Emmeline was trying to persuade him to quit the house.
Lady Adelina, supported by her maid, and trembling under the weight of the infant she clasped to her bosom, stepped along as quickly as her weakness would allow; and putting her hand on Godolphin's arm, she cried, in a slow and tremulous manner—'Stay, William! I have something to say to you before you go. Lord Westhaven, you know, is coming; and you have promised that he shall not killme. I may however die; and I rather believe I shall; for since this last sight I am strangely ill. You and Emmeline will take care of my poor boy, will ye not? Had Fitz-Edward lived—nay do not look so angry, for now he cannot offend you—had poor Fitz-Edward lived, he would perhaps have taken him. But now, I must depend on Emmeline, who has promised to be good to him. They say she will have a great fortune too, and therefore I need not fear that you will find my child burthensome.'
'Burthensome!' cried Godolphin. 'Good God, Adelina!'
'Well! well! be not offended. Only you know, when people come to have a family of their own, the child of another may be reckoned an incumbrance. I know that now you love my William dearly; but then, you know, it will be another thing.'
'Gracious heaven!' exclaimed Godolphin, 'what can have made her talk in this manner?'
'Reason in madness!' said Fitz-Edward, advancing towards her. 'Her son, however, shall be an incumbrance to nobody.'
Emmeline now grasping his hand, implored him not to speak to her. Lady Adelina neither heard or noticed him: but again addressing herself to her brother, said, with a mournful sigh—'And now, since I have told you what was upon my mind, I will go put my little boy to bed. Good night to you, dear William! You and Miss Mowbray will remember!—-- ' She then walked out of the room, and calmly took the way to her own, attended by her maid.
Emmeline, not daring to leave together these two ardent spirits irritated against each other, remained, trembling, with them; hoping by her presence to prevent their animosity from blazing forth, and to prevail upon them to part. They both continued for some time to traverse the room in gloomy silence. At length Fitz-Edward stopped, and said—'At what hour to-morrow, Sir, may I have the honour of some conversation with you?'
'At whatever hour you please, Sir—the earlier, however, the more agreeable.'
'At seven o'clock, Sir, I will be with you.'
'If you please; at that hour I will be ready to receive your commands.'
Fitz-Edward then took his hat, and bowing to Emmeline, wished her a good night, and left the room. Starting from her chair, she followed him into the hall, and shut the parlour door after her.
'Fitz-Edward,' cried she, detaining him, and speaking in an half whisper—'Fitz-Edward, hear me! Do you design to kill me?'
'To kill you?' replied he. 'No surely.'
'Then do not go till you have heard me.'
'It is unpleasant to me to stay in Godolphin's house after what has just passed. But as you please.'
She led him into a little breakfast room; and regardless of being without light, shut the door.
'Tell me,' said she, 'before I die with terror—tell me with what intention you come to-morrow?'
'Simply to have a positive answer from Mr. Godolphin, if he will, together with his brother, allow me, when the usual mourning is over, to address their sister with proposals of marriage; which in fact they have no right to prevent. And if Mr. Godolphin refuses——'
'What, if he refuses?'
'I shall take my son into my own care, and wait till Lady Adelina will herself exert that freedom which is now her's.'
'Godolphin doats on the child. Nothing, I am persuaded, will induce him to part with it.'
'Not part with it? He must, nay heshall!'
'Pray be calm—pray be quiet. Stay yet a few months—a few weeks.'
'Not a day! Not an hour!'
'Good God! whatcanbe done? Mischief will inevitably happen!'
'I am sorry,' replied Fitz-Edward, 'that you are thus made uneasy. But I cannot recede; and my life has not been pleasant enough lately to make me very solicitous about the event of my explanation with Mr. Godolphin. Conscious, however, that he has some reason to complain of me, I do not wish to increase it. I mean to keepmytemper,if I can: but if he suffershisto pass the bounds which one gentleman must observe towards another, I shall not consider myself as the aggressor, or as answerable for the consequences.'
'But why, oh! why would you come hither? Wherefore traverse the garden of a night, and suffer appearances to be so much against you, and what is yet worse, against Lady Adelina?'
'Who told you I have done so—Godolphin?'
'No. He was, you well know, absent. But I saw you myself; with terror I saw you, and meditated how to speak to you alone, when our unhappy meeting in the wood this evening put an end to all my contrivances.'
