Under pretence of indisposition, I refused to meet the family. I heard them depart. Too proud to accept of obligation, I had not confided to them my plans, if plans they could be called, where no distinct end was in view.
A few hours after their departure, I once more seated myself in a stage coach, in which I had previously secured a place, and took the road to London. I perceived, on entering the carriage, only one passenger, who had placed himself in the opposite corner, and in whom, to my great surprize, I immediately recognized Mr Montague. We had not met since the visit he had paid me at Mrs Harley's, the result of which I have already related: since that period, it had been reported in the village, that he addressed Sarah Morton, and that they were about to be united. Montague manifested equal surprize at our meeting: the intelligence of my friend's death (at which he expressed real concern) had not reached him, neither was he acquainted with my being in that part of the country. He had not lately been at Mr Morton's, he informed me, but had just left his father's, and was going to London to complete his medical studies.
After these explanations, absorbed in painful contemplation, I for some time made little other return to his repeated civilities, than by cold monosyllables: till at length, his cordial sympathy, his gentle accents, and humane attentions, awakened me from my reverie. Ever accessible to the soothings of kindness, I endeavoured to exert myself, to prove the sense I felt of his humanity. Gratified by having succeeded in attracting my attention, he redoubled his efforts to cheer and amuse me. My dejected and languid appearance had touched his feelings, and, towards the end of our journey, his unaffected zeal to alleviate the anxiety under which I evidently appeared to labour, soothed my mind and inspired me with confidence.
He respectfully requested to know in what part of the town I resided, and hoped to be permitted to pay his respects to me, and to enquire after my welfare? This question awakened in my bosom so many complicated and painful sensations, that, after remaining silent for a few minutes, I burst into a flood of tears.
'I have no home;' said I, in a voice choaked with sobs—'I am an alien in the world—and alone in the universe.'
His eyes glistened, his countenance expressed the most lively, and tender, commiseration, while, in a timid and respectful voice, he made me offers of service, and entreated me to permit him to be useful to me.
'I then mentioned, in brief, my present unprotected situation, and hinted, that as my fortune was small, I could wish to procure a humble, but decent, apartment in a reputable family, till I had consulted one friend, who, I yet flattered myself, was interested in my concerns, or till I could fix on a more eligible method of providing for myself.'
He informed me—'That he had a distant relation in town, a decent, careful, woman, who kept a boarding house, and whose terms were very reasonable. He was assured, would I permit him to introduce me to her, she would be happy, should her accommodation suit me, to pay me every attention in her power.'
In my forlorn situation, I confided, without hesitation, in his recommendation, and gratefully acceded to the proposal.
Mr Montague introduced me to this lady in the most flattering terms, she received me with civility, but, I fancied, not without a slight mixture of distrust. I agreed with her for a neat chamber, with a sitting room adjoining, on the second floor, and settled for the terms of my board, more than the whole amount of the interest of my little fortune.
I took an early opportunity of addressing a few lines to Mr Francis, informing him of my situation, and entreating his counsel. I waited a week, impatiently, for his reply, but in vain: well acquainted with his punctuality, and alarmed by this silence, I mentioned the step I had taken, and my apprehensions, to Montague, who immediately repaired, himself, to the house of Mr Francis; and, finding it shut up, was informed by the neighbours, that Mr Francis had quitted England, a short time before, in company with a friend, intending to make a continental tour.
This intelligence was a new shock to me. I called on some of my former acquaintance, mentioning to them my wish of procuring pupils, or of engaging in any other occupation fitted to my talents. I was received by some with civility, by others with coldness, but every one appeared too much engrossed by his own affairs to give himself the trouble of making any great exertion for others.
I returned dispirited—I walked through the crowded city, and observed the anxious and busy faces of all around me. In the midst of my fellow beings, occupied in various pursuits, I seemed, as if in an immense desart, a solitary outcast from society. Active, industrious, willing to employ my faculties in any way, by which I might procure an honest independence, I beheld no path open to me, but that to which my spirit could not submit—the degradation of servitude. Hapless woman!—crushed by the iron hand of barbarous despotism, pampered into weakness, and trained the slave of meretricious folly!—what wonder, that, shrinking from the chill blasts of penury (which the pernicious habits of thy education have little fitted thy tender frame to encounter) thou listenest to the honied accents of the spoiler; and, to escape the galling chain of servile dependence, rushest into the career of infamy, from whence the false and cruel morality of the world forbids thy return, and perpetuates thy disgrace and misery! When will mankind be aware of the uniformity, of the importance, of truth? When will they cease to confound, by sexual, by political, by theological, distinctions, those immutable principles, which form the true basis of virtue and happiness? The paltry expedients of combating error with error, and prejudice with prejudice, in one invariable and melancholy circle, have already been sufficiently tried, have already been demonstrated futile:—they have armed man against man, and filled the world with crimes, and with blood.—How has the benign and gentle nature of Reform been mistated! 'One false idea,' justly says an acute and philosophic writer,20'united with others, produces such as are necessarily false; which, combining again with all those the memory retains, give to all a tinge of falsehood. One error, alone, is sufficient to infect the whole mass of the mind, and produce an infinity of capricious, monstrous, notions.—Every vice is the error of the understanding; crimes and prejudices are brothers; truth and virtue sisters. These things, known to the wise, are hid from fools!'
