Chapter Twenty Six.

Chapter Twenty Six.You will proceed in pleasure and in pride.Beloved, and loving: all is o’erFor me on earth, except some years to hideMy shame and sorrow deep in my heart’s core.“Don Juan.”I paid little attention to the performance, for the moment I came to the house, my eyes were riveted on an object from which I found it impossible to remove them. “It is,” said I, “and yet it cannot be; and yet why should it not?” A young lady sat in one of the boxes; she was elegantly attired, and seemed to occupy the united attentions of many Frenchmen, who eagerly caught her smiles.“Either that is Eugenia,” thought I, “or I have fallen asleep in the ruins of St. Jago, and am dreaming of her. That is Eugenia, or I am not Frank. It is she, or it is her ghost!” Still I had not that moral certainty of the identity, as to enable me to go at once to her and address her. Indeed, had I been certain, all things considered, the situation we were in would have rendered such a step highly improper.“If that be Eugenia,” thought I again, “she has improved both in manner and person. She has a becomingembonpoint, and an airde bonne société, which when we parted she had not.”The more intensely I gazed, the more convinced was I that I was right; the immovable devotion of my eyes attracted the attention of a French officer, who sat near me.“C’est une jolie femme, n’est-ce pas; monsieur?”“Vraiment,” said I. “Do you know her name?”“Elle s’appelle Madame de Rosenberg.”“Then I am wrong after all,” said I to myself. “Has she a husband, sir?”“Pardonnez-moi, elle est veuve, mais elle a un petit garçon de cinq ans, beau comme un ange.”“That is she,” said I, again reviving. “Is she a French woman?”“Du tout, monsieur, elle est une de vos compatriotes; et en est un fort joli exemplaire.”She had only been three months at Bordeaux, and had refused many very good offers in marriage. Such was the information I obtained from my obliging neighbour; and I was now convinced that Madame de Rosenberg could be no other than Eugenia. Every endeavour to catch her eye proved abortive. My only hope was to follow the carriage.When the play was over, I waited with an impatience like that of a spirited hunter who hears the hounds. At last, the infernal squalling of the vocalists ceased, but not before I had devoutly wished that all the wax candles in the house were down their throats and burning there. I saw one of the gentlemen in the box placing the shawl over her shoulders with the most careful attention, while the bystanders seemed ready to tear him in pieces from envy. I hurried to the door, and saw her handed into her carriage, which drove off at a great pace. I ran after it, jumped up behind, and took my station by the side of the footman.“Descendez donc, monsieur!” said the man.“I’ll be damned if I do,” said I.“Comment donc?” said the man.“Tais-toi, bête,” said I, “ou je te brûlerai la cervelle.”“Vous foutez,” said the man, who behaved very well, and instantly began to remove mevi et armis; but I planted a stomacher in his fifth button, which I knew would put himhors de combatfor a few minutes, and by that time, at the rate the carriage was driving, my purpose would have been answered. The fellow lost his breath—could not hold on or speak—so tumbled off and lay in the middle of the road.As he fell upon dry ground and was not an English sailor, I did not jump after him, but left him to his own ease, and we saw no more of him, for we were going ten knots, while he lay becalmed without a breath of wind. This was one of the most successful acts of usurpation recorded in modern history. It has its parallels, I know; but I cannot now stop to comment on them, or on my own folly and precipitation. I was as firmly fixed behind the carriage, as Buonaparte was on the throne of France after the battle of Eylau.We stopped at a largeporte cochère, being the entrance to a very grand house, with lamps at the door, within a spacious courtyard; we drove in and drew up. I was down in a moment, opened the carriage door, and let down the steps. The lady descended, laid her hand on my arm without perceiving that she had changed her footman, and tripped lightly up the stairs. I followed her into a handsome saloon, where another servant in livery had placed lights on the table. She turned round, saw me, and fainted in my arms.It was, indeed, Eugenia herself; and with all due respect to my dear Emily, I borrowed a thousand kisses while she lay in a state of torpor, on a fauteuil to which I carried her. It was some few minutes before she opened her eyes; the man-servant who had brought the lights, very properly never quitted the room, but was perfectly respectful in his manner, rightly conceiving that I had some authority for my proceedings.“My dearest Frank,” said Eugenia, “what an unexpected meeting. What, in the name of fortune, could have brought you here?”“That,” said I, “is a story too long, Eugenia, for a moment so interesting as this. I also might ask you the same question; but it is now one o’clock in the morning, and, therefore, too late to begin with inquiry. This one question, however, I must ask—are you a mother?”“I am,” said Eugenia, “of the most lovely boy that ever blessed the eyes of a parent; he is now in perfect health, and fast asleep—come to-morrow, at ten o’clock, and you shall see him.”“To-morrow,” said I, with surprise; “to-morrow, Eugenia? why am I to quit your house?”“That also you shall know to-morrow,” said she; “but now you must do as you are desired. To-morrow, I will be at home to no one but you.”Knowing Eugenia as I did, it was sufficient that she had decided. There was no appeal; so, kissing her again, I wished her a good night, quitted her, and retired to my hotel. What a night of tumult did I pass! I was tossed from Emily to Eugenia, like a shuttlecock between two battledores. The latter never looked so lovely; and to the natural loveliness of her person was added a grace and a polish which gave a lustre to her charms, which almost served Emily as I had served the footman I never once closed my eyes during the night—dressed early the next morning, walked about, looked at Château Trompette and the Roman ruins—thought the hour of ten would never strike, and when it did, I struck the same moment at her door.The man who opened it to me was the same whom I had treated so ill the night before; the moment he saw me, he put himself into an attitude at once of attack, defence, remonstrance, and revenge, all connected with the affair of the preceding evening.“Ah, ah, vous voilà donc! ce n’était pas bien fait, monsieur.”“Oui,” said I, “très nettement fait, et voilà encore,” slipping a Napoleon into his hand.“Ça s’arrange très joliment, monsieur,” said the man, grinning from ear to ear, and bowing to the ground. “C’est madame que vous voulez donc?”“Oui,” said I.He led, I followed; he opened the door of a breakfast parlour—“Tenez, madame, voici le monsieur qui m’a renversé hier au soir.”Eugenia was seated on a sofa, with her boy by her side, the loveliest little fellow I had ever beheld. His face was one often described, but rarely seen; it was shaded with dark curling ringlets, his mouth, eyes, and complexion had much of his mother, and vanity whispered me, much more of myself. I took a seat on the sofa, and with the boy on my knee, and Eugenia by my side, held her hand, while she narrated the events of her life since the time of our separation.“A few days,” said she, “after your departure for the Flushing expedition, I read in the public prints, that ‘if the nearest relations of my mother would call at, in London, they would hear of something to their advantage.’ I wrote to the agent, from whom I learned, after proving my identity, that the two sisters of my mother, who, you may remember, had like sums left them by the will of their relative, had continued to live in a state of single blessedness; that, about four years previously, one of them had died, leaving everything to the other, and that the other had died only two months before, bequeathing all her property to my mother or her next heir; or, in default of that, to some distant relation. I therefore immediately came into a fortune of ten thousand pounds, with interest; and I was further informed that a great uncle of mine was still living, without heirs, and was most anxious that my mother or her heirs should be discovered. An invitation was therefore sent to me to go down to him, and to make his house my future residence.“At that time the effects of my indiscretion were but too apparent, and rendered, as I thought, deception justifiable. I put on widow’s weeds, and gave out that my husband was a young officer, who had fallen a victim to the fatal Walcheren fever; that our marriage had been clandestine, and unknown to any of his friends: such was my story and appearance before the agent, who believed me. The same fabrication was put upon my grand-uncle, with equal success. I was received into his house with parental affection; and in that house I gave birth to the dear child you now hold in your arms—to your child, my Frank—to the only child I shall ever have. Yes, dear Eugenia,” continued she, pressing her rosy lips on the broad white neck of the child, “you shall be my only care, my solace, my comfort, and my joy. Heaven, in its mercy, sent the cherub to console its wretched mother in the double pangs of guilt and separation from all she loved; and Heaven shall be repaid, by my return to its slighted, its insulted laws. I feel that my sin is forgiven; for I have besought forgiveness night and day, with bitter tears, and Heaven has heard my prayer. ‘Go and sin no more,’ was said to me: and upon these terms I have received forgiveness.“You will no doubt ask why did I not let you know all this, and why I so carefully secreted myself from you. My reasons were founded on the known impetuosity of your character. You, my beloved, who could brave death, and all the military consequences of desertion from a ship lying at Spithead, were not likely to listen to the suggestions of prudence when Eugenia was to be found; and, having once given out that I was a widow, I resolved to preserve the consistency of my character for my own sake—for your sake, and for the sake of this blessed child, the only drop that has sweetened my cup of affliction. Had you by any means discovered my place of abode, the peace of my uncle’s house, and the prospects of my child, had been for ever blasted.“Now then, say, Frank, have I, or have I not, acted the part of a Roman mother? My grand-uncle having declared his intention of making me heir to his property, for his sake, and yours, and for my child, I have preserved the strict line of duty, from which God, in his infinite mercy, grant that I may never depart!“I first resolved upon not seeing you until I could be more my own mistress; and when, at the death of my respected relative, I was not only released from any restraint on account of his feelings, but also became still more independent in my circumstances, you might be surprised that I did not immediately impart to you the change of fortune which would have enabled us to have enjoyed the comfort of unrestricted communication. But time, reflection, the conversation and society of my uncle and his select friends, the care of my infant, and the reading of many excellent books had wrought a great change in my sentiments. Having once tasted the pleasures of society among virtuous women, I vowed to Heaven that no future act of mine should ever drive me from it. The past could not be recalled; but the future was my own.“I took the sacrament after a long and serious course of reading; and, having made my vows at the altar, with the help of God, they are unchangeable. Dramatic works, the pernicious study and poison of my youthful ardent mind, I have long since discarded; and I had resolved never to see you again, until after your marriage with Miss Somerville had been solemnised. Start not! By the simplest and easiest means I have known all your movements—your dangers, your escapes, your undaunted acts of bravery and self-devotion for the sake of others.“‘Shall I then,’ said I to myself, ‘blast the prospects of the man I love—the father of my boy? Shall I, to gratify the poor, pitiful ambition of becoming the wife of him to whom I once was the mistress, sacrifice thus the hopes and fortune of himself and family, the reward of a virtuous maiden?’ In all this I hope you will perceive a proper share of self-denial. Many, many floods of bitter tears of repentance and regret have I shed over my past conduct; and I trust, that what I have suffered and what I shall suffer, will be received as my atonement at the Throne of Grace. True, I once looked forward to the happy period of our union, when I might have offered myself to you, not as a portionless bride; but I was checked by one maddening, burning, inextinguishable thought. I could not be received into that society to which you were entitled. I felt that I loved you, Frank,—loved you too well to betray you. The woman that had so little respect for herself was unfit to be the wife of Francis Mildmay.“Besides, how could I do my sweet boy the injustice to allow him to have brothers and sisters possessing legitimate advantages over him? I felt that our union never could be one of happiness, even if you consented to take me as your wife, of which I had my doubts; and when I discovered, through my emissaries, that you were on the point of marriage with Miss Somerville, I felt that it was all for the best; that I had no right to complain; the more so as it was I who (I blush to say it) had seduced you.“But Frank, if I cannot be your wife—and, alas! I know too well that that is impossible—will you allow me to be your friend, your dear friend, as the mother of your child, or, if you please, as your sister? But there the sacred line is drawn; it is a compact between my God and myself. You know my firmness and decision; once maturely deliberated, my resolution formed, it is not, I think, in man to turn me. Do not, therefore, make the attempt; it will only end in your certain defeat and shame, and in my withdrawing from your sight for ever. You will not, I am sure, pay me so bad a compliment as to wish me to renew the follies of my youth. If you love me, respect me, promise by the love you bear to Miss Somerville, and your affection for this poor boy, that you will do as I wish you. Your honour and peace of mind, as well as mine, demand it.”This severe rebuke from a quarter whence I least expected it, threw me back with shame and confusion. As if a mirror had been held up to me, I saw my own deformity. I saw that Eugenia was not only the guardian of her own honour, but of mine, and of the happiness of Miss Somerville, against whom I now stood convicted of foul deceit and shameful wrong. I acknowledged my fault; I assured Eugenia that I was bound to her by every tie of honour, esteem, and love; and that her boy and mine should be our mutual care.“Thank you, dearest,” said she; “you have taken a heavy load from my mind: henceforth remember we are brother and sister. I shall now be able to enjoy the pleasure of your society; and now as that point is settled, let me know what has occurred to you since we parted—the particulars, I mean, for the outline I have heard before.”I related to her everything which had happened to me, from the hour of our separation to the moment I saw her so unexpectedly in the theatre. She was alternately affected with terror, surprise, and laughter. She took a hearty crying spell over the motionless bodies of Clara and Emily, as they lay on the floor; but recovered from that, and went into hysterics of laughter, when I described the footman’s mistake, and the slap on the face bestowed on him by the housemaid.My mind was not naturally corrupt; it was only so at times, and from peculiar circumstances; but I was always generous, and easily recalled to a sense of my duty when reminded of my fault. Not for an empire would I have persuaded Eugenia to break her vow. I loved and respected the mother of my child; the more when I reflected that she had been the means of preserving my fidelity to Emily. I rejoiced to think that my friendship for the one, and love for the other, were not incompatible. I wrote immediately to Emily, announcing my speedy return to England.“Having the most perfect reliance on your honour, I shall now,” said Eugenia, “accept your escort to London, where my presence is required. Pierre shall accompany us—he is a faithful creature, though you have used him so ill.”“That,” said I, “is all made up, and Pierre will be heartily glad of another tumble for the same price.”All our arrangements were speedily made. The house was given up—a roomy travelling-barouche received all our trunks and, seated by the side of Eugenia, with the child between us we crossed the Gironde, and took our way through Poictiers, Tours, and Orleans, to Paris; here we remained but a short time. Neither of us was pleased with the manners and habits of the French; but as they have been so fully described by the swarms of English travellers who have infested that country with their presence, and this with the fruits of their labours, I shall pass as quietly through France, as I hope to do through the Thames Tunnel, when it is completed, but not before.Eugenia consulted me as to her future residence; and here I own I committed a great error, but, I declare to Heaven, without any criminal intention. I ventured to suggest that she should live in a very pretty village a few miles from — Hall, the residence of Mr Somerville, and where, after my marriage, it was intended I should continue to reside with Emily. To this village, then, I directed her to go assuring her that I should often ride over and visit her.“Much as I should enjoy your company, Frank,” said Eugenia, “this is a measure fraught with evil to all parties; nor is it fair dealing towards your future wife.”Unhappily for me, that turn for duplicity which I had imbibed in early life had not forsaken me, notwithstanding the warnings I had received and the promises of amendment which I had made. Flattering myself that I intended no harm, I overruled all the scruples of the excellent Eugenia. She despatched a confidential person to the village; on the outskirts of which he procured for her a commodious, and even elegant cottageorné, ready furnished. She went down with her child and Pierre to take possession; and I to my father’s house, where my appearance was hailed as a signal for a grand jubilee.Clara, I found, had entirely changed her unfavourable opinion of sea-officers induced thereto by the engaging manners of my friend Talbot, on whom I was delighted to learn she was about to bestow her very pretty little white hand at the altar. This was a great triumph to the navy, for I always told Clara, laughingly, that I never would forgive her if she quitted the service; and as I entertained the highest respect for Talbot, I considered the prospects of my sister were very bright and flattering, and that she had made a choice very likely to secure her happiness.“Rule Britannia,” said I to Clara; “Blue for ever!”The next morning I started for Mr Somerville’s, where I was, of course, received with open arms; and the party, a few days after, having been increased by the arrival of my father, with Clara and Talbot, I was as happy as a human being could be. Six weeks was the period assigned by my fair one as the very shortest in which she could get rigged, bend new sails, and prepare for the long and sometimes tedious voyage of matrimony. I remonstrated at the unconscionable delay.“Long as it may appear,” said she, “it is much less time than you took to fit out your fine frigate for North America.”“That frigate was not got ready even then by any hurry of mine,” said I; “and if ever I come to be First Lord of the Admiralty, I shall have a bright eye on the young lieutenants and their sweethearts at Blackheath, particularly when a ship is fitting in a hurry at Woolwich.”Much of this kind of sparring went on, to the great amusement of all parties; meanwhile the ladies employed themselves in running up milliners’ bills, and their papas employed themselves in discharging them. My father was particularly liberal to Emily in the articles of plate and jewellery, and Mr Somerville equally kind to Clara. Emily received a trinket-box, so beautifully fitted and so well filled, that it required a cheque of no trifling magnitude to cry quits with the jeweller; indeed, my father’s kindness was so great that I was forced to beg he would set some bounds to his liberality.I was so busy and so happy that I had let three weeks pass over my head without seeing Eugenia. I dreamed of her at last, and thought she upbraided me; and the next day, full of my dream, as soon as breakfast was over, I recommended the young ladies to the care of Talbot, and, mounting my horse, rode over to see Eugenia. She received me kindly, but she had suffered in her health, and was much out of spirits. I inquired the reason, and she burst into tears. “I shall be better, Frank,” said she, “when all is over, but I must suffer now; and I suffer the more acutely from a conviction that I am only paying the penalty of my own crime. Perhaps,” continued she, “had I never departed from virtue, I might at this moment have held in your heart the envied place of Miss Somerville; but as the righteous decrees of Providence have provided punishment to tread fast in the footsteps of guilt, I am now expiating my faults, and I have a presentiment that although the struggle is bitter, it will soon be over. God’s will be done; and may you, my dear Frank, have many, many happy years in the society of one you are bound to love before the unhappy Eugenia.”Here she sank on a sofa, and again wept bitterly.“I feel,” said she, “now, but it is too late—I feel that I have acted wrongly in quitting Bordeaux. There I was loved and respected; and if not happy, at least I was composed. Too much dependence on my resolution, and the vanity of supposing myself superior in magnanimity to the rest of my sex, induced me to trust myself in your society. Dearly, alas! have I paid for it. My only chance of victory over myself was flight from you, after I had given the irrevocable sentence; by not doing so, the poison has found its way to my heart. I feel that I love you; that I cannot have you; and that death very shortly must terminate my intolerable sufferings.”This affecting address pierced me to the soul; and now the consequences of my guilt and duplicity rushed upon me like a torrent through a bursting flood gate. I would have resigned Emily—I would have fled with Eugenia to some distant country, and buried our sorrows in each other’s bosoms; and, in a state of irrepressible emotion, I proposed this step to her.“What do I hear, my beloved?” said she, starting up with horror from the couch on which she was sitting with her face between her knees; “what! is it you that would resign home, friends, character, the possession of a virtuous woman, all for the polluted smiles of an—”“Hold! hold! my Eugenia,” said I; “do not, I beseech you, shock my ears with an epithet which you do not deserve! Mine, mine, is all the guilt; forget me, and you will still be happy.”She looked at me, then at her sweet boy, who was playing on the carpet—but she made no answer; and then a flood of tears succeeded.It was, indeed, a case of singular calamity for a beautiful young creature to be placed in. She was only in her three-and-twentieth year—and lovely as she was, nature had scarcely had time to finish the picture. The regrets which subdued my mind on that fatal morning may only be conceived by those who, like me, have led a licentious life—have, for a time, buried all moral and religious feeling, and have been suddenly called to a full sense of their guilt, and the misery they have entailed on the innocent. I sat down and groaned. I cannot say I wept, for I could not weep; but my forehead burned, and my heart was full of bitterness.While I thus meditated, Eugenia sat with her hand on her forehead in a musing attitude. Had she been reverting to her former studies and thrown herself into the finest conceivable posture of the tragic muse, her appearance would not have been half so beautiful and affecting. I thought she was praying, and I think so still. The tears ran in silence down her face; I kissed them off, and almost forgot Emily.“I am better, now, Frank,” said the poor, sorrowful woman; “do not come again until after the wedding. When will it take place?” she inquired, with a trembling and faltering voice.My heart almost burst within me as I told her, for I felt as if I was signing a warrant for her execution. I took her in my arms, and tenderly embracing her, endeavoured to divert her thoughts from the mournful fate that too evidently hung over her; she became tranquil, and I proposed taking a stroll in the adjoining park. I thought the fresh air would revive her.She agreed to this; and going to her room, returned in a few minutes. To her natural beauty was added on that fatal day a morning dress, which more than any other became her; it was white, richly trimmed, and fashionably made up by a celebrated Frenchartiste. Her bonnet was white muslin, trimmed with light blue ribbons, and a sash of the same colour confined her slender waist. The little Eugenio ran before us, now at my side, and now at his mother’s. We rambled about for some time, the burthen of our conversation being the future plans and mode of education to be adopted for the child: this was a subject on which she always dwelt with peculiar pleasure.Tired with our walk, we sat down under a clump of beech-trees near a grassy ascent, winding among the thick foliage, contrived by the opulent owner to extend and diversify the rides in his noble domain. Eugenio was playing around us, picking the wild flowers, and running up to me to inquire their names.The boy was close by my side, when, startled at a noise, he turned round and exclaimed—“Oh! look, mamma; look, papa; there are a lady and a gentleman a-riding.”I turned round, and saw Mr Somerville and Emily on horseback, within six paces of me; so still they stood, so mute, I could have fancied Emily a wax-work figure. They neither breathed nor moved; even their very horses seemed to be of bronze, or perhaps, the unfortunate situation in which I found myself made me think them so. They had come as unexpectedly on us as we had discovered them. The soft turf had received the impression of their horses’ feet, and returned no sound; and if they snorted, we had either not attended to them, in the warmth of our conversation, or we had never heard them.I rose up hastily—coloured deeply—stammered, and was about to speak. Perhaps it was better that I did not; but I had no opportunity. Like apparitions they came, and like apparitions they vanished. The avenue from whence they had so silently issued, received them again, and they were gone before Eugenia was sensible of their presence.