'Yet I had no intention of terrifying you, or of abruptly rushing into the presence of Adelina. It is true, that for some nights past I have walked under the window where she and my child sleep: forIcould not sleep; and it was a sort of melancholy enjoyment to me to be near the spot which held all I have dear on earth. As I pass at the ale house where I lodge as a person hiding in this island from the pursuit of creditors, my desire of concealment did not appear extraordinary. I have often lingered among the rocks and copses, and seen Adelina and my child with you. Last night I came out in the dusk, and was approaching, to conceal myself near the house, in hopes, that as you love walking late, and alone, I might have found an opportunity of speaking to you, and of concerting withyouthe means of introducing myself toherwithout too great an alarm.'
'Would to heaven you had! But now, since all this has happened, consent to put off this meeting with Godolphin. Do not meet, at least, to-morrow! I entreat that you will not!'
'On all subjects but this,' said he, as he opened the door—'on all subjects but this, Miss Mowbray knows she may command me. But this is a point from which I cannot, without infamy, recede; and in which she must forgive me, if all my veneration and esteem for her goodness and tenderness does not induce me to desist.'
He then went into the hall; and by the lamp which burnt there, opened himself the door into the garden, and hastily walked away. While the trembling and harrassed Emmeline, finding him inflexible, went back to Godolphin, with very little hopes that she should, with him, have better success.
On entering the room, Emmeline sat down without speaking.
'How is Adelina, my dearest Miss Mowbray?'
'I know not.'
'You have not, then, been with her?'
'No.'
'Were it not best to enquire after her?'
'Certainly. I will go immediately.'
'But come to me again—I have much to say to you.'
Emmeline then went up stairs. She found that the composing medicine, which Barret had been directed to keep always by her, had been liberally administered; and that her lady was got into bed, and was already asleep. Barret sat by her. Deep sighs and convulsive catchings marked the extreme agitation of her spirits after she was no longer conscious of it herself. With this account Emmeline returned, in great uneasiness, to Godolphin.
'I thank Heaven,' said he, 'that she is at least for some moments insensible of pain! Now, my Emmeline, for surely I may be allowed to saymyEmmeline, sit down and try to compose yourself. I cannot bear to see you thus pale and trembling.'
He led her to a seat, and placed himself by her; gazing withextreme concern on her face, pallid as it was, and expressive only of sorrow and anxiety.
'Whence is it,' said she, after a pause of some moments, that I see you here? Did I not come hither on the assurance you gave me that you would long be detained in or near London by the business of your sister?'
'I certainly did say so. But I could not then foresee what happened on the Sunday after you left London.'
'Has, then, any thing happened?'
'The return of Lord and Lady Westhaven, with Lord Delamere.'
'Are they all well?'
'Tolerably so. But my brother is very anxious to see Adelina; and expectsyouwith little less solicitude. He could not think of giving Lady Westhaven the trouble of such a journey; nor could he now leave her without being unhappy. I therefore, at his pressing request, came myself to fetch you both to London.'
'And do you mean that we should begin our journey to-morrow?'
'Imeantit, certainly, till the events of this evening made me doubtful how far my sister herself may be in a situation to bear change of place and variety of objects; or being able, whether she may chuse to leave to me the direction of her actions.'
'Ah! impute not to Lady Adelina the meeting with Fitz-Edward; it was entirely accidental; it's suddenness overcame her, and threw her into the way in which you saw her.'
'And what has a man to answer for, who thus comes to insult his victim, and to rob her of the little tranquillity time may have restored to her?'
'Indeed I think you injure poor Fitz-Edward. Fondly attached to your sister, he has no other wish or hope than to be allowed to address her when the time of her mourning for Mr. Trelawny is expired. For this permission he intended to apply to you: but the severity with which you ever received his advances discouraged him; and he then, in the hope of hearing that such an application would not be rendered ineffectual by her own refusal, and languishing to see his son, came hither; not with any intention of forcing himself abruptly into the presence of Lady Adelina, but to seemeand induce me to intercede with her for an interview. Accident threw us in his way; your sister fell senseless on the ground; and when she did recover, endeavoured to avoid him: but she was too weak to walk home without other assistance than mine, and I wascompelled to accept for her, that which Fitz-Edward offered. On hearing from Barret that you was returned, the terror which has ever pursued her, lest you and Fitz-Edward should meet as enemies, again overcame her, and occasioned the scene you must, with so much astonishment, have beheld.'
'Has Adelina had any previous knowledge of the proposals Fitz-Edward intends to make?'
'None, I believe, in the world.'
'Do you know whether they have ever corresponded?'
'I am convinced they have not.'
'There are objections, in my mind,insuperableobjections, to this alliance. These, however, I must talk over with the Colonel himself.'