Without a sufficiently interesting pursuit, a fatal torpor stole over my spirits—my blood circulated languidly through my veins. Montague, in the intervals from business and amusement, continued to visit me. He brought me books, read to me, chatted with me, pressed me to accompany him to places of public entertainment, which (determined to incur no pecuniary obligation) I invariably refused.
I received his civilities with the less scruple, from the information I had received of his engagement with Miss Morton; which, with his knowledge of my unhappy attachment, I thought, precluded every idea of a renewal of those sentiments he had formerly professed for me.
In return for his friendship, I tried to smile, and exerted my spirits, to prove my grateful sensibility of his kindness: but, while he appeared to take a lively interest in my sorrows, he carefully avoided a repetition of the language in which he had once addressed me; yet, at times, his tender concern seemed sliding into a sentiment still softer, which obliged me to practise more reserve: he was not insensible of this, and was frequently betrayed into transient bursts of passion and resentment, which, on my repelling with firmness, he would struggle to repress, and afterwards absent himself for a time.
Unable to devise any method of increasing my income, and experiencing the pressure of some daily wants and inconveniencies, I determined, at length, on selling the sum invested, in my name, in the funds, and purchasing a life annuity.
Recollecting the name of a banker, with whom my uncle, the friend of my infancy, had formerly kept cash, I learned his residence, and, waiting upon him, made myself known as the niece of an old and worthy friend; at the same time acquainting him with my intentions.—He offered to transact the affair for me immediately, the funds being, then, in a very favourable position; and to preserve the money in his hands till an opportunity should offer of laying it out to advantage. I gave him proper credentials for the accomplishing of this business, and returned to my apartment with a heart somewhat lightened. This scheme had never before occurred to me. The banker, who was a man of commercial reputation, had assured me, that my fortune might now be sold out with little loss; and that, by purchasing an annuity, on proper security, at seven or eight per cent, I might, with œconomy, be enabled to support myself decently, with comfort and independence.
20:Helvetius.
Some weeks elapsed, and I heard no more from my banker. A slight indisposition confined me to the house. One evening, Mr Montague, coming to my apartment to enquire after my health, brought with him a newspaper (as was his frequent custom), and, finding me unwell, and dispirited, began to read some parts from it aloud, in the hope of amusing me. Among the articles of home intelligence, a paragraph stated—'The failure of a considerable mercantile house, which had created an alarm upon the Exchange, as, it was apprehended, some important consequences would follow in the commercial world. A great banking-house, it was hinted, not many miles from——, was likely to be affected, by some rumours, in connection with this business, which had occasioned a considerable run upon it for the last two or three days.'
My attention was roused—I eagerly held out my hand for the paper, and perused this alarming paragraph again and again, without observing the surprize expressed in the countenance of Montague, who was at a loss to conceive why this intelligence should be affecting to me.—I sat, for some minutes, involved in thought, till a question from my companion, several times repeated, occasioned me to start. I immediately recollected myself, and tried to reason away my fears, as vague and groundless. I was about to explain the nature of them to my friend—secretly accusing myself for not having done so sooner, and availed myself of his advice, when a servant, entering, put a letter into his hand.
Looking upon the seal and superscription, he changed colour, and opened it hastily. Strong emotion was painted in his features while he perused it. I regarded him with anxiety. He rose from his seat, walked up and down the room with a disordered pace—opened the door, as if with an intention of going out—shut it—returned back again—threw himself into a chair—covered his face with his handkerchief—appeared in great agitation—and burst into tears. I arose, went to him, and took his hand—'My friend!' said I—I would have added something more—but, unable to proceed, I sunk into a seat beside him, and wept in sympathy. He pressed my hand to his lips—folded me wildly in his arms, and attempted to speak—but his voice was lost in convulsive sobs. I gently withdrew myself, and waited, in silence, till the violence of his emotions should subside. He held out to me the letter he had received. I perused it. It contained an account of the sudden death of his father, and a summons for his immediate return to the country, to settle the affairs, and to take upon him his father's professional employment.
'You leave me, then!' said I—'I lose my only remaining friend!'
'Never!'—he replied, emphatically.
I blushed for having uttered so improper, so selfish, a remark; and endeavoured to atone for it by forgetting the perils of my own situation, in attention to that of this ardent, but affectionate, young man.—His sufferings were acute and violent for some days, during which he quitted me only at the hours of repose—I devoted myself to sooth and console him. I felt, that I had been greatly indebted to his friendship and kindness, and I endeavoured to repay the obligation. He appeared fully sensible of my cares, and, mingled with his acknowledgments expressions of a tenderness, so lively, and unequivocal, as obliged me, once more, to be more guarded in my behaviour.
In consideration for the situation of Mr Montague—I had forgotten the paragraph in the paper, till an accidental intelligence of the bankruptcy of the house, in which my little fortune was entrusted, confirmed to me the certainty of this terrible blow. Montague was sitting with me when I received the unwelcome news.