You will proceed in pleasure and in pride.Beloved, and loving: all is o’erFor me on earth, except some years to hideMy shame and sorrow deep in my heart’s core.“Don Juan.”

You will proceed in pleasure and in pride.Beloved, and loving: all is o’erFor me on earth, except some years to hideMy shame and sorrow deep in my heart’s core.“Don Juan.”

I paid little attention to the performance, for the moment I came to the house, my eyes were riveted on an object from which I found it impossible to remove them. “It is,” said I, “and yet it cannot be; and yet why should it not?” A young lady sat in one of the boxes; she was elegantly attired, and seemed to occupy the united attentions of many Frenchmen, who eagerly caught her smiles.

“Either that is Eugenia,” thought I, “or I have fallen asleep in the ruins of St. Jago, and am dreaming of her. That is Eugenia, or I am not Frank. It is she, or it is her ghost!” Still I had not that moral certainty of the identity, as to enable me to go at once to her and address her. Indeed, had I been certain, all things considered, the situation we were in would have rendered such a step highly improper.

“If that be Eugenia,” thought I again, “she has improved both in manner and person. She has a becomingembonpoint, and an airde bonne société, which when we parted she had not.”

The more intensely I gazed, the more convinced was I that I was right; the immovable devotion of my eyes attracted the attention of a French officer, who sat near me.

“C’est une jolie femme, n’est-ce pas; monsieur?”

“Vraiment,” said I. “Do you know her name?”

“Elle s’appelle Madame de Rosenberg.”

“Then I am wrong after all,” said I to myself. “Has she a husband, sir?”

“Pardonnez-moi, elle est veuve, mais elle a un petit garçon de cinq ans, beau comme un ange.”

“That is she,” said I, again reviving. “Is she a French woman?”

“Du tout, monsieur, elle est une de vos compatriotes; et en est un fort joli exemplaire.”

She had only been three months at Bordeaux, and had refused many very good offers in marriage. Such was the information I obtained from my obliging neighbour; and I was now convinced that Madame de Rosenberg could be no other than Eugenia. Every endeavour to catch her eye proved abortive. My only hope was to follow the carriage.

When the play was over, I waited with an impatience like that of a spirited hunter who hears the hounds. At last, the infernal squalling of the vocalists ceased, but not before I had devoutly wished that all the wax candles in the house were down their throats and burning there. I saw one of the gentlemen in the box placing the shawl over her shoulders with the most careful attention, while the bystanders seemed ready to tear him in pieces from envy. I hurried to the door, and saw her handed into her carriage, which drove off at a great pace. I ran after it, jumped up behind, and took my station by the side of the footman.

“Descendez donc, monsieur!” said the man.

“I’ll be damned if I do,” said I.

“Comment donc?” said the man.

“Tais-toi, bête,” said I, “ou je te brûlerai la cervelle.”

“Vous foutez,” said the man, who behaved very well, and instantly began to remove mevi et armis; but I planted a stomacher in his fifth button, which I knew would put himhors de combatfor a few minutes, and by that time, at the rate the carriage was driving, my purpose would have been answered. The fellow lost his breath—could not hold on or speak—so tumbled off and lay in the middle of the road.

As he fell upon dry ground and was not an English sailor, I did not jump after him, but left him to his own ease, and we saw no more of him, for we were going ten knots, while he lay becalmed without a breath of wind. This was one of the most successful acts of usurpation recorded in modern history. It has its parallels, I know; but I cannot now stop to comment on them, or on my own folly and precipitation. I was as firmly fixed behind the carriage, as Buonaparte was on the throne of France after the battle of Eylau.

We stopped at a largeporte cochère, being the entrance to a very grand house, with lamps at the door, within a spacious courtyard; we drove in and drew up. I was down in a moment, opened the carriage door, and let down the steps. The lady descended, laid her hand on my arm without perceiving that she had changed her footman, and tripped lightly up the stairs. I followed her into a handsome saloon, where another servant in livery had placed lights on the table. She turned round, saw me, and fainted in my arms.

It was, indeed, Eugenia herself; and with all due respect to my dear Emily, I borrowed a thousand kisses while she lay in a state of torpor, on a fauteuil to which I carried her. It was some few minutes before she opened her eyes; the man-servant who had brought the lights, very properly never quitted the room, but was perfectly respectful in his manner, rightly conceiving that I had some authority for my proceedings.

“My dearest Frank,” said Eugenia, “what an unexpected meeting. What, in the name of fortune, could have brought you here?”

“That,” said I, “is a story too long, Eugenia, for a moment so interesting as this. I also might ask you the same question; but it is now one o’clock in the morning, and, therefore, too late to begin with inquiry. This one question, however, I must ask—are you a mother?”

“I am,” said Eugenia, “of the most lovely boy that ever blessed the eyes of a parent; he is now in perfect health, and fast asleep—come to-morrow, at ten o’clock, and you shall see him.”

“To-morrow,” said I, with surprise; “to-morrow, Eugenia? why am I to quit your house?”

“That also you shall know to-morrow,” said she; “but now you must do as you are desired. To-morrow, I will be at home to no one but you.”