'Nothostilely, I hope. Surely you have too much regard for the unhappy Adelina, to give way now to any resentment you may have conceived against him; or ifthatdoes not influence you, think of whatImust suffer.' She knew not what she had said; hardly what she intended to say.
'Enchanting softness!' exclaimed Godolphin in a transport—'Is then the safety of Godolphin so dear to that angelic bosom?'
'You know it but too well. But ifmyquiet is equally dear toyou, promise me that if this meeting to-morrowmusttake place, you will receive Fitz-Edward with civility, and hear him with patience. Remember on how many accounts this is necessary. Remember how many expressions there are which his profession will not allow him to hear without resentment, that must end in blood. Your's isno commoncause of enmity; none of those trifling quarrels which daily send modern beaux into the field. Your characters are both high as military men, and as gentlemen; and your former intimacy must, I know, impress more deeply on the mind of each the injury or offence that either suppose they receive. Be careful then, Godolphin; promise me you will be careful!'
'Ah! lovely Emmeline! more lovely from this generous tenderness than from your other exquisite perfections; can I be insensible of the value of a life for whichyouinterest yourself? and shall I suffer any other consideration to come in competition with your peace?'
'You promise me then?'
'To be calm with Fitz-Edward, I do. And while I remember his offence (for can I forget while I suffer from it) I will also recollect,thatyou, who have also suffered on the same account, think him worthy of compassion; and I will try to conquer, at least to stifle, my resentment. But what shall we do with Adelina?'
'That must depend on her situation in the morning. I have greatly apprehended an unhappy turn in her intellects ever since my first coming. The death of Trelawny, far from appearing to have relieved her by removing the impediment to her union with Fitz-Edward, seems rather to have rendered her more wretched. Continually agitated by contending passions, she was long unhappy, in the supposition that Fitz-Edward had obeyed her when she desired him to forget her. Since Trelawny's decease, as she has more fearlessly allowed her thoughts to dwell on him, she has suffered all the anxiety of expecting to hear from him, and all the bitterness of disappointment. And I could plainly perceive, that she was still debating with herself, whether, if hedidapply to her, she should accept him, or by a violent effort of heroism determine to see him no more. This conflict is yet to come. Judge whether, in the frame of mind in which you see her, she is equal to it; and whether any additional terror for you and for him will not quite undo her. Alas! far from aggravating, by pursuing your resentment, anguish so poignant, try rather to soothe her sorrows and assist her determination. And whatever that determination may be, when it is once made she may perhaps be restored to health and to tranquillity.'
'Indeed I will do all you dictate, my loveliest friend! Surely I should ill deserve the generosity you have shewn to me, were I incapable of feeling for others, and particularly for my sister. But wherefore that air of defiance which Mr. Fitz-Edward thought it necessary to assume? He seemed to come more disposed toinsultthan to conciliate the family of Lady Adelina.'
'Alas! do you make no allowance for the perturbed situation of his mind, when he saw the woman he adores to all appearance dead, and for the first time beheld the poor little boy? He looked upon you as one who desires to tear from him for ever these beloved objects; and forgetting that he was the aggressor, thought only of the injury which he supposed you intended.'
'There is, indeed, some apology for the asperity of his manner; and perhaps I was in some measure to blame. Generous, candid, considerate Emmeline! how does your excellent heart teach you to excuse those weaknesses you do not feel, and to pity and toforgive errors which your own perfect mind makes it impossible for you to commit! Ah! how heavily is your tenderness perpetually taxed:here, it is suffering from the sight of Adelina—in town, it will have another object in the unfortunate Delamere.'
'Did you not tell me he was in tolerable health?'
'Alas! what is bodily health when the mind is ill at ease? The anxiety of Delamere to see you, to hear his destiny from yourself, is uneasy even to me, who feel my own exquisite happiness in knowing what that destiny must be. I look with even painful commiseration on this singular young man. Yet from passions so violent, and obstinacy so invincible, I must have rejoiced that Miss Mowbray has escaped; even tho' her preference of the fortunate Godolphin had not rendered his lot the most happy that a human being can possess.'
'Since you are so good,' said Emmeline faintly, for she was quite exhausted, 'to compassionate the situation of mind of Delamere, you will, I think, see the humanity of concealing from him—that—' She could find no term that she liked, to express her meaning, and stopped.
'That he has a fortunate rival?' said Godolphin. 'No, dearest Emmeline, I hope I am incapable of such a triumph! 'Till poor Delamere is more at ease, I am content to enjoy the happiness of knowing your favourable opinion, without wishing, by an insulting display of it, to convince him he has for ever