'Gracious God!' I exclaimed, clasping my hands, and raising my eyes to heaven—'What is to become of me now?—The measure of my sorrows is filled up!'
It was some time before I had power to explain the circumstances to my companion.
'Do not distress yourself, my lovely Emma,' said he; 'I will be your friend—your guardian—' (and he added, in a low, yet fervent, accent)—'your husband!'
'No—no—no!' answered I, shaking my head, 'that must not, cannot, be! I would perish, rather than take advantage of a generosity like yours. I will go to service—I will work for my bread—and, if I cannot procure a wretched sustenance—I can but die! Life, to me, has long been worthless!'
My countenance, my voice, my manner, but too forcibly expressed the keen anguish of my soul. I seemed to be marked out for the victim of a merciless destiny—for the child of sorrow! The susceptible temper of Montague, softened by his own affliction, was moved by my distress. He repeated, and enforced, his proposal, with all the ardour of a youthful, a warm, an uncorrupted, mind.
'You add to my distress,' replied I. 'I have not a heart to bestow—I lavished mine upon one, who scorned and contemned it. Its sensibility is now exhausted. Shall I reward a faithful and generous tenderness, like yours, with a cold, a worthless, an alienated, mind? No, no!—Seek an object more worthy of you, and leave me to my fate.'
At that moment, I had forgotten the report of his engagement with Miss Morton; but, on his persisting, vehemently, to urge his suit, I recollected, and immediately mentioned, it, to him. He confessed—
'That, stung by my rejection, and preference of Mr Harley, he had, at one period, entertained a thought of that nature; but that he had fallen out with the family, in adjusting the settlements. Mrs Morton had persuaded her husband to make, what he conceived to be, ungenerous requisitions. Miss Morton had discovered much artifice, but little sensibility, on the occasion. Disgusted with the apathy of the father, the insolence of the mother and the low cunning of the daughter, he had abruptly quitted them, and broken off all intercourse with the family.'
It is not necessary to enlarge on this part of my narrative. Suffice it to say, that, after a long contest, my desolate situation, added to the persevering affection of this enthusiastic young man, prevailed over my objections. His happiness, he told me, entirely depended on my decision. I would not deceive him:—I related to him, with simplicity and truth, all the circumstances of my past conduct towards Mr Harley. He listened to me with evident emotion—interrupted me, at times, with execrations; and, once or twice, vowing vengeance on Augustus, appeared on the verge of outrage. But I at length reasoned him into greater moderation, and obliged him to do justice to the merit and honour of Mr Harley. He acquiesced reluctantly, and with an ill grace, yet, with a lover-like partiality, attributed his conduct to causes, of which I had discerned no traces. He assured himself that the affections of a heart, tender as mine, would be secured by kindness and assiduity—and I at last yielded to his importunity. We were united in a short time, and I accompanied my husband to the town of——, in the county of——, the residence of his late father.
Mr Montague presented me to his relations and friends, by whom I was received with a flattering distinction. My wearied spirits began now to find repose. My husband was much occupied in the duties of his profession. We had a respectable circle of acquaintance: In the intervals of social engagement, and domestic employment, ever thirsting after knowledge, I occasionally applied myself to the study of physic, anatomy, and surgery,withthe various branches of science connected with them; by which means I frequently rendered myself essentially serviceable to my friend; and, by exercising my understanding and humanity, strengthened my mind, and stilled the importunate suggestions of a heart too exquisitely sensible.
The manners of Mr Montague were kind and affectionate, though subject, at times, to inequalities and starts of passion; he confided in me, as his best and truest friend—and I deserved his confidence:—yet, I frequently observed the restlessness and impetuosity of his disposition with apprehension.
I felt for my husband a rational esteem, and a grateful affection:—but those romantic, high-wrought, frenzied, emotions, that had rent my heart during its first attachment—that enthusiasm, that fanaticism, to which opposition had given force, the bare recollection of which still shook my soul with anguish, no longer existed. Montague was but too sensible of this difference, which naturally resulted from the change of circumstances, and was unreasonable enough to complain of what secured our tranquillity. If a cloud, sometimes, hung over my brow—if I relapsed, for a short period, into a too habitual melancholy, he would grow captious, and complain.
'You esteem me, Emma: I confide in your principles, and I glory in your friendship—but, you have neverlovedme!'
'Why will you be so unjust, both to me, and to yourself?'
'Tell me, then, sincerely—I know you will not deceive me—Have you ever felt for me those sentiments with which Augustus Harley inspired you?'