Knowing Eugenia as I did, it was sufficient that she had decided. There was no appeal; so, kissing her again, I wished her a good night, quitted her, and retired to my hotel. What a night of tumult did I pass! I was tossed from Emily to Eugenia, like a shuttlecock between two battledores. The latter never looked so lovely; and to the natural loveliness of her person was added a grace and a polish which gave a lustre to her charms, which almost served Emily as I had served the footman I never once closed my eyes during the night—dressed early the next morning, walked about, looked at Château Trompette and the Roman ruins—thought the hour of ten would never strike, and when it did, I struck the same moment at her door.

The man who opened it to me was the same whom I had treated so ill the night before; the moment he saw me, he put himself into an attitude at once of attack, defence, remonstrance, and revenge, all connected with the affair of the preceding evening.

“Ah, ah, vous voilà donc! ce n’était pas bien fait, monsieur.”

“Oui,” said I, “très nettement fait, et voilà encore,” slipping a Napoleon into his hand.

“Ça s’arrange très joliment, monsieur,” said the man, grinning from ear to ear, and bowing to the ground. “C’est madame que vous voulez donc?”

“Oui,” said I.

He led, I followed; he opened the door of a breakfast parlour—“Tenez, madame, voici le monsieur qui m’a renversé hier au soir.”

Eugenia was seated on a sofa, with her boy by her side, the loveliest little fellow I had ever beheld. His face was one often described, but rarely seen; it was shaded with dark curling ringlets, his mouth, eyes, and complexion had much of his mother, and vanity whispered me, much more of myself. I took a seat on the sofa, and with the boy on my knee, and Eugenia by my side, held her hand, while she narrated the events of her life since the time of our separation.

“A few days,” said she, “after your departure for the Flushing expedition, I read in the public prints, that ‘if the nearest relations of my mother would call at, in London, they would hear of something to their advantage.’ I wrote to the agent, from whom I learned, after proving my identity, that the two sisters of my mother, who, you may remember, had like sums left them by the will of their relative, had continued to live in a state of single blessedness; that, about four years previously, one of them had died, leaving everything to the other, and that the other had died only two months before, bequeathing all her property to my mother or her next heir; or, in default of that, to some distant relation. I therefore immediately came into a fortune of ten thousand pounds, with interest; and I was further informed that a great uncle of mine was still living, without heirs, and was most anxious that my mother or her heirs should be discovered. An invitation was therefore sent to me to go down to him, and to make his house my future residence.

“At that time the effects of my indiscretion were but too apparent, and rendered, as I thought, deception justifiable. I put on widow’s weeds, and gave out that my husband was a young officer, who had fallen a victim to the fatal Walcheren fever; that our marriage had been clandestine, and unknown to any of his friends: such was my story and appearance before the agent, who believed me. The same fabrication was put upon my grand-uncle, with equal success. I was received into his house with parental affection; and in that house I gave birth to the dear child you now hold in your arms—to your child, my Frank—to the only child I shall ever have. Yes, dear Eugenia,” continued she, pressing her rosy lips on the broad white neck of the child, “you shall be my only care, my solace, my comfort, and my joy. Heaven, in its mercy, sent the cherub to console its wretched mother in the double pangs of guilt and separation from all she loved; and Heaven shall be repaid, by my return to its slighted, its insulted laws. I feel that my sin is forgiven; for I have besought forgiveness night and day, with bitter tears, and Heaven has heard my prayer. ‘Go and sin no more,’ was said to me: and upon these terms I have received forgiveness.

“You will no doubt ask why did I not let you know all this, and why I so carefully secreted myself from you. My reasons were founded on the known impetuosity of your character. You, my beloved, who could brave death, and all the military consequences of desertion from a ship lying at Spithead, were not likely to listen to the suggestions of prudence when Eugenia was to be found; and, having once given out that I was a widow, I resolved to preserve the consistency of my character for my own sake—for your sake, and for the sake of this blessed child, the only drop that has sweetened my cup of affliction. Had you by any means discovered my place of abode, the peace of my uncle’s house, and the prospects of my child, had been for ever blasted.

“Now then, say, Frank, have I, or have I not, acted the part of a Roman mother? My grand-uncle having declared his intention of making me heir to his property, for his sake, and yours, and for my child, I have preserved the strict line of duty, from which God, in his infinite mercy, grant that I may never depart!

“I first resolved upon not seeing you until I could be more my own mistress; and when, at the death of my respected relative, I was not only released from any restraint on account of his feelings, but also became still more independent in my circumstances, you might be surprised that I did not immediately impart to you the change of fortune which would have enabled us to have enjoyed the comfort of unrestricted communication. But time, reflection, the conversation and society of my uncle and his select friends, the care of my infant, and the reading of many excellent books had wrought a great change in my sentiments. Having once tasted the pleasures of society among virtuous women, I vowed to Heaven that no future act of mine should ever drive me from it. The past could not be recalled; but the future was my own.

“I took the sacrament after a long and serious course of reading; and, having made my vows at the altar, with the help of God, they are unchangeable. Dramatic works, the pernicious study and poison of my youthful ardent mind, I have long since discarded; and I had resolved never to see you again, until after your marriage with Miss Somerville had been solemnised. Start not! By the simplest and easiest means I have known all your movements—your dangers, your escapes, your undaunted acts of bravery and self-devotion for the sake of others.

“‘Shall I then,’ said I to myself, ‘blast the prospects of the man I love—the father of my boy? Shall I, to gratify the poor, pitiful ambition of becoming the wife of him to whom I once was the mistress, sacrifice thus the hopes and fortune of himself and family, the reward of a virtuous maiden?’ In all this I hope you will perceive a proper share of self-denial. Many, many floods of bitter tears of repentance and regret have I shed over my past conduct; and I trust, that what I have suffered and what I shall suffer, will be received as my atonement at the Throne of Grace. True, I once looked forward to the happy period of our union, when I might have offered myself to you, not as a portionless bride; but I was checked by one maddening, burning, inextinguishable thought. I could not be received into that society to which you were entitled. I felt that I loved you, Frank,—loved you too well to betray you. The woman that had so little respect for herself was unfit to be the wife of Francis Mildmay.

“Besides, how could I do my sweet boy the injustice to allow him to have brothers and sisters possessing legitimate advantages over him? I felt that our union never could be one of happiness, even if you consented to take me as your wife, of which I had my doubts; and when I discovered, through my emissaries, that you were on the point of marriage with Miss Somerville, I felt that it was all for the best; that I had no right to complain; the more so as it was I who (I blush to say it) had seduced you.

“But Frank, if I cannot be your wife—and, alas! I know too well that that is impossible—will you allow me to be your friend, your dear friend, as the mother of your child, or, if you please, as your sister? But there the sacred line is drawn; it is a compact between my God and myself. You know my firmness and decision; once maturely deliberated, my resolution formed, it is not, I think, in man to turn me. Do not, therefore, make the attempt; it will only end in your certain defeat and shame, and in my withdrawing from your sight for ever. You will not, I am sure, pay me so bad a compliment as to wish me to renew the follies of my youth. If you love me, respect me, promise by the love you bear to Miss Somerville, and your affection for this poor boy, that you will do as I wish you. Your honour and peace of mind, as well as mine, demand it.”

This severe rebuke from a quarter whence I least expected it, threw me back with shame and confusion. As if a mirror had been held up to me, I saw my own deformity. I saw that Eugenia was not only the guardian of her own honour, but of mine, and of the happiness of Miss Somerville, against whom I now stood convicted of foul deceit and shameful wrong. I acknowledged my fault; I assured Eugenia that I was bound to her by every tie of honour, esteem, and love; and that her boy and mine should be our mutual care.

“Thank you, dearest,” said she; “you have taken a heavy load from my mind: henceforth remember we are brother and sister. I shall now be able to enjoy the pleasure of your society; and now as that point is settled, let me know what has occurred to you since we parted—the particulars, I mean, for the outline I have heard before.”

I related to her everything which had happened to me, from the hour of our separation to the moment I saw her so unexpectedly in the theatre. She was alternately affected with terror, surprise, and laughter. She took a hearty crying spell over the motionless bodies of Clara and Emily, as they lay on the floor; but recovered from that, and went into hysterics of laughter, when I described the footman’s mistake, and the slap on the face bestowed on him by the housemaid.

My mind was not naturally corrupt; it was only so at times, and from peculiar circumstances; but I was always generous, and easily recalled to a sense of my duty when reminded of my fault. Not for an empire would I have persuaded Eugenia to break her vow. I loved and respected the mother of my child; the more when I reflected that she had been the means of preserving my fidelity to Emily. I rejoiced to think that my friendship for the one, and love for the other, were not incompatible. I wrote immediately to Emily, announcing my speedy return to England.

“Having the most perfect reliance on your honour, I shall now,” said Eugenia, “accept your escort to London, where my presence is required. Pierre shall accompany us—he is a faithful creature, though you have used him so ill.”

“That,” said I, “is all made up, and Pierre will be heartily glad of another tumble for the same price.”

All our arrangements were speedily made. The house was given up—a roomy travelling-barouche received all our trunks and, seated by the side of Eugenia, with the child between us we crossed the Gironde, and took our way through Poictiers, Tours, and Orleans, to Paris; here we remained but a short time. Neither of us was pleased with the manners and habits of the French; but as they have been so fully described by the swarms of English travellers who have infested that country with their presence, and this with the fruits of their labours, I shall pass as quietly through France, as I hope to do through the Thames Tunnel, when it is completed, but not before.

Eugenia consulted me as to her future residence; and here I own I committed a great error, but, I declare to Heaven, without any criminal intention. I ventured to suggest that she should live in a very pretty village a few miles from — Hall, the residence of Mr Somerville, and where, after my marriage, it was intended I should continue to reside with Emily. To this village, then, I directed her to go assuring her that I should often ride over and visit her.

“Much as I should enjoy your company, Frank,” said Eugenia, “this is a measure fraught with evil to all parties; nor is it fair dealing towards your future wife.”

Unhappily for me, that turn for duplicity which I had imbibed in early life had not forsaken me, notwithstanding the warnings I had received and the promises of amendment which I had made. Flattering myself that I intended no harm, I overruled all the scruples of the excellent Eugenia. She despatched a confidential person to the village; on the outskirts of which he procured for her a commodious, and even elegant cottageorné, ready furnished. She went down with her child and Pierre to take possession; and I to my father’s house, where my appearance was hailed as a signal for a grand jubilee.

Clara, I found, had entirely changed her unfavourable opinion of sea-officers induced thereto by the engaging manners of my friend Talbot, on whom I was delighted to learn she was about to bestow her very pretty little white hand at the altar. This was a great triumph to the navy, for I always told Clara, laughingly, that I never would forgive her if she quitted the service; and as I entertained the highest respect for Talbot, I considered the prospects of my sister were very bright and flattering, and that she had made a choice very likely to secure her happiness.

“Rule Britannia,” said I to Clara; “Blue for ever!”

The next morning I started for Mr Somerville’s, where I was, of course, received with open arms; and the party, a few days after, having been increased by the arrival of my father, with Clara and Talbot, I was as happy as a human being could be. Six weeks was the period assigned by my fair one as the very shortest in which she could get rigged, bend new sails, and prepare for the long and sometimes tedious voyage of matrimony. I remonstrated at the unconscionable delay.

“Long as it may appear,” said she, “it is much less time than you took to fit out your fine frigate for North America.”

“That frigate was not got ready even then by any hurry of mine,” said I; “and if ever I come to be First Lord of the Admiralty, I shall have a bright eye on the young lieutenants and their sweethearts at Blackheath, particularly when a ship is fitting in a hurry at Woolwich.”

Much of this kind of sparring went on, to the great amusement of all parties; meanwhile the ladies employed themselves in running up milliners’ bills, and their papas employed themselves in discharging them. My father was particularly liberal to Emily in the articles of plate and jewellery, and Mr Somerville equally kind to Clara. Emily received a trinket-box, so beautifully fitted and so well filled, that it required a cheque of no trifling magnitude to cry quits with the jeweller; indeed, my father’s kindness was so great that I was forced to beg he would set some bounds to his liberality.

I was so busy and so happy that I had let three weeks pass over my head without seeing Eugenia. I dreamed of her at last, and thought she upbraided me; and the next day, full of my dream, as soon as breakfast was over, I recommended the young ladies to the care of Talbot, and, mounting my horse, rode over to see Eugenia. She received me kindly, but she had suffered in her health, and was much out of spirits. I inquired the reason, and she burst into tears. “I shall be better, Frank,” said she, “when all is over, but I must suffer now; and I suffer the more acutely from a conviction that I am only paying the penalty of my own crime. Perhaps,” continued she, “had I never departed from virtue, I might at this moment have held in your heart the envied place of Miss Somerville; but as the righteous decrees of Providence have provided punishment to tread fast in the footsteps of guilt, I am now expiating my faults, and I have a presentiment that although the struggle is bitter, it will soon be over. God’s will be done; and may you, my dear Frank, have many, many happy years in the society of one you are bound to love before the unhappy Eugenia.”

Here she sank on a sofa, and again wept bitterly.

“I feel,” said she, “now, but it is too late—I feel that I have acted wrongly in quitting Bordeaux. There I was loved and respected; and if not happy, at least I was composed. Too much dependence on my resolution, and the vanity of supposing myself superior in magnanimity to the rest of my sex, induced me to trust myself in your society. Dearly, alas! have I paid for it. My only chance of victory over myself was flight from you, after I had given the irrevocable sentence; by not doing so, the poison has found its way to my heart. I feel that I love you; that I cannot have you; and that death very shortly must terminate my intolerable sufferings.”

This affecting address pierced me to the soul; and now the consequences of my guilt and duplicity rushed upon me like a torrent through a bursting flood gate. I would have resigned Emily—I would have fled with Eugenia to some distant country, and buried our sorrows in each other’s bosoms; and, in a state of irrepressible emotion, I proposed this step to her.

“What do I hear, my beloved?” said she, starting up with horror from the couch on which she was sitting with her face between her knees; “what! is it you that would resign home, friends, character, the possession of a virtuous woman, all for the polluted smiles of an—”

“Hold! hold! my Eugenia,” said I; “do not, I beseech you, shock my ears with an epithet which you do not deserve! Mine, mine, is all the guilt; forget me, and you will still be happy.”

She looked at me, then at her sweet boy, who was playing on the carpet—but she made no answer; and then a flood of tears succeeded.

It was, indeed, a case of singular calamity for a beautiful young creature to be placed in. She was only in her three-and-twentieth year—and lovely as she was, nature had scarcely had time to finish the picture. The regrets which subdued my mind on that fatal morning may only be conceived by those who, like me, have led a licentious life—have, for a time, buried all moral and religious feeling, and have been suddenly called to a full sense of their guilt, and the misery they have entailed on the innocent. I sat down and groaned. I cannot say I wept, for I could not weep; but my forehead burned, and my heart was full of bitterness.

While I thus meditated, Eugenia sat with her hand on her forehead in a musing attitude. Had she been reverting to her former studies and thrown herself into the finest conceivable posture of the tragic muse, her appearance would not have been half so beautiful and affecting. I thought she was praying, and I think so still. The tears ran in silence down her face; I kissed them off, and almost forgot Emily.

“I am better, now, Frank,” said the poor, sorrowful woman; “do not come again until after the wedding. When will it take place?” she inquired, with a trembling and faltering voice.

My heart almost burst within me as I told her, for I felt as if I was signing a warrant for her execution. I took her in my arms, and tenderly embracing her, endeavoured to divert her thoughts from the mournful fate that too evidently hung over her; she became tranquil, and I proposed taking a stroll in the adjoining park. I thought the fresh air would revive her.

She agreed to this; and going to her room, returned in a few minutes. To her natural beauty was added on that fatal day a morning dress, which more than any other became her; it was white, richly trimmed, and fashionably made up by a celebrated Frenchartiste. Her bonnet was white muslin, trimmed with light blue ribbons, and a sash of the same colour confined her slender waist. The little Eugenio ran before us, now at my side, and now at his mother’s. We rambled about for some time, the burthen of our conversation being the future plans and mode of education to be adopted for the child: this was a subject on which she always dwelt with peculiar pleasure.

Tired with our walk, we sat down under a clump of beech-trees near a grassy ascent, winding among the thick foliage, contrived by the opulent owner to extend and diversify the rides in his noble domain. Eugenio was playing around us, picking the wild flowers, and running up to me to inquire their names.

The boy was close by my side, when, startled at a noise, he turned round and exclaimed—“Oh! look, mamma; look, papa; there are a lady and a gentleman a-riding.”

I turned round, and saw Mr Somerville and Emily on horseback, within six paces of me; so still they stood, so mute, I could have fancied Emily a wax-work figure. They neither breathed nor moved; even their very horses seemed to be of bronze, or perhaps, the unfortunate situation in which I found myself made me think them so. They had come as unexpectedly on us as we had discovered them. The soft turf had received the impression of their horses’ feet, and returned no sound; and if they snorted, we had either not attended to them, in the warmth of our conversation, or we had never heard them.

I rose up hastily—coloured deeply—stammered, and was about to speak. Perhaps it was better that I did not; but I had no opportunity. Like apparitions they came, and like apparitions they vanished. The avenue from whence they had so silently issued, received them again, and they were gone before Eugenia was sensible of their presence.

Chapter Twenty Seven.Fare thee well; and if for ever,Still for ever fare thee well:E’en though unforgiving, never’Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.Byron.I was so stunned with thiscontretemps, that I fell senseless to the ground; and it was long before the kind attentions and assiduity of Eugenia could restore me. When she had succeeded, my first act was one of base ingratitude, cruelty, and injustice: I spurned her from me, and upbraided her as the cause of my unfortunate situation. She only replied with tears. I quitted her and the child without bidding them adieu, little thinking I should never see them again. I ran to the inn, where I had left my horse, mounted, and rode back to — Hall.Mr Somerville and his daughter had just arrived, and Emily was lifted off her horse, and obliged to be carried up to her room.Clara and Talbot came to inquire what had happened. I could give no account of it; but earnestly requested to see Emily. The answer returned was, that Miss Somerville declined seeing me. In the course of this day, which, in point of mental suffering, exceeded all I have ever endured in the utmost severity of professional hardship, an explanation had taken place between myself, my father, and Mr Somerville. I had done that by the impulse of dire necessity, which I ought to have done at first of my own free will. I was caught at last in my own snare. “The trains of the devil are long,” said I to myself, “but they are sure to blow up at last.”The consequence of the explanation was my final dismissal, and a return of all the presents which my father and myself had given to Emily. My conduct, though blameable, was not viewed in that heinous light, either by my father or Mr Somerville; and both of them did all that could be done to restore harmony. Clara and Talbot interposed their kind offices, but with no better success. The maiden pride of the inexorable Emily had been alarmed by a beautiful rival, with a young family, in the next village. The impression had taken hold of her spotless mind, and could not be removed. I was false, fickle, and deceitful, and was given to understand that Miss Somerville did not intend to quit her room until she was assured by her father that I was no longer a guest in the house.Under these painful circumstances, our remaining any longer at the hall was both useless and irksome—a source of misery to all.My father ordered his horses the next morning, and I was carried back to London, more dead than alive. A burning fever raged in my blood; and the moment I reached my father’s house, I was put to bed, and placed under the care of a physician, with nurses to watch me night and day. For three weeks I was in a state of delirium; and when I regained my senses, it was only to renew the anguish which had caused my disorder, and I felt any sentiment except gratitude for my recovery.My dear Clara had never quitted me during my confinement. I had taken no medicine but from her hand. I asked her to give me some account of what had happened. She told me that Talbot was gone; that my father had seen Mr Somerville, who had informed him that Emily had received a long letter from Eugenia, narrating every circumstance, exculpating me, and accusing herself. Emily had wept over it, but still remained firm in her resolution never to see me more. “And I am afraid, my dear brother,” said Clara, “that her resolution will not be very easily altered. You know her character, and you should know something about our sex: but sailors, they say, go round the world without going into it. This is the only shadow of an excuse I can form for you, much as I love and esteem you. You have hurt Emily in the nicest point, that in which we are all the most susceptible of injury. You have wounded her pride, which our sex rarely if ever forgive. At the very moment she supposed you were devoted to her; that you were rapt up in the anticipation of calling her your own, and counting the minutes with impatience until the happy day arrived; with all this persuasion on her mind, she comes upon you, as the traveller out of the wood suddenly comes across the poisonous snake in his path, and cannot avoid it. She found you locked hand-in-hand with another, a fortnight before marriage, and with the fruits of unlawful love in your arms. What woman could forgive this? I would not, I assure you. If Tal—, I mean if any man were to serve me so, I would tear him from my heart, even if the dissolution of the whole frame was to be the certain consequence. I consider it a kindness to tell you, Frank, that you have no hope. Much as you have and will suffer, she, poor girl, will suffer more; and although she will never accept you, she will not let your place be supplied by another, but sink broken-hearted into her grave. You, like all other men, will forget this; but what a warning ought it to be to you, that sooner or later, guilt will be productive of misery. This you have fully proved; your licentious conduct with this woman has ruined her peace for ever, and Divine vengeance has dashed from your lips the cup which contained as much happiness as this world could afford. Nor has the penalty fallen on you alone: the innocent, who had no share in the crime, are partakers in the punishment; we are all as miserable as yourself. But God’s will be done,” continued she, as she kissed my aching forehead, and her tears fell on my face.How heavenly is the love of a sister towards a brother! Clara was now everything to me. Having said thus much to me on the subject of my fault (and it must be confessed that she had not been niggardly in the article of words), she never named the subject again, but sought by every means in her power to amuse and to comfort me. She listened to my exculpation; she admitted that our meeting at Bordeaux was as unpremeditated as it was unfortunate; she condemned the imprudence of our travelling together, and still more the choice of a residence for Eugenia and her son.Clara’s affectionate attention and kind efforts were unavailing. I told her so, and that all hopes of happiness for me in this world were gone for ever.“My dear, dear brother,” said the affectionate girl, “answer me one question. Did you ever pray?”My answer will pretty well explain to the reader the sort of religion mine was:—“Why, Clara,” said I, “to tell you the truth, though I may not exactly pray, as you call it, yet words are nothing. I feel grateful to the Almighty for his favours when he bestows them on me; and I believe a grateful heart is all he requires.”“Then, brother, how do you feel when he afflicts you?”“That I have nothing to thank him for,” answered I.“Then, my dear Frank, that is not religion.”“May be so,” said I; “but I am in no humour to feel otherwise at present; so pray drop the subject.”She burst into tears. “This,” said she, “is worse than all. Shall we receive good from the hand of the Lord, and shall we not receive evil?”But, seeing that I was in that sullen and untameable state of mind, she did not venture to renew the subject.As soon as I was able to quit my room, I had a long conversation with my father, who, though deeply concerned for my happiness, said he was quite certain that any attempt at reconciliation would be useless. He therefore proposed two plans, and I might adopt whichever was the most likely to divert my mind from my heavy affliction. The first was, to ask his friends at the Admiralty to give me the command of a sloop of war; the second, that I should go upon the Continent, and, having passed a year there, return to England, when there was no knowing what change of sentiment time and absence might not produce in my favour. “For,” said he, “there is one very remarkable difference in the heart of a man and of a woman. In the first, absence is very often a cure for love; in the other, it more frequently cements and consolidates it. In your absence, Emily will dwell on the bright parts of your character, and forget its blemishes. The experiment is worth making, and it is the only way which offers a chance of success.”I agreed to this. “But,” said I, “as the war with France is now over, and that with America will be terminated no doubt very shortly, I have no wish to put you to the expense, or myself to the trouble, of fitting out a sloop of war in time of peace, to be a pleasure-yacht for great lords and ladies, and myself to be neither more nor less than amaître d’hôtel: and, after having spent your money and mine, and exhausted all my civilities, to receive no thanks, and hear that I am esteemed at Almack’s only ‘a tolerable sea-brute enough.’ A ship, therefore,” continued I, “I will not have; and as I think the Continent holds out some novelty at least, I will, with your consent, set off.”This point being settled, I told Clara of it. The poor girl’s grief was immoderate. “My dearest brother, I shall lose you, and be left alone in the world. Your impetuous and unruly heart is not in a state to be trusted among the gay and frivolous French. You will be at sea without your compass—you have thrown religion overboard—and what is to guide you in the hour of trial?”“Fear not, dear Clara,” said I; “my own energies will always extricate me from the dangers you apprehend.”“Alas! it is these very energies which I dread,” said Clara; “but I trust that all will be for the best. Accept,” said she, “of this little book from poor broken-hearted Clara; and, if you love her, look at it sometimes.”I took the book, and, embracing her affectionately, assured her that for her sake I would read it.When I had completed my arrangements for my foreign tour, I determined to take one last look at — Hall before I left England. I set off unknown to my family, and contrived to be near the boundaries of the park by dusk. I desired the post-boy to stop half a mile from the house, and to wait my return. I cleared the paling; and, avoiding the direct road, came up to the house. The room usually occupied by the family was on the ground-floor, and I cautiously approached the window. Mr Somerville and Emily were both there. He was reading aloud; she sat at a table with a book before her: but her thoughts, it was evident, were not there; she had inserted her taper fingers into the ringlets of her hair, until the palms of her hand reached her forehead; then, bending her head towards the table, she leaned on her elbows, and seemed absorbed in the most melancholy reflections.“This, too, is my work,” said I; “this fair flower is blighted, and withering by the contagious touch of my baneful hand! Good Heaven! what a wretch am I! whoever loves me is rewarded by misery. And what have I gained by this wide waste and devastation which my wickedness has spread around me? Happiness? No, no—that I have lost for ever. Would thatmyloss were all! would that comfort might visit the soul of this fair creature and another. But I dare not—I cannot pray; I am at enmity with God and man. Yet I will make an effort in favour of this victim of my baseness. O God,” continued I, “if the prayers of an outcast like me can find acceptance, not for myself, but for her, I ask that peace which the world cannot give; shower down Thy blessings upon her, alleviate her sorrows, and erase from her memory the existence of such a being as myself. Let not my hateful image hang as a blight upon her beauteous frame.”Emily resumed her book when her father had ceased reading aloud; and I saw her wipe a tear from her cheek.The excitement occasioned by this scene, added to my previous illness, from the effects of which I had not sufficiently recovered, caused a faintness; I sat down under the window, in hopes that it would pass off. It did not, however; for I fell, and lay on the turf in a state of insensibility, which must have lasted nearly half an hour. I afterwards learned from Clara that Emily had opened the window, it being a French one, to walk out and recover herself. By the bright moonlight, she perceived me lying on the ground. Her first idea was, that I had committed suicide; and, with this impression, she shut the window, and tottering to the back part of the room, fainted. Her father ran to her assistance, and she fell into his arms. She was taken up to her room, and consigned to the care of her woman, who put her to bed; but she was unable to give any account of herself, or the cause of her disorder, until the following day.For my own part, I gradually came to my senses, and with difficulty regained my chaise, the driver of which told me I had been gone about an hour. I drove off to town, wholly unaware that I had been observed by anyone, much less by Emily. When she related to her father what she had seen, he either disbelieved or effected to disbelieve it, and treated it as the effect of a distempered mind—the phantom of a disordered imagination; and she at length began to coincide with him.I started for the Continent a few days afterwards. Talbot, who had seen little of Clara since my rejection by Emily, and subsequent illness, offered my father to accompany me; and Clara was anxious that he should go, as she was determined not to listen to anything he could say during my affliction; she could not, she said, be happy while I was miserable, and gave him no opportunity of conversing with her on the subject of their union.We arrived at Paris; but so abstracted was I in thought that I neither saw nor heard anything. Every attention of Talbot was lost upon me. I continued in my sullen stupor, and forgot to read the little book which dear Clara had given, and which, for her sake I had promised to read. I wrote to Eugenia on my arrival; and disburthened my mind in some measure, by acknowledging my shameful treatment of her. I implored her pardon, and, by return of post received it. Her answer was affectionate and consoling; but she stated that her spirits, of course, were low, and her health but indifferent.For many days my mind remained in a state of listless inanity; and Talbot applied, or suffered others to apply, the most pernicious stimulant that could be thought of to rouse me to action. Taking a quiet walk with him, we met some friends of his; and, at their request, we agreed to go to the saloons of the Palais Royal. This was a desperate remedy, and by a miracle only was I saved from utter and irretrievable ruin. How many of my countrymen have fallen victims to the arts practised in that horrible school of vice, I dare not say! Happy should I be to think that the infection had not reached our own shores, and found patrons among the great men of the land. They have, however, both felt the consequences and been forewarned of the danger.Theyhave no excuse;minewas, that I had been excluded from the society of those I loved. Always living by excitement, was it surprising that, when a gaming-table displayed its hoards before me, I should have fallen at once into the snare?For the first time since my illness, I became interested, and laid down my money on those abhorred tables. My success was variable; but I congratulated myself that at length I had found a stimulus, and I anxiously awaited the return of the hour when the doors would again be opened, and the rooms lighted up for the reception of company. I won considerably; and night after night found me at the table—for avarice is insatiable; but my good luck left me; and then the same motive induced me to return, with the hope of winning back what I had lost.Still fortune was unpropitious, and I lost very considerable sums. I became desperate, and drew largely on my father. He wrote to beg that I would be more moderate; as twice his income would not support such an expenditure. He wrote also to Talbot, who informed him in what manner the money had been expended; and that he had in vain endeavoured to divert me from the fatal practice. Finding that no limits were likely to be put to my folly, my father very properly refused to honour any more of my bills.Maddened with this intimation, for which I secretly blamed Talbot, I drew upon Eugenia’s banker, bill after bill, until the sum amounted to more than what my father had paid. At length a letter came from Eugenia: it was but a few lines.“I know too well, my dearest friend,” said she, “what becomes of the money you have received. If you want it all, I cannot refuse you; but remember that you are throwing away the property of your child.”This letter did more to rouse me to a sense of my infamous conduct than the advice of Talbot, or the admonitions of my father. I felt I was acting like a scoundrel, and I resolved to leave off gaming. “One night more,” said I, “and then, if I lose, there is an end of it; I go no more.” Talbot attended me: he felt he was in some measure the cause of my being first initiated in this pernicious amusement: and he watched my motions with unceasing anxiety.The game wasrouge-et-noir. I threw a large sum on the red, I won, left the stake, doubled, and won again. The heap of gold had increased to a large size, and still remained to abide the chance of the card. Again, again, and again, it was doubled. Seven times had the red card been turned up, and seven times had my gold been doubled. Talbot, who stood behind me, implored and begged me earnestly to leave off.“What may be the consequence of one card against you? Trust no more to fortune; be content with what you have got.”“That,” muttered I, “Talbot, is of no use; I must have more.”Again came up the red, to the astonishment of the bystanders; and to their still greater astonishment, my gold, which had increased to an enormous heap, still remained on the table. Talbot again intreated me not to tempt fortune foolishly.“Folly,” said I, “Talbot, has already been committed; and one more card will do the business. It must be done.”The bankers knowing, after eight red cards had been turned up, how great the chance was of regaining all their losses by a double or quits, agreed to the ninth card. Talbot trembled like a leaf. The card was turned; it came up red, and the bank was broken.Here all play ceased for the night. The losers, of course, vented their feelings in the most blasphemous execrations; while I quietly collected all my winnings, and returned home in afiacre, with Talbot, who took the precaution of requesting the attendance of twogendarmes. These were each rewarded with a Napoleon.“Now, Talbot,” said I, “I solemnly swear, as I hope to go to heaven, never to play again.” And this promise I have most religiously kept. My good fortune was one instance in ten thousand, among those who have been ruined in that house. The next morning I refunded all I had drawn upon Eugenia, and all my father had supplied me with, and there still remained a considerable residue.Determined not to continue in this vortex of dissipation any longer, where my resolution was hourly put to the test, Talbot and myself agreed to travel down to Brest, an arsenal we were both desirous of seeing.