'Certainly not—I do not pretend to it—neither ought you to wish it. My first attachment was the morbid excess of a distempered imagination. Liberty, reason, virtue, usefulness, were the offerings I carried to its shrine. It preyed incessantly upon my heart, I drank up its vital spirit, it became a vice from its excess—it was a pernicious, though a sublime, enthusiasm—its ravages are scarcely to be remembered without shuddering—all the strength, the dignity, the powers, of my mind, melted before it! Do you wish again to see me the slave of my passions—do you regret, that I am restored to reason? To you I owe every thing—life, and its comforts, rational enjoyments, and the opportunity of usefulness. I feel for you all the affection that a reasonable and a virtuous mind ought to feel—that affection which is compatible with the fulfilling of other duties. We are guilty of vice and selfishness when we yield ourselves up to unbounded desires, and suffer our hearts to be wholly absorbed by one object, however meritorious that object may be.'
'Ah! how calmly you reason,—while I listen to you I cannot help loving and admiring you, but I must ever hate that accursed Harley—No!I am not satisfied—and I sometimes regret that I ever beheld you.'
Many months glided away with but little interruptions to our tranquillity.—A remembrance of the past would at times obtrude itself, like the broken recollections of a feverish vision. To banish these painful retrospections, I hastened to employ myself; every hour was devoted to active usefulness, or to social and rational recreation.
I became a mother; in performing the duties of a nurse, my affections were awakened to new and sweet emotions.—The father of my child appeared more respectable in my eyes, became more dear to me: the engaging smiles of my little Emma repayed me for every pain and every anxiety. While I beheld my husband caress his infant, I tasted a pure, a chaste, an ineffable pleasure.
About six weeks after my recovery from childbed, some affairs of importance called Mr Montague to London. Three days after he had quitted me, as, bending over the cradle of my babe, I contemplated in silence its tranquil slumbers, I was alarmed by an uncommon confusion in the lower part of the house. Hastening down stairs, to enquire into the cause, I was informed—that a gentleman, in passing through the town, had been thrown from his horse, that he was taken up senseless, and, as was customary in cases of accident, had been brought into our house, that he might receive assistance.
Mr Montague was from home, a young gentleman who resided with us, and assisted my husband in his profession, was also absent, visiting a patient. Having myself acquired some knowledge of surgery, I went immediately into the hall to give the necessary directions on the occasion. The gentleman was lying on the floor, without any signs of life. I desired the people to withdraw, who, crowding round with sincere, but useless sympathy, obstructed the circulation of air. Approaching the unfortunate man, I instantly recognised the well-known features, though much altered, wan and sunk, ofAugustus Harley. Staggering a few paces backward—a death-like sickness overspread my heart—a crowd of confused and terrible emotions rushed through my mind.—But a momentary reflection recalled my scattered thoughts. Once before, I had saved from death an object so fatal to my repose. I exerted all my powers, his hair was clotted, and his face disfigured with blood; I ordered the servants to raise and carry him to an adjoining apartment, wherein was a large, low sopha, on which they laid him. Carefully washing the blood from the wound, I found he had received a dangerous contusion in his head, but that the scull, as I had at first apprehended, was not fractured. I cut the hair from the wounded part, and applied a proper bandage. I did more—no other assistance being at hand, I ventured to open a vein: the blood presently flowed freely, and he began to revive. I bathed his temples, and sprinkled the room with vinegar, opened the windows to let the air pass freely through, raised his head with the pillows of the sopha, and sprinkled his face and breast with cold water. I held his hand in mine—I felt the languid and wavering pulse quicken—I fixed my eyes upon his face—at that moment every thing else was forgotten, and my nerves seemed firmly braced by my exertions.
He at length opened his eyes, gazed upon me with a vacant look, and vainly attempted, for some time, to speak. At last, he uttered a few incoherent words, but I perceived his senses were wandering, and I conjectured, too truly, that his brain had received a concussion. He made an effort to rise, but sunk down again.
'Where am I,' said he, 'every object appears to me double.'
He shut his eyes, and remained silent. I mixed for him a cordial and composing medicine, and entreating him to take it, he once more raised himself, and looked up.—Our eyes met, his were wild and unsettled.
'That voice,'—said he, in a low tone, 'that countenance—Oh God! where am I?'
A strong, but transient, emotion passed over his features. With a trembling hand he seized and swallowed the medicine I had offered, and again relapsed into a kind of lethargic stupor. I then gave orders for a bed to be prepared, into which I had him conveyed. I darkened the room, and desired, that he might be kept perfectly quiet.
I retired to my apartment, my confinement was yet but recent, and I had not perfectly recovered my strength. Exhausted by the strong efforts I had made, and the stronger agitation of my mind, I sunk into a fainting fit, (to which I was by no means subject) and remained for some time in a state of perfect insensibility. On my recovery, I learnt that Mr Lucas, the assistant of my husband, had returned, and was in the chamber of the stranger; I sent for him on his quitting the apartment, and eagerly interrogated him respecting the state of the patient. He shook his head—I related to him the methods I had taken, and enquired whether I had erred? He smiled—
'You are an excellent surgeon,' said he, 'you acted very properly, but,' observing my pallid looks, 'I wish your little nursery may not suffer from your humanity'—
'I lay no claim,' replied I with emotion—'to extraordinary humanity—I would have done the same for the poorest of my fellow creatures—but this gentleman is an old acquaintance,a friend, whom, in the early periods of my life, I greatly respected.'