Fare thee well; and if for ever,Still for ever fare thee well:E’en though unforgiving, never’Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.Byron.

Fare thee well; and if for ever,Still for ever fare thee well:E’en though unforgiving, never’Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.Byron.

I was so stunned with thiscontretemps, that I fell senseless to the ground; and it was long before the kind attentions and assiduity of Eugenia could restore me. When she had succeeded, my first act was one of base ingratitude, cruelty, and injustice: I spurned her from me, and upbraided her as the cause of my unfortunate situation. She only replied with tears. I quitted her and the child without bidding them adieu, little thinking I should never see them again. I ran to the inn, where I had left my horse, mounted, and rode back to — Hall.

Mr Somerville and his daughter had just arrived, and Emily was lifted off her horse, and obliged to be carried up to her room.

Clara and Talbot came to inquire what had happened. I could give no account of it; but earnestly requested to see Emily. The answer returned was, that Miss Somerville declined seeing me. In the course of this day, which, in point of mental suffering, exceeded all I have ever endured in the utmost severity of professional hardship, an explanation had taken place between myself, my father, and Mr Somerville. I had done that by the impulse of dire necessity, which I ought to have done at first of my own free will. I was caught at last in my own snare. “The trains of the devil are long,” said I to myself, “but they are sure to blow up at last.”

The consequence of the explanation was my final dismissal, and a return of all the presents which my father and myself had given to Emily. My conduct, though blameable, was not viewed in that heinous light, either by my father or Mr Somerville; and both of them did all that could be done to restore harmony. Clara and Talbot interposed their kind offices, but with no better success. The maiden pride of the inexorable Emily had been alarmed by a beautiful rival, with a young family, in the next village. The impression had taken hold of her spotless mind, and could not be removed. I was false, fickle, and deceitful, and was given to understand that Miss Somerville did not intend to quit her room until she was assured by her father that I was no longer a guest in the house.

Under these painful circumstances, our remaining any longer at the hall was both useless and irksome—a source of misery to all.

My father ordered his horses the next morning, and I was carried back to London, more dead than alive. A burning fever raged in my blood; and the moment I reached my father’s house, I was put to bed, and placed under the care of a physician, with nurses to watch me night and day. For three weeks I was in a state of delirium; and when I regained my senses, it was only to renew the anguish which had caused my disorder, and I felt any sentiment except gratitude for my recovery.

My dear Clara had never quitted me during my confinement. I had taken no medicine but from her hand. I asked her to give me some account of what had happened. She told me that Talbot was gone; that my father had seen Mr Somerville, who had informed him that Emily had received a long letter from Eugenia, narrating every circumstance, exculpating me, and accusing herself. Emily had wept over it, but still remained firm in her resolution never to see me more. “And I am afraid, my dear brother,” said Clara, “that her resolution will not be very easily altered. You know her character, and you should know something about our sex: but sailors, they say, go round the world without going into it. This is the only shadow of an excuse I can form for you, much as I love and esteem you. You have hurt Emily in the nicest point, that in which we are all the most susceptible of injury. You have wounded her pride, which our sex rarely if ever forgive. At the very moment she supposed you were devoted to her; that you were rapt up in the anticipation of calling her your own, and counting the minutes with impatience until the happy day arrived; with all this persuasion on her mind, she comes upon you, as the traveller out of the wood suddenly comes across the poisonous snake in his path, and cannot avoid it. She found you locked hand-in-hand with another, a fortnight before marriage, and with the fruits of unlawful love in your arms. What woman could forgive this? I would not, I assure you. If Tal—, I mean if any man were to serve me so, I would tear him from my heart, even if the dissolution of the whole frame was to be the certain consequence. I consider it a kindness to tell you, Frank, that you have no hope. Much as you have and will suffer, she, poor girl, will suffer more; and although she will never accept you, she will not let your place be supplied by another, but sink broken-hearted into her grave. You, like all other men, will forget this; but what a warning ought it to be to you, that sooner or later, guilt will be productive of misery. This you have fully proved; your licentious conduct with this woman has ruined her peace for ever, and Divine vengeance has dashed from your lips the cup which contained as much happiness as this world could afford. Nor has the penalty fallen on you alone: the innocent, who had no share in the crime, are partakers in the punishment; we are all as miserable as yourself. But God’s will be done,” continued she, as she kissed my aching forehead, and her tears fell on my face.

How heavenly is the love of a sister towards a brother! Clara was now everything to me. Having said thus much to me on the subject of my fault (and it must be confessed that she had not been niggardly in the article of words), she never named the subject again, but sought by every means in her power to amuse and to comfort me. She listened to my exculpation; she admitted that our meeting at Bordeaux was as unpremeditated as it was unfortunate; she condemned the imprudence of our travelling together, and still more the choice of a residence for Eugenia and her son.

Clara’s affectionate attention and kind efforts were unavailing. I told her so, and that all hopes of happiness for me in this world were gone for ever.

“My dear, dear brother,” said the affectionate girl, “answer me one question. Did you ever pray?”

My answer will pretty well explain to the reader the sort of religion mine was:—

“Why, Clara,” said I, “to tell you the truth, though I may not exactly pray, as you call it, yet words are nothing. I feel grateful to the Almighty for his favours when he bestows them on me; and I believe a grateful heart is all he requires.”

“Then, brother, how do you feel when he afflicts you?”

“That I have nothing to thank him for,” answered I.

“Then, my dear Frank, that is not religion.”

“May be so,” said I; “but I am in no humour to feel otherwise at present; so pray drop the subject.”

She burst into tears. “This,” said she, “is worse than all. Shall we receive good from the hand of the Lord, and shall we not receive evil?”

But, seeing that I was in that sullen and untameable state of mind, she did not venture to renew the subject.

As soon as I was able to quit my room, I had a long conversation with my father, who, though deeply concerned for my happiness, said he was quite certain that any attempt at reconciliation would be useless. He therefore proposed two plans, and I might adopt whichever was the most likely to divert my mind from my heavy affliction. The first was, to ask his friends at the Admiralty to give me the command of a sloop of war; the second, that I should go upon the Continent, and, having passed a year there, return to England, when there was no knowing what change of sentiment time and absence might not produce in my favour. “For,” said he, “there is one very remarkable difference in the heart of a man and of a woman. In the first, absence is very often a cure for love; in the other, it more frequently cements and consolidates it. In your absence, Emily will dwell on the bright parts of your character, and forget its blemishes. The experiment is worth making, and it is the only way which offers a chance of success.”

I agreed to this. “But,” said I, “as the war with France is now over, and that with America will be terminated no doubt very shortly, I have no wish to put you to the expense, or myself to the trouble, of fitting out a sloop of war in time of peace, to be a pleasure-yacht for great lords and ladies, and myself to be neither more nor less than amaître d’hôtel: and, after having spent your money and mine, and exhausted all my civilities, to receive no thanks, and hear that I am esteemed at Almack’s only ‘a tolerable sea-brute enough.’ A ship, therefore,” continued I, “I will not have; and as I think the Continent holds out some novelty at least, I will, with your consent, set off.”

This point being settled, I told Clara of it. The poor girl’s grief was immoderate. “My dearest brother, I shall lose you, and be left alone in the world. Your impetuous and unruly heart is not in a state to be trusted among the gay and frivolous French. You will be at sea without your compass—you have thrown religion overboard—and what is to guide you in the hour of trial?”

“Fear not, dear Clara,” said I; “my own energies will always extricate me from the dangers you apprehend.”

“Alas! it is these very energies which I dread,” said Clara; “but I trust that all will be for the best. Accept,” said she, “of this little book from poor broken-hearted Clara; and, if you love her, look at it sometimes.”

I took the book, and, embracing her affectionately, assured her that for her sake I would read it.

When I had completed my arrangements for my foreign tour, I determined to take one last look at — Hall before I left England. I set off unknown to my family, and contrived to be near the boundaries of the park by dusk. I desired the post-boy to stop half a mile from the house, and to wait my return. I cleared the paling; and, avoiding the direct road, came up to the house. The room usually occupied by the family was on the ground-floor, and I cautiously approached the window. Mr Somerville and Emily were both there. He was reading aloud; she sat at a table with a book before her: but her thoughts, it was evident, were not there; she had inserted her taper fingers into the ringlets of her hair, until the palms of her hand reached her forehead; then, bending her head towards the table, she leaned on her elbows, and seemed absorbed in the most melancholy reflections.