'I am sorry for it, for I dare not conceal from you, that I think him in a dangerous condition.'
I changed countenance—'There is no fracture, no bones are broken.'—
'No, but the brain has received an alarming concussion—he is also, otherwise, much bruised, and, I fear, has suffered some internal injury.'
'You distress and terrify me,' said I, gasping for breath—'What is to be done—shall we call in further advice?'
'I think so; in the mean time, if you are acquainted with his friends, you would do well to apprize them of what has happened.'
'I know little of them, I know not where to address them—Oh! save him,' continued I, clasping my hands with encreased emotion, unconscious of what I did, 'for God's sake save him, if you would preserve me from dis—'
A look penetrating and curious from Lucas, recalled me to reason. Commending his patient to my care, he quitted me, and rode to the next town to procure the aid of a skilful and experienced Physician. I walked up and down the room for some time in a state of distraction.
'He will die'—exclaimed I—'die in my house—fatal accident! Oh, Augustus!too tenderly beloved, thou wert fated to be the ruin of my peace! But, whatever may be the consequences, I will perform, for thee, the last tender offices.—I will not desert my duty!'
The nurse brought to me my infant, it smiled in my face—I pressed it to my bosom—I wept over it.—How could I, from that agitated bosom, give it a pernicious sustenance?
In the evening, I repaired to the chamber of Mr Harley, I sat by his bed-side, I gazed mournfully on his flushed, but vacant countenance—I took his hand—it was dry and burning—the pulse beat rapidly, but irregularly, beneath my trembling fingers. His lips moved, he seemed to speak, though inarticulately—but sometimes raising his voice, I could distinguish a few incoherent sentences. In casting my eyes round the room, I observed the scattered articles of his dress, his cloaths were black, and in his hat, which lay on the ground, I discovered a crape hatband. I continued to hold his burning hand in mine.
'She died,'—said he—'and my unkindness killed her—unhappy Emma—thy heart was too tender!'—I shuddered—'No, no,'—continued he, after a few minutes pause, 'she is not married—she dared not give her hand without her heart,and that heart was only mine!' he added something more, in a lower tone, which I was unable to distinguish.
Overcome by a variety of sensations, I sunk into a chair, and, throwing my handkerchief over my face, indulged my tears.
Sometimes he mentioned his wife, sometimes his mother.—At length, speaking rapidly, in a raised voice—'My son,'—said he, 'thou hast no mother—but Emma will be a mother to thee—she will love thee—she loved thy father—her heart was the residence of gentle affections—yet, I pierced that heart!'
I suspected, that a confused recollection of having seen me on recovering from the state of insensibility, in which he had been brought, after the accident, into our house, had probably recalled the associations formerly connected with this idea. The scene became too affecting: I rushed from the apartment. All the past impressions seemed to revive in my mind—my thoughts, with fatal mechanism, ran back into their old and accustomed channels.—For a moment, conjugal, maternal, duties, every considerationbut for one objectfaded from before me!
In a few hours, Mr Lucas returned with the physician;—I attended them to the chamber, heedfully watching their looks. The fever still continued very high, accompanied with a labouring, unsteady pulse, a difficult respiration, and strong palpitations of the heart. The doctor said little, but I discovered his apprehensions in his countenance. The patient appeared particularly restless and uneasy, and the delirium still continued. On quitting the apartment, I earnestly conjured the gentlemen to tell me their opinion of the case. They both expressed an apprehension of internal injury.
'But a short time,' they added, 'would determine it; in the mean while he must be kept perfectly still.'
I turned from them, and walked to the window—I raised my eyes to heaven—I breathed an involuntary ejaculation—I felt that the crisis of my fate was approaching, and I endeavoured to steel my nerves—to prepare my mind for the arduous duties which awaited me.
Mr Lucas approached me, the physician having quitted the room. 'Mrs Montague,' said he, in an emphatic tone—'in your sympathy for astranger, do not forget other relations.'
'I do not need, sir, to be reminded by you of my duties; were not the sufferings of a fellow being a sufficient claim upon our humanity, this gentleman hasmore affecting claims—I am neither a stranger to him, nor to his virtues.'
'So I perceive, madam,' said he, with an air a little sarcastic, 'I wish, Mr Montague were here to participate your cares.'
'I wish he were, sir, his generous nature would not disallow them.' I spoke haughtily, and abruptly left him.
I took a turn in the garden, endeavouring to compose my spirits, and, after visiting the nursery, returned to the chamber of Mr Harley. I there found Mr Lucas, and in a steady tone, declared my intention of watching his patient through the night.
'As you please, madam,' said he coldly.
I seated myself in an easy chair, reclining my head on my hand. The bed curtains were undrawn on the side next me. Augustus frequently started, as from broken slumbers; his respiration grew, every moment, more difficult and laborious, and, sometimes, he groaned heavily, as if in great pain. Once he suddenly raised himself in the bed, and, gazing wildly round the room, exclaimed in a distinct, but hurried tone—
'Why dost thou persecute me with thy ill-fated tenderness? A fathomless gulf separates us!—Emma!' added he, in a plaintive voice, 'dost thou, indeed, still love me?' and, heaving a convulsive sigh, sunk again on his pillow.
Mr Lucas, who stood at the feet of the bed, turned his eye on me. I met his glance with the steady aspect of conscious rectitude. About midnight, our patient grew worse, and, after strong agonies, was seized with a vomiting of blood. The fears of the physician were but too well verified, he had again ruptured the blood-vessel, once before broken.
Mr Lucas had but just retired, I ordered him to be instantly recalled, and, stifling every feeling, that might incapacitate me for active exertion, I rendered him all the assistance in my power—I neither trembled, nor shed a tear—I banished thewomanfrom my heart—I acquitted myself with a firmness that would not have disgraced the most experienced, and veteran surgeon. My services were materially useful, my solicitude vanquished every shrinking sensibility,affection had converted me into a heroine! The hæmorrhage continued, at intervals, all the next day: I passed once or twice from the chamber to the nursery, and immediately returned. We called in a consultation, but little hope was afforded.
The next night, Mr Lucas and myself continued to watch—towards morning our exhausted patient sunk into an apparently tranquil slumber. Mr Lucas intreated me to retire, and take some repose, on my refusal, he availed himself of the opportunity, and went to his apartment, desiring to be called if any change should take place. The nurse slept soundly in her chair, I alone remained watching—I felt neither fatigue nor languor—my strength seemed preserved as by a miracle, so omnipotent is the operation of moral causes!
Silence reigned throughout the house; I hung over the object of my tender cares—his features were serene—but his cheeks and lips were pale and bloodless. From time to time I took his lifeless hand—a low, fluttering, pulse, sometimes seeming to stop, and then to vibrate with a tremulous motion, but too plainly justified my fears—his breath, though less laborious, was quick and short—a cold dew hung upon his temples—I gently wiped them with my handkerchief, and pressed my lips to his forehead. Yet, at that moment, that solemn moment—while I beheld the object of my virgin affections—whom I had loved with a tenderness, 'passing the love of woman'—expiring before my eyes—I forgot not that I was a wife and a mother.—The purity of my feelings sanctified their enthusiasm!
The day had far advanced, though the house still remained quiet, when Augustus, after a deep drawn sigh, opened his eyes. The loss of blood had calmed the delirium, and though he regarded me attentively, and with evident surprize, the wildness of his eyes and countenance had given place to their accustomed steady expression. He spoke in a faint voice.
'Where am I, how came I here?'
I drew nearer to him—'An unfortunate accident has thrown you into the care of kind friends—you have been veryill—it is not proper that you should exert yourself—rely on those to whom your safety is precious.'
He looked at me as I spoke—his eyes glistened—he breathed a half smothered sigh, but attempted not to reply. He continued to doze at intervals throughout the day, but evidently grew weaker every hour—I quitted him not for a moment, even my nursery was forgotten. I sat, or knelt, at the bed's head, and, between his short and broken slumbers, administered cordial medicines. He seemed to take them with pleasure from my hand, and a mournful tenderness at times beamed in his eyes. I neither spake nor wept—my strength appeared equal to every trial.
In the evening, starting from a troubled sleep, he fell into convulsions—I kept my station—our efforts were successful—he again revived. I supported the pillows on which his head reclined, sprinkled the bed cloaths, and bathed his temples, with hungary water, while I wiped from them the damps of death. A few tears at length forced their way, they fell upon his hand, which rested on the pillow—he kissed them off, and raised to mine his languid eyes, in which death was already painted.
The blood forsaking the extremities, rushed wildly to my heart, a strong palpitation seized it, my fortitude had well nigh forsaken me. But I had been habituated to subdue my feelings, and should I suffer them to disturb the last moments of him,who had taught me this painful lesson? He made a sign for a cordial, an attendant offering one—he waved his hand and turned from her his face—I took it—held it to his lips, and he instantly drank it. Another strong emotion shook my nerves—once more I struggled and gained the victory. He spoke in feeble and interrupted periods—kneeling down, scarce daring to breathe, I listened.
'I have a son,' said he,—'I am dying—he will have no longer a parent—transfer to him a portion of—'
'I comprehend you—say no more—he is mine—I adopt him—where shall I find—?'
He pointed to his cloaths;—'a pocket book'—said he, in accents still fainter.
'Enough!—I swear, in this awful moment, never to forsake him.'
He raised my hand to his lips—a tender smile illumined his countenance—'Surely,' said he, 'I have sufficiently fulfilled the dictates of a rigid honour!—In these last moments—when every earthly tie is dissolving—when human institutions fade before my sight—I may, without a crime, tell you—that I have loved you.—Your tenderness early penetrated my heart—aware of its weakness—I sought to shun you—I imposed on myself those severe laws of which you causelessly complained.—Had my conduct been less rigid, I had been lost—I had been unjust to the bonds which I had voluntarily contracted; and which, therefore, had on me indispensible claims. I acted from good motives, but no doubt, was guilty of some errors—yet, my conflicts were, even, more cruel than yours—I had not only to contend against my own sensibility, but against yours also.—The fire which is pent up burns the fiercest!'—
He ceased to speak—a transient glow, which had lighted up his countenance, faded—exhausted, by the strong effort he had made, he sunk back—his eyes grew dim—they closed—their last light beamed on me!—I caught him in my arms—and—he awoke no more. The spirits, that had hitherto supported me, suddenly subsided. I uttered a piercing shriek, and sunk upon the body.