“This, too, is my work,” said I; “this fair flower is blighted, and withering by the contagious touch of my baneful hand! Good Heaven! what a wretch am I! whoever loves me is rewarded by misery. And what have I gained by this wide waste and devastation which my wickedness has spread around me? Happiness? No, no—that I have lost for ever. Would thatmyloss were all! would that comfort might visit the soul of this fair creature and another. But I dare not—I cannot pray; I am at enmity with God and man. Yet I will make an effort in favour of this victim of my baseness. O God,” continued I, “if the prayers of an outcast like me can find acceptance, not for myself, but for her, I ask that peace which the world cannot give; shower down Thy blessings upon her, alleviate her sorrows, and erase from her memory the existence of such a being as myself. Let not my hateful image hang as a blight upon her beauteous frame.”

Emily resumed her book when her father had ceased reading aloud; and I saw her wipe a tear from her cheek.

The excitement occasioned by this scene, added to my previous illness, from the effects of which I had not sufficiently recovered, caused a faintness; I sat down under the window, in hopes that it would pass off. It did not, however; for I fell, and lay on the turf in a state of insensibility, which must have lasted nearly half an hour. I afterwards learned from Clara that Emily had opened the window, it being a French one, to walk out and recover herself. By the bright moonlight, she perceived me lying on the ground. Her first idea was, that I had committed suicide; and, with this impression, she shut the window, and tottering to the back part of the room, fainted. Her father ran to her assistance, and she fell into his arms. She was taken up to her room, and consigned to the care of her woman, who put her to bed; but she was unable to give any account of herself, or the cause of her disorder, until the following day.

For my own part, I gradually came to my senses, and with difficulty regained my chaise, the driver of which told me I had been gone about an hour. I drove off to town, wholly unaware that I had been observed by anyone, much less by Emily. When she related to her father what she had seen, he either disbelieved or effected to disbelieve it, and treated it as the effect of a distempered mind—the phantom of a disordered imagination; and she at length began to coincide with him.

I started for the Continent a few days afterwards. Talbot, who had seen little of Clara since my rejection by Emily, and subsequent illness, offered my father to accompany me; and Clara was anxious that he should go, as she was determined not to listen to anything he could say during my affliction; she could not, she said, be happy while I was miserable, and gave him no opportunity of conversing with her on the subject of their union.

We arrived at Paris; but so abstracted was I in thought that I neither saw nor heard anything. Every attention of Talbot was lost upon me. I continued in my sullen stupor, and forgot to read the little book which dear Clara had given, and which, for her sake I had promised to read. I wrote to Eugenia on my arrival; and disburthened my mind in some measure, by acknowledging my shameful treatment of her. I implored her pardon, and, by return of post received it. Her answer was affectionate and consoling; but she stated that her spirits, of course, were low, and her health but indifferent.

For many days my mind remained in a state of listless inanity; and Talbot applied, or suffered others to apply, the most pernicious stimulant that could be thought of to rouse me to action. Taking a quiet walk with him, we met some friends of his; and, at their request, we agreed to go to the saloons of the Palais Royal. This was a desperate remedy, and by a miracle only was I saved from utter and irretrievable ruin. How many of my countrymen have fallen victims to the arts practised in that horrible school of vice, I dare not say! Happy should I be to think that the infection had not reached our own shores, and found patrons among the great men of the land. They have, however, both felt the consequences and been forewarned of the danger.Theyhave no excuse;minewas, that I had been excluded from the society of those I loved. Always living by excitement, was it surprising that, when a gaming-table displayed its hoards before me, I should have fallen at once into the snare?

For the first time since my illness, I became interested, and laid down my money on those abhorred tables. My success was variable; but I congratulated myself that at length I had found a stimulus, and I anxiously awaited the return of the hour when the doors would again be opened, and the rooms lighted up for the reception of company. I won considerably; and night after night found me at the table—for avarice is insatiable; but my good luck left me; and then the same motive induced me to return, with the hope of winning back what I had lost.

Still fortune was unpropitious, and I lost very considerable sums. I became desperate, and drew largely on my father. He wrote to beg that I would be more moderate; as twice his income would not support such an expenditure. He wrote also to Talbot, who informed him in what manner the money had been expended; and that he had in vain endeavoured to divert me from the fatal practice. Finding that no limits were likely to be put to my folly, my father very properly refused to honour any more of my bills.

Maddened with this intimation, for which I secretly blamed Talbot, I drew upon Eugenia’s banker, bill after bill, until the sum amounted to more than what my father had paid. At length a letter came from Eugenia: it was but a few lines.

“I know too well, my dearest friend,” said she, “what becomes of the money you have received. If you want it all, I cannot refuse you; but remember that you are throwing away the property of your child.”

This letter did more to rouse me to a sense of my infamous conduct than the advice of Talbot, or the admonitions of my father. I felt I was acting like a scoundrel, and I resolved to leave off gaming. “One night more,” said I, “and then, if I lose, there is an end of it; I go no more.” Talbot attended me: he felt he was in some measure the cause of my being first initiated in this pernicious amusement: and he watched my motions with unceasing anxiety.

The game wasrouge-et-noir. I threw a large sum on the red, I won, left the stake, doubled, and won again. The heap of gold had increased to a large size, and still remained to abide the chance of the card. Again, again, and again, it was doubled. Seven times had the red card been turned up, and seven times had my gold been doubled. Talbot, who stood behind me, implored and begged me earnestly to leave off.

“What may be the consequence of one card against you? Trust no more to fortune; be content with what you have got.”

“That,” muttered I, “Talbot, is of no use; I must have more.”

Again came up the red, to the astonishment of the bystanders; and to their still greater astonishment, my gold, which had increased to an enormous heap, still remained on the table. Talbot again intreated me not to tempt fortune foolishly.

“Folly,” said I, “Talbot, has already been committed; and one more card will do the business. It must be done.”

The bankers knowing, after eight red cards had been turned up, how great the chance was of regaining all their losses by a double or quits, agreed to the ninth card. Talbot trembled like a leaf. The card was turned; it came up red, and the bank was broken.

Here all play ceased for the night. The losers, of course, vented their feelings in the most blasphemous execrations; while I quietly collected all my winnings, and returned home in afiacre, with Talbot, who took the precaution of requesting the attendance of twogendarmes. These were each rewarded with a Napoleon.

“Now, Talbot,” said I, “I solemnly swear, as I hope to go to heaven, never to play again.” And this promise I have most religiously kept. My good fortune was one instance in ten thousand, among those who have been ruined in that house. The next morning I refunded all I had drawn upon Eugenia, and all my father had supplied me with, and there still remained a considerable residue.

Determined not to continue in this vortex of dissipation any longer, where my resolution was hourly put to the test, Talbot and myself agreed to travel down to Brest, an arsenal we were both desirous of seeing.