Many weeks passed of which I have no remembrance, they were a blank in my life—a long life of sorrow! When restored to recollection, I found myself in my own chamber, my husband attending me. It was a long time before I could clearly retrace the images of the past. I learned—
'That I had been seized with a nervous fever, in consequence of having exerted myself beyond my strength; that my head had been disordered; that Mr Montague on his return, finding me in this situation, of which Mr Lucas had explained the causes, had been absorbed in deep affliction; that, inattentive to every other concern, he had scarcely quitted my apartment; that my child had been sent out to nurse; and that my recovery had been despaired of.'
My constitution was impaired by these repeated shocks. I continued several months in a low and debilitated state.—With returning reason, I recalled to my remembrance the charge which Augustus had consigned to me in his last moments. I enquired earnestly for the pocket-book he had mentioned, and was informed, that, after his decease, it had been found, and its contents examined, which were a bank note of fifty pounds, some letters, and memorandums. Among the letters was one from his brother, by which means they had learned his address, and had been enabled to transmit to him an account of the melancholy catastrophe, and to request his orders respecting the disposal of the body. On the receipt of this intelligence, the younger Mr Harley had come immediately into ——shire, had received his brother's effects, and had his remains decently and respectfully interred in the town where the fatal accident had taken place, through which he was passing in his way to visit a friend.
As soon as I had strength to hold a pen, I wrote to this gentleman, mentioning the tender office which had been consigned to me; and requesting that the child, or children, of Mr Augustus Harley, might be consigned to my care. To this letter I received an answer, in a few days, hinting—
'That the marriage of my deceased friend had not been more imprudent than unfortunate; that he had struggled with great difficulties and many sorrows; that his wife had been dead near a twelve-month; that he had lost two of his children, about the same period, with the small-pox, one only surviving, the younger, a son, a year and a half old; that it was, at present, at nurse, under his (his brother's) protection; that his respect for me, and knowledge of my friendship for their family, added to his wish of complying with every request of his deceased brother, prevented him from hesitating a moment respecting the propriety of yielding the child to my care; that it should be delivered to any person whom I should commission for the purpose; and that I might draw upon him for the necessary charges towards the support and education of his nephew.'
I mentioned to Mr Montague these particulars, with a desire of availing myself of his counsel and assistance on the occasion.
'You are free, madam,' he replied, with a cold and distant air, 'to act as you shall think proper; but you must excuse me from making myself responsible in this affair.'
I sighed deeply. I perceived, but too plainly, thata mortal blow was given to my tranquillity; but I determined to persevere in what I considered to be my duty. On the retrospect of my conduct, my heart acquitted me; and I endeavoured to submit, without repining, to my fate.
I was, at this period, informed by a faithful servant, who attended me during my illness, of what I had before but too truly conjectured—That in my delirium I had incessantly called upon the name of Augustus Harley, and repeated, at intervals, in broken language, the circumstances of our last tender and fatal interview: this, with some particulars related by Mr Lucas to Mr Montague on his return, had, it seems, at the time, inflamed the irascible passions of my husband, almost to madness. His transports had subsided, by degrees, into gloomy reserve: he had watched me, till my recovery, with unremitting attention; since which his confidence and affection became, every day, more visibly alienated. Self-respect suppressed my complaints—conscious of deserving, even more than ever, his esteem, I bore his caprice with patience, trusting that time, and my conduct, would restore him to reason, and awaken in his heart a sense of justice.
I sent for my babe from the house of the nurse, to whose care it had been confided during my illness, and placed the little Augustus in its stead. 'It is unnecessary, my friend, to say, that you were that lovely and interesting child.—Oh! with what emotion did I receive, and press, you to my care-worn bosom; retracing in your smiling countenance the features of your unfortunate father! Adopting you for my own, I divided my affection between you and my Emma. Scarce a day passed that I did not visit the cottage of your nurse. I taught you to call me by the endearing name ofmother! I delighted to see you caress my infant with fraternal tenderness—I endeavoured to cherish this growing affection, and found a sweet relief from my sorrows in these tender, maternal, cares.'
My health being considerably injured, I had taken a young woman into my house, to assist me in the nursery, and in other domestic offices. She was in her eighteenth year—simple, modest, and innocent. This girl had resided with me for some months. I had been kind to her, and she seemed attached to me. One morning, going suddenly into Mr Montague's dressing-room, I surprised Rachel sitting on a sopha with her master:—he held her hand in his, while his arm was thrown round her waist; and they appeared to be engaged in earnest conversation. They both started, on my entrance:—Unwilling to encrease their confusion, I quitted the room.
Montague, on our meeting at dinner, affected an air of unconcern; but there was an apparent constraint in his behaviour. I preserved towards him my accustomed manner, till the servants had withdrawn. I then mildly expostulated with him on the impropriety of his behaviour. His replies were not more unkind than ungenerous—they pierced my heart.
'It is well, sir, I am inured to suffering; but it is not ofmyselfthat I would speak. I have not deserved to lose your confidence—this is my consolation;—yet, I submit to it:—but I cannot see you act in a manner, that will probably involve you in vexation, and intail upon you remorse, without warning you of your danger. Should you corrupt the innocence of this girl, she is emphaticallyruined. It is the strong mind only, that, firmly resting on its own powers, can sustain and recover itself amidst the world's scorn and injustice. The morality of an uncultivated understanding, is that ofcustom, not of reason: break down the feeble barrier, and there is nothing to supply its place—you open the flood-gates of infamy and wretchedness. Who can say where the evil may stop?'
'You are at liberty to discharge your servant, when you please, madam.'
'I think it my duty to do so, Mr Montague—not on my own, but onher, account. If I have no claim upon your affection and principles, I would disdain to watch your conduct. But I feel myself attached to this young woman, and would wish to preserve her from destruction!'
'You are very generous, but as you thought fit to bestow on me yourhand, when yourheartwas devoted to another—'
'It is enough, sir!—To your justice, only, in your cooler moments, would I appeal!'
I procured for Rachel a reputable place, in a distant part of the county.—Before she quitted me, I seriously, and affectionately, remonstrated with her on the consequences of her behaviour. She answered me only with tears and blushes.
In vain I tried to rectify the principles, and subdue the cruel prejudices, of my husband. I endeavoured to shew him every mark of affection and confidence. I frequently expostulated with him, upon his conduct, with tears—urged him to respect himself and me—strove to convince him of the false principles upon which he acted—of the senseless and barbarous manner in which he was sacrificing my peace, and his own, to a romantic chimera. Sometimes he would appear, for a moment, melted with my tender and fervent entreaties.
'Would to God!' he would say, with emotion, 'the last six months of my life could be obliterated for ever from my remembrance!'
He was no longer active, and chearful: he would sit, for hours, involved in deep and gloomy silence. When I brought the little Emma, to soften, by her engaging caresses, the anxieties by which his spirits appeared to be overwhelmed, he would gaze wildly upon her—snatch her to his breast—and then, suddenly throwing her from him, rush out of the house; and, inattentive to the duties of his profession, absent himself for days and nights together:—his temper grew, every hour, more furious and unequal.
He by accident, one evening, met the little Augustus, as his nurse was carrying him from my apartment; and, breaking rudely into the room, overwhelmed me with a torrent of abuse and reproaches. I submitted to his injustice with silent grief—my spirits were utterly broken. At times, he would seem to be sensible of the impropriety of his conduct—would execrate himself and entreat my forgiveness;—but quickly relapsed into his accustomed paroxysms, which, from having been indulged, were now become habitual, and uncontroulable. These agitations seemed daily to encrease—all my efforts to regain his confidence—my patient, unremitted, attentions—were fruitless. He shunned me—he appeared, even, to regard me with horror. I wept in silence. The hours which I passed with my children afforded me my only consolation—they became painfully dear to me. Attending to their little sports, and innocent gambols, I forgot, for a moment, my griefs.
Some months thus passed away, with little variation in my situation. Returning home one morning, early, from the nurse's, where I had left my Emma with Augustus (whom I never, now, permitted to be brought to my own house) as I entered, Mr Montague shot suddenly by me, and rushed up stairs towards his apartment. I saw him but transiently, as he passed; but his haggard countenance, and furious gestures, filled me with dismay. He had been from home the preceding night; but to these absences I had lately been too much accustomed to regard them as any thing extraordinary. I hesitated a few moments, whether I should follow him. I feared, lest I might exasperate him by so doing; yet, the unusual disorder of his appearance gave me a thousand terrible and nameless apprehensions. I crept toward the door of his apartment—listened attentively, and heard him walking up and down the room, with hasty steps—sometimes he appeared to stop, and groaned heavily:—once I heard him throw up the sash, and shut it again with violence.
I attempted to open the door, but, finding it locked, my terror increased.—I knocked gently, but could not attract his attention. At length I recollected another door, that led to this apartment, through my own chamber, which was fastened on the outside, and seldom opened. With trembling steps I hurried round, and, on entering the room, beheld him sitting at a table, a pen in his hand, and paper before him. On the table lay his pistols—his hair was dishevelled—his dress disordered—his features distorted with emotion—while in his countenance was painted the extreme of horror and despair.
I uttered a faint shriek, and sunk into a chair. He started from his seat, and, advancing towards me with hurried and tremulous steps, sternly demanded, Why I intruded on his retirement? I threw myself at his feet,—I folded my arms round him—I wept—I deprecated his anger—I entreated to be heard—I said all that humanity, all that the most tender and lively sympathy could suggest, to inspire him with confidence—to induce him to relieve, by communication, the burthen which oppressed his heart.—He struggled to free himself from me—my apprehensions