Chapter Twenty Eight.Pal.Thou art a traitor, Arcite, and a fellowFalse as thy title to her. Friendship, blood,And all the ties between us, I disclaim.Arc.You are mad.Pal.I must be,Till thou art worthy, Arcite; it concerns me!And, in this madness, if I hazard theeAnd take thy life, I deal but truly.Arc.Fie, sir!Beaumont and Fletcher.We quitted Paris two days after; and a journey of three days, through an uninteresting country, brought us to the little town of Granville, on the sea-coast, in the Channel. We remained at this delightful place some days; and our letters being regularly forwarded to us, brought us intelligence from England. My father expressed his astonishment at my returning the money drawn for; and trusted, unaccountable as the restitution appeared, that I was not offended, and would consider him my banker, as far as his expenditure and style of living would permit him to advance.Eugenia, in her letters, reproached herself for having written to me; and concluded that I had drawn so largely upon her merely to prove her sincerity. She assured me, that her caution to me was not dictated by selfishness, but from a consideration for the child.Clara’s letter informed me that every attempt, even to servility, had been made in order to induce Emily to alter her determination, but without success; and that a coolness had in consequence taken place, and almost an entire interruption of the intimacy between the families. She also added, “I am afraid that your friend is even worse than yourself; for I understand that he is engaged to another woman, and has been so for years. Now, as I must consider that the great tie of your intimacy is his supposed partiality to me, and as I conceive you are under a false impression with respect to his sincerity, I think it my duty to make you acquainted with all I know. It is impossible that you can esteem the man who has trifled with the feelings of your sister; and I sincerely hope that the next letter from you will inform me of your having separated.”How little did poor Clara think, when she wrote this letter, of the consequences likely to arise from it; that in thus venting her complaints, she was exploding a mine which was to produce results ten times more fatal than anything which had yet befallen us!I was at this period in a misanthropic state of mind, hating myself and everyone about me. The company of Talbot had long been endured, not enjoyed; and I would gladly have availed myself of any plausible excuse for a separation. True, he was my friend, had proved himself so; but I was in no humour to acknowledge favours. Discarded by her I loved, I discarded every one else. Talbot was a log and a chain, and I thought I could not get rid of him too soon. This letter, therefore, gave me a fair opportunity of venting my spleen; but instead of a cool dismissal, as Clara requested, I determined to dismiss him or myself to another world.Having finished reading my letter, I laid it down, and made no observation. Talbot, with his usual kind and benevolent countenance, inquired if I had any news? “Yes,” I replied, “I have discovered that you are a villain!”“That is news indeed,” said he; “and strange that the brother of Clara should have been the messenger to convey it; but this is language, Frank, which not even your unhappy state of mind can excuse. Retract your words.”“I repeat them,” said I. “You have trifled with my sister, and are a villain.” (Had this been true, it was no more than I had done myself; but my victims had no brothers to avenge their wrongs.)“The name of Clara,” replied Talbot, “calms me: believe me, Frank, you are mistaken. I love her, and have always had the most honourable intentions towards her.”“Yes,” said I, with a sarcastic sneer, “at the time that you have been engaged to another woman for years. To one or the other you must acknowledge yourself a scoundrel: I do not, therefore, withdraw my appellation, but repeat it; and as you seem so very patient under injuries, I inform you that you must either meet me on the sands this evening, or consent to be stigmatised with another name still more revolting to the feelings of an Englishman.”“Enough, enough, Frank,” said Talbot, with a face in which conscious innocence and manly fortitude were blended. “You have said more than I ever expected to have heard from you, and more than the customs of the world will allow me to put up with. What must be, must; but I still tell you, Frank, that you are wrong, that you are fatally deluded, and that you will bitterly repent the follies of this day. It is yourself with whom you are angry, and you are venting that anger on your friend.”The words were thrown away on me. I felt a secret malignant pleasure, which blindly impelled me forward, with the certainty of glutting my revenge, by either destroying or being destroyed. My sole preparation for this dreadful conflict was my pistols; no other did I, think of, not even the chances of sending my friend and fellow-mortal, or going myself, into the presence of an Almighty Judge. My mind was absorbed in secret pleasure at the idea of that acute misery which Emily would suffer if I fell by the hand of Talbot.I repaired to the rendezvous, where I found Talbot waiting. He came up to me, and again said:—“Frank, I call Heaven to witness that you are mistaken. You are wrong. Suspend your opinion, at least, if you will not recall your words.”Totally possessed by the devil, and not to be convinced till too late, I replied to his peaceful overture by the most insulting irony: “You were not afraid to fire at a poor boy in the water,” said I, “though you do not like to stand a shot in return. Come, come, take your ground, be a man, stand up, don’t be afraid.”“For myself,” said Talbot, with a firm and placid resignation of countenance, “I have no fears; but for you, Frank, I have great cause of alarm:” so saying, he snatched up the loaded pistol, which I threw down to him.We had no seconds; nor was there any person in sight. It was a bright moonlight, and we walked to the water’s edge, where the reflux of the tide had left the sand firm to the tread. Here we stood back to back. The usual distance was fourteen paces. Talbot refused to measure his, but stood perfectly still. I walked ten paces, and turned round. “Ready,” said I, in a low voice.We both raised our arms; but Talbot, instantly dropping the muzzle of his pistol, said, “I cannot fire at the brother of Clara!”“I can at her insulter,” answered I; and, taking deliberate aim, fired, and my ball entered his side. He bounded, gave a half-turn round in the air, and fell on his face to the ground.How sudden are the transitions of the human mind! how close does remorse follow the gratification of revenge! The veil dropped from my eyes; I saw in an instant the false medium, the deceitful vision, which had thus allured me into what the world calls “an affair of honour.” “Honour,” good Heaven! had made me a murderer, and the voice of my brother’s blood cried out for vengeance.The manly and athletic form, which one minute before excited my most malignant hatred, when now prostrate and speechless became an object of frantic affection. I ran to Talbot, and when it was too late perceived the mischief I had done. Murder, cruelty, injustice, and, above all, the most detestable ingratitude, flushed at once into my over-crowded imagination. I turned the body round, and tried to discover if there were any signs of life. A small stream of blood ran from his side, and, about two feet from him, was lost in the absorbing sand; while from the violence of his fall the sand had filled his mouth and nostrils. I cleaned them out; and stanching the wound with my handkerchief, for the blood flowed copiously at every respiration, I sat on the sea-shore by his side, supporting him in my arms. I only exclaimed, “Would to God the shark, the poison, the sword of the enemy, or the precipice of Trinidad, had destroyed me before this fatal hour!”Talbot opened his languid eyes, and fixed them on me with a glassy stare; but he did not speak. Suddenly recollection seemed for a moment to return—he recognised me, and, O God! his look of kindness pierced my heart. He made several efforts to speak, and at last said, in broken accents, and at long and painful intervals.“Look at letter—writing-desk—read all—explain—God bless—” His head fell back, and he was dead!Oh, how I envied him! had he been ten thousand times more guilty than I had ever supposed him, it would have given no comfort to my mind. I had murdered him, and too late, I acknowledged his innocence. I know not why, and can scarcely tell how I did it, but I took off my neckcloth, and bound it tightly round his waist, over the wound. The blood ceased to flow. I left the body, and returned to our lodging, in a state of mental prostration and misery proportioned to the heat and excitement with which I had quitted it.My first object was to read the letters which my poor friend had referred to. On my arrival, both our servants were up. My hands and clothes were dyed with blood, and they looked at me with astonishment. I ran hastily upstairs to avoid them, and took the writing-desk, the key of which I knew hung to his watch-chain. Seizing the poker, I split it open, and took out the packet he mentioned. At this moment his servant entered the room.“Et mon maître, monsieur, où est-il?”“I have murdered him,” said I, “and you will find him on the sands, near the signal-post; and,” continued I, “I am now robbing him!”My appearance and actions seemed to prove the truth of my assertion. The man flew out of the room; but I was regardless of everything, and even wonder why I should have given my attention to the letters at all, especially as I had now convinced myself of Talbot’s innocence. The packet, however, I did read; and it consisted of a series of letters between Talbot and his father, who had engaged him to a young lady of rank and fortune, without consulting him—un mariage de convenance—which Talbot had resisted in consequence of his attachment to Clara.I have already stated that Talbot of high aristocratic family; and this marriage being wished for by the parents of both parties, they had given it out as being finally settled to take place on the return of Talbot to England. In the last letter, the father had yielded to his entreaties in favour of Clara; only requesting him not to be precipitate in offering himself, as he wished to find some excuse for breaking off the match; and, above all, he fatally enjoined profound secrecy till the affair was arranged. Here, then, was everything explained. Indeed, before I had read these letters, my mind did not need this damning proof of his innocence and my guilt.Just as I had finished reading, thegendarmesentered my room, and, with the officers of justice, led me away to prison. I walked mechanically. I was conducted to a small building in the centre of a square. This was acachotwith an iron-grated window on each of its four sides, but without glass. There was no bench, or table, or anything but the bare walls and the pavement. The wind blew sharply through. I had not even a great-coat; but I felt no cold or personal inconvenience, for my mind was too much occupied by superior misery. The door closed on me, and I heard the bolts turn. There was not an observation made on either part, and I was left to myself.“Well,” said I, “fate has now done its worst, and fortune will be weary at last of tormenting a wretch that she can sink no lower! Death has no terrors for me; and, after death—!” But, even in my misery, I scarcely gave a thought to what might happen in futurity. It might occasionally have obtruded itself on my mind, but was quickly dismissed: I had adopted the atheistical creed of the French Revolution.“Death is eternal sleep, and the sooner I go to sleep the better!” thought I. The only point that pressed itself on my mind was, the dread of a public execution. This my pride revolted at; for pride had again returned, and resumed its empire, even in mycachot.As the day dawned, the noise of the carts and country people coming into the square with their produce, roused me from my reverie, for I had not slept. The prison was surrounded by all ages and all classes, to get a sight of the English murderer; and the light and the air were stopped out of each window by human faces pressed against the bars. I was gazed at as a wild beast; and the children, as they sat on their mother’s shoulders to look at me, received a moral lesson and a warning at my expense.As a tiger in his cage wearies the eye by incessantly walking and turning, so I paced my den; and if I could have reached one of the impertinent gazers, through the slanting aperture and three-foot wall, I should have throttled him. “All these people,” said I, “and thousands more, will witness my last moments on the scaffold!”Stung with this dreadful thought, with rage I searched in my pockets for my penknife, to relieve me at once from my torments and apprehensions; and had I found it, I should certainly have committed suicide. Fortunately I had left it at home, or it would have been buried, in that moment of frenzy, in the carotid artery; for, as well as others, I knew exactly where to find it.The crowd at length began to disperse; the windows were left, except now and then an urchin of a boy showed his ragged head at thegrille. Worn out with bodily fatigue and mental suffering, I was going to throw myself along upon the cold stones, when I saw the face of my own servant, who advanced in haste to the window of the prison, exclaiming with joy:—“Courage, mon cher maître; Monsieur Talbot n’est pas mort!”“Not dead!” exclaimed I, falling unconsciously on my knees, and lifting up my clasped hands and haggard eyes to heaven; “not dead! God be praised. At least there is a hope that I may escape the crime of murder.”Before I could say more, the mayor entered mycachotwith the officers of the police, and informed me that aprocès-verbalhad been held; that my friend had been able to give the clearest answers to all their questions; and that it appeared from the evidence ofMonsieur Talbothimself, that it was anaffaire d’honneur, fairly decided; that the brace of pistols found in the water had confirmed his assertions: “and therefore,monsieur,” continued the mayor, “whether your friend lives or diestout a été fait en règle, et vous êtes libre.”So saying, he bowed very politely, and pointed to the door; nor was I so ceremonious as to beg him to show me the way; out I ran, and flew to the apartment of Talbot, who had sent my servant to say how much he wished to see me. I found him in bed. As I entered, he held out his hand to me, which I covered with kisses and bathed with my tears.“O Talbot!” said I, “can you forgive me?”He squeezed my hand, and from exhaustion let it fall. The surgeon led me out of the room, saying, “All depends on his being kept quiet.” I then learned that he owed his life to two circumstances—the first was, my having bound my neckcloth round the wound; the other was, that the duel took place below high-water mark. The tide was rising when I left him; and the cold waves as they rippled against his body, had restored him to animation. In this state he was found by his servant, not many minutes before the flood would have covered him, for he had not strength to move out of its way. I ascertained also that the ball had entered his liver, and had passed out without doing further injury.I now dressed myself, and devoutly thanking God for His miraculous preservation, took my seat by the bedside of the patient, which I never quitted until his perfect recovery. When this was happily completed, I wrote to my father and to Clara, giving both an exact account of the whole transaction. Clara, undeceived, made no scruple of acknowledging her attachment. Talbot was requested by his father to return home. I accompanied him as far as Calais, where we parted; and in a few weeks after, I had the pleasure of hearing that my sister had become his wife.Left to myself, returned slowly, and much depressed in spirits, to Quillacq’s; where, ordering post-horses, I threw myself into my travelling-carriage into which my valet had by my orders previously placed my luggage.“Where are you going to,monsieur?” said the valet.“Au diable!” said I.“Mais les passeports?” said the man.I felt that I had sufficient passports for the journey I had proposed; but correcting myself, said, “to Switzerland.” It was the first name that came into my head; and I had heard that it was the resort of all my countrymen whose heads, hearts, lungs, or finances were disordered. But during my journey, I neither saw nor heard anything, consequently took no notes, which my readers will rejoice at, because they will be spared that inexhaustible supply to the trunk-makers, “A tour through France and Switzerland.” I travelled night and day; for I could not sleep. The allegory of Io and the gad-fly in the heathen mythology, must surely have been intended to represent the being who, like myself, was tormented by a bad conscience. Like Io I flew; and like her, I was pursued by the eternal gad-fly, wherever I went; and in vain did I try to escape it.I passed the Great St. Bernard on foot. This interested me as I approached it. The mountains below, and the Alps above, were one mass of snow and ice, and I looked down with contempt on the world below me. I took up my abode in the convent for some time; my ample contributions to the box in the chapel made me a welcome sojourner beyond the limited period allowed to travellers, and I felt less and less inclined to quit the scene. My amusement was climbing the most frightful precipices, followed by the large and faithful dogs, and viewing Nature in her wildest and most sublime attire. At other times, when bodily fatigue required rest, I sat down, with morbid melancholy, in the receptacle for the bodies of those unfortunate persons who had perished in the show. There would I remain for hours, musing on their fate: the purity of the air admitted neither putrefaction nor even decay, for a very considerable time; and they lay, to all appearance, as if the breath had even then only quitted them, although, on touching those who had been there for years, they would often crumble into dust.Roman Catholics, we know, are ever anxious to make converts. The prior asked me whether I was not a Protestant? I replied, that I was of no religion; which answer was, I believe, much nearer to the truth than any other I could have given. The reply was far more favourable to the hopes of the monks than if I had said I was a heretic or a Moslem. They thought me much more likely to become a convert totheirreligion, since I had none of my own to oppose it. The monks immediately arranged themselves in theological order, with the whole armour of faith, and laid constant siege to me on all sides; but I was not inclined to any religion, much less to the one I despised. I would sooner have turned Turk.I received a letter from poor unhappy Eugenia—it was the last she ever wrote. It was to acquaint me with the death of her lovely boy, who, having wandered from the house, had fallen into a trout-stream, where he was found drowned some hours after. In her distracted state of mind she could add no more than her blessing, and a firm conviction that we should never meet again in this world. Her letter concluded incoherently; and although I should have said, in the morning, that my mind had not room for another sorrow, yet the loss of this sweet boy, and the state of his wretched mother, found a place in my bosom for a time, to the total exclusion of all other cares. She requested me to hasten to her without delay, if I wished to see her before she died.I took leave of the monks, and travelled with all speed to Paris, and thence to Calais. Reaching Quillacq’s hotel, I received a shock which, although I apprehended danger, I was not prepared for. It was a letter from Eugenia’s agent, announcing her death. She had been seized with a brain fever, and had died at a small town in Norfolk, where she had removed soon after our last unhappy interview. The agent concluded his letter by saying that Eugenia had bequeathed me all her property, which was very considerable, and that her last rational words to him were that I was her first and her only love.I was now callous to suffering. My feelings had been racked to insensibility. Like a ship in a hurricane, the last tremendous sea had swept everything from the decks—the vessel was a wreck, driving as the storm might chance to direct. In the midst of this devastation, I looked around me, and the only object which presented itself to my mind, as worthy of contemplation, was the tomb which contained the remains of Eugenia and her child. To that I resolved to repair.

Pal.Thou art a traitor, Arcite, and a fellowFalse as thy title to her. Friendship, blood,And all the ties between us, I disclaim.Arc.You are mad.Pal.I must be,Till thou art worthy, Arcite; it concerns me!And, in this madness, if I hazard theeAnd take thy life, I deal but truly.Arc.Fie, sir!Beaumont and Fletcher.

Pal.Thou art a traitor, Arcite, and a fellowFalse as thy title to her. Friendship, blood,And all the ties between us, I disclaim.Arc.You are mad.Pal.I must be,Till thou art worthy, Arcite; it concerns me!And, in this madness, if I hazard theeAnd take thy life, I deal but truly.Arc.Fie, sir!Beaumont and Fletcher.

We quitted Paris two days after; and a journey of three days, through an uninteresting country, brought us to the little town of Granville, on the sea-coast, in the Channel. We remained at this delightful place some days; and our letters being regularly forwarded to us, brought us intelligence from England. My father expressed his astonishment at my returning the money drawn for; and trusted, unaccountable as the restitution appeared, that I was not offended, and would consider him my banker, as far as his expenditure and style of living would permit him to advance.

Eugenia, in her letters, reproached herself for having written to me; and concluded that I had drawn so largely upon her merely to prove her sincerity. She assured me, that her caution to me was not dictated by selfishness, but from a consideration for the child.

Clara’s letter informed me that every attempt, even to servility, had been made in order to induce Emily to alter her determination, but without success; and that a coolness had in consequence taken place, and almost an entire interruption of the intimacy between the families. She also added, “I am afraid that your friend is even worse than yourself; for I understand that he is engaged to another woman, and has been so for years. Now, as I must consider that the great tie of your intimacy is his supposed partiality to me, and as I conceive you are under a false impression with respect to his sincerity, I think it my duty to make you acquainted with all I know. It is impossible that you can esteem the man who has trifled with the feelings of your sister; and I sincerely hope that the next letter from you will inform me of your having separated.”

How little did poor Clara think, when she wrote this letter, of the consequences likely to arise from it; that in thus venting her complaints, she was exploding a mine which was to produce results ten times more fatal than anything which had yet befallen us!

I was at this period in a misanthropic state of mind, hating myself and everyone about me. The company of Talbot had long been endured, not enjoyed; and I would gladly have availed myself of any plausible excuse for a separation. True, he was my friend, had proved himself so; but I was in no humour to acknowledge favours. Discarded by her I loved, I discarded every one else. Talbot was a log and a chain, and I thought I could not get rid of him too soon. This letter, therefore, gave me a fair opportunity of venting my spleen; but instead of a cool dismissal, as Clara requested, I determined to dismiss him or myself to another world.

Having finished reading my letter, I laid it down, and made no observation. Talbot, with his usual kind and benevolent countenance, inquired if I had any news? “Yes,” I replied, “I have discovered that you are a villain!”

“That is news indeed,” said he; “and strange that the brother of Clara should have been the messenger to convey it; but this is language, Frank, which not even your unhappy state of mind can excuse. Retract your words.”

“I repeat them,” said I. “You have trifled with my sister, and are a villain.” (Had this been true, it was no more than I had done myself; but my victims had no brothers to avenge their wrongs.)

“The name of Clara,” replied Talbot, “calms me: believe me, Frank, you are mistaken. I love her, and have always had the most honourable intentions towards her.”

“Yes,” said I, with a sarcastic sneer, “at the time that you have been engaged to another woman for years. To one or the other you must acknowledge yourself a scoundrel: I do not, therefore, withdraw my appellation, but repeat it; and as you seem so very patient under injuries, I inform you that you must either meet me on the sands this evening, or consent to be stigmatised with another name still more revolting to the feelings of an Englishman.”

“Enough, enough, Frank,” said Talbot, with a face in which conscious innocence and manly fortitude were blended. “You have said more than I ever expected to have heard from you, and more than the customs of the world will allow me to put up with. What must be, must; but I still tell you, Frank, that you are wrong, that you are fatally deluded, and that you will bitterly repent the follies of this day. It is yourself with whom you are angry, and you are venting that anger on your friend.”

The words were thrown away on me. I felt a secret malignant pleasure, which blindly impelled me forward, with the certainty of glutting my revenge, by either destroying or being destroyed. My sole preparation for this dreadful conflict was my pistols; no other did I, think of, not even the chances of sending my friend and fellow-mortal, or going myself, into the presence of an Almighty Judge. My mind was absorbed in secret pleasure at the idea of that acute misery which Emily would suffer if I fell by the hand of Talbot.

I repaired to the rendezvous, where I found Talbot waiting. He came up to me, and again said:—

“Frank, I call Heaven to witness that you are mistaken. You are wrong. Suspend your opinion, at least, if you will not recall your words.”

Totally possessed by the devil, and not to be convinced till too late, I replied to his peaceful overture by the most insulting irony: “You were not afraid to fire at a poor boy in the water,” said I, “though you do not like to stand a shot in return. Come, come, take your ground, be a man, stand up, don’t be afraid.”

“For myself,” said Talbot, with a firm and placid resignation of countenance, “I have no fears; but for you, Frank, I have great cause of alarm:” so saying, he snatched up the loaded pistol, which I threw down to him.

We had no seconds; nor was there any person in sight. It was a bright moonlight, and we walked to the water’s edge, where the reflux of the tide had left the sand firm to the tread. Here we stood back to back. The usual distance was fourteen paces. Talbot refused to measure his, but stood perfectly still. I walked ten paces, and turned round. “Ready,” said I, in a low voice.

We both raised our arms; but Talbot, instantly dropping the muzzle of his pistol, said, “I cannot fire at the brother of Clara!”

“I can at her insulter,” answered I; and, taking deliberate aim, fired, and my ball entered his side. He bounded, gave a half-turn round in the air, and fell on his face to the ground.

How sudden are the transitions of the human mind! how close does remorse follow the gratification of revenge! The veil dropped from my eyes; I saw in an instant the false medium, the deceitful vision, which had thus allured me into what the world calls “an affair of honour.” “Honour,” good Heaven! had made me a murderer, and the voice of my brother’s blood cried out for vengeance.

The manly and athletic form, which one minute before excited my most malignant hatred, when now prostrate and speechless became an object of frantic affection. I ran to Talbot, and when it was too late perceived the mischief I had done. Murder, cruelty, injustice, and, above all, the most detestable ingratitude, flushed at once into my over-crowded imagination. I turned the body round, and tried to discover if there were any signs of life. A small stream of blood ran from his side, and, about two feet from him, was lost in the absorbing sand; while from the violence of his fall the sand had filled his mouth and nostrils. I cleaned them out; and stanching the wound with my handkerchief, for the blood flowed copiously at every respiration, I sat on the sea-shore by his side, supporting him in my arms. I only exclaimed, “Would to God the shark, the poison, the sword of the enemy, or the precipice of Trinidad, had destroyed me before this fatal hour!”

Talbot opened his languid eyes, and fixed them on me with a glassy stare; but he did not speak. Suddenly recollection seemed for a moment to return—he recognised me, and, O God! his look of kindness pierced my heart. He made several efforts to speak, and at last said, in broken accents, and at long and painful intervals.

“Look at letter—writing-desk—read all—explain—God bless—” His head fell back, and he was dead!

Oh, how I envied him! had he been ten thousand times more guilty than I had ever supposed him, it would have given no comfort to my mind. I had murdered him, and too late, I acknowledged his innocence. I know not why, and can scarcely tell how I did it, but I took off my neckcloth, and bound it tightly round his waist, over the wound. The blood ceased to flow. I left the body, and returned to our lodging, in a state of mental prostration and misery proportioned to the heat and excitement with which I had quitted it.

My first object was to read the letters which my poor friend had referred to. On my arrival, both our servants were up. My hands and clothes were dyed with blood, and they looked at me with astonishment. I ran hastily upstairs to avoid them, and took the writing-desk, the key of which I knew hung to his watch-chain. Seizing the poker, I split it open, and took out the packet he mentioned. At this moment his servant entered the room.

“Et mon maître, monsieur, où est-il?”

“I have murdered him,” said I, “and you will find him on the sands, near the signal-post; and,” continued I, “I am now robbing him!”

My appearance and actions seemed to prove the truth of my assertion. The man flew out of the room; but I was regardless of everything, and even wonder why I should have given my attention to the letters at all, especially as I had now convinced myself of Talbot’s innocence. The packet, however, I did read; and it consisted of a series of letters between Talbot and his father, who had engaged him to a young lady of rank and fortune, without consulting him—un mariage de convenance—which Talbot had resisted in consequence of his attachment to Clara.

I have already stated that Talbot of high aristocratic family; and this marriage being wished for by the parents of both parties, they had given it out as being finally settled to take place on the return of Talbot to England. In the last letter, the father had yielded to his entreaties in favour of Clara; only requesting him not to be precipitate in offering himself, as he wished to find some excuse for breaking off the match; and, above all, he fatally enjoined profound secrecy till the affair was arranged. Here, then, was everything explained. Indeed, before I had read these letters, my mind did not need this damning proof of his innocence and my guilt.

Just as I had finished reading, thegendarmesentered my room, and, with the officers of justice, led me away to prison. I walked mechanically. I was conducted to a small building in the centre of a square. This was acachotwith an iron-grated window on each of its four sides, but without glass. There was no bench, or table, or anything but the bare walls and the pavement. The wind blew sharply through. I had not even a great-coat; but I felt no cold or personal inconvenience, for my mind was too much occupied by superior misery. The door closed on me, and I heard the bolts turn. There was not an observation made on either part, and I was left to myself.

“Well,” said I, “fate has now done its worst, and fortune will be weary at last of tormenting a wretch that she can sink no lower! Death has no terrors for me; and, after death—!” But, even in my misery, I scarcely gave a thought to what might happen in futurity. It might occasionally have obtruded itself on my mind, but was quickly dismissed: I had adopted the atheistical creed of the French Revolution.

“Death is eternal sleep, and the sooner I go to sleep the better!” thought I. The only point that pressed itself on my mind was, the dread of a public execution. This my pride revolted at; for pride had again returned, and resumed its empire, even in mycachot.

As the day dawned, the noise of the carts and country people coming into the square with their produce, roused me from my reverie, for I had not slept. The prison was surrounded by all ages and all classes, to get a sight of the English murderer; and the light and the air were stopped out of each window by human faces pressed against the bars. I was gazed at as a wild beast; and the children, as they sat on their mother’s shoulders to look at me, received a moral lesson and a warning at my expense.

As a tiger in his cage wearies the eye by incessantly walking and turning, so I paced my den; and if I could have reached one of the impertinent gazers, through the slanting aperture and three-foot wall, I should have throttled him. “All these people,” said I, “and thousands more, will witness my last moments on the scaffold!”

Stung with this dreadful thought, with rage I searched in my pockets for my penknife, to relieve me at once from my torments and apprehensions; and had I found it, I should certainly have committed suicide. Fortunately I had left it at home, or it would have been buried, in that moment of frenzy, in the carotid artery; for, as well as others, I knew exactly where to find it.

The crowd at length began to disperse; the windows were left, except now and then an urchin of a boy showed his ragged head at thegrille. Worn out with bodily fatigue and mental suffering, I was going to throw myself along upon the cold stones, when I saw the face of my own servant, who advanced in haste to the window of the prison, exclaiming with joy:—

“Courage, mon cher maître; Monsieur Talbot n’est pas mort!”

“Not dead!” exclaimed I, falling unconsciously on my knees, and lifting up my clasped hands and haggard eyes to heaven; “not dead! God be praised. At least there is a hope that I may escape the crime of murder.”

Before I could say more, the mayor entered mycachotwith the officers of the police, and informed me that aprocès-verbalhad been held; that my friend had been able to give the clearest answers to all their questions; and that it appeared from the evidence ofMonsieur Talbothimself, that it was anaffaire d’honneur, fairly decided; that the brace of pistols found in the water had confirmed his assertions: “and therefore,monsieur,” continued the mayor, “whether your friend lives or diestout a été fait en règle, et vous êtes libre.”

So saying, he bowed very politely, and pointed to the door; nor was I so ceremonious as to beg him to show me the way; out I ran, and flew to the apartment of Talbot, who had sent my servant to say how much he wished to see me. I found him in bed. As I entered, he held out his hand to me, which I covered with kisses and bathed with my tears.

“O Talbot!” said I, “can you forgive me?”

He squeezed my hand, and from exhaustion let it fall. The surgeon led me out of the room, saying, “All depends on his being kept quiet.” I then learned that he owed his life to two circumstances—the first was, my having bound my neckcloth round the wound; the other was, that the duel took place below high-water mark. The tide was rising when I left him; and the cold waves as they rippled against his body, had restored him to animation. In this state he was found by his servant, not many minutes before the flood would have covered him, for he had not strength to move out of its way. I ascertained also that the ball had entered his liver, and had passed out without doing further injury.

I now dressed myself, and devoutly thanking God for His miraculous preservation, took my seat by the bedside of the patient, which I never quitted until his perfect recovery. When this was happily completed, I wrote to my father and to Clara, giving both an exact account of the whole transaction. Clara, undeceived, made no scruple of acknowledging her attachment. Talbot was requested by his father to return home. I accompanied him as far as Calais, where we parted; and in a few weeks after, I had the pleasure of hearing that my sister had become his wife.

Left to myself, returned slowly, and much depressed in spirits, to Quillacq’s; where, ordering post-horses, I threw myself into my travelling-carriage into which my valet had by my orders previously placed my luggage.

“Where are you going to,monsieur?” said the valet.

“Au diable!” said I.

“Mais les passeports?” said the man.

I felt that I had sufficient passports for the journey I had proposed; but correcting myself, said, “to Switzerland.” It was the first name that came into my head; and I had heard that it was the resort of all my countrymen whose heads, hearts, lungs, or finances were disordered. But during my journey, I neither saw nor heard anything, consequently took no notes, which my readers will rejoice at, because they will be spared that inexhaustible supply to the trunk-makers, “A tour through France and Switzerland.” I travelled night and day; for I could not sleep. The allegory of Io and the gad-fly in the heathen mythology, must surely have been intended to represent the being who, like myself, was tormented by a bad conscience. Like Io I flew; and like her, I was pursued by the eternal gad-fly, wherever I went; and in vain did I try to escape it.

I passed the Great St. Bernard on foot. This interested me as I approached it. The mountains below, and the Alps above, were one mass of snow and ice, and I looked down with contempt on the world below me. I took up my abode in the convent for some time; my ample contributions to the box in the chapel made me a welcome sojourner beyond the limited period allowed to travellers, and I felt less and less inclined to quit the scene. My amusement was climbing the most frightful precipices, followed by the large and faithful dogs, and viewing Nature in her wildest and most sublime attire. At other times, when bodily fatigue required rest, I sat down, with morbid melancholy, in the receptacle for the bodies of those unfortunate persons who had perished in the show. There would I remain for hours, musing on their fate: the purity of the air admitted neither putrefaction nor even decay, for a very considerable time; and they lay, to all appearance, as if the breath had even then only quitted them, although, on touching those who had been there for years, they would often crumble into dust.

Roman Catholics, we know, are ever anxious to make converts. The prior asked me whether I was not a Protestant? I replied, that I was of no religion; which answer was, I believe, much nearer to the truth than any other I could have given. The reply was far more favourable to the hopes of the monks than if I had said I was a heretic or a Moslem. They thought me much more likely to become a convert totheirreligion, since I had none of my own to oppose it. The monks immediately arranged themselves in theological order, with the whole armour of faith, and laid constant siege to me on all sides; but I was not inclined to any religion, much less to the one I despised. I would sooner have turned Turk.

I received a letter from poor unhappy Eugenia—it was the last she ever wrote. It was to acquaint me with the death of her lovely boy, who, having wandered from the house, had fallen into a trout-stream, where he was found drowned some hours after. In her distracted state of mind she could add no more than her blessing, and a firm conviction that we should never meet again in this world. Her letter concluded incoherently; and although I should have said, in the morning, that my mind had not room for another sorrow, yet the loss of this sweet boy, and the state of his wretched mother, found a place in my bosom for a time, to the total exclusion of all other cares. She requested me to hasten to her without delay, if I wished to see her before she died.

I took leave of the monks, and travelled with all speed to Paris, and thence to Calais. Reaching Quillacq’s hotel, I received a shock which, although I apprehended danger, I was not prepared for. It was a letter from Eugenia’s agent, announcing her death. She had been seized with a brain fever, and had died at a small town in Norfolk, where she had removed soon after our last unhappy interview. The agent concluded his letter by saying that Eugenia had bequeathed me all her property, which was very considerable, and that her last rational words to him were that I was her first and her only love.

I was now callous to suffering. My feelings had been racked to insensibility. Like a ship in a hurricane, the last tremendous sea had swept everything from the decks—the vessel was a wreck, driving as the storm might chance to direct. In the midst of this devastation, I looked around me, and the only object which presented itself to my mind, as worthy of contemplation, was the tomb which contained the remains of Eugenia and her child. To that I resolved to repair.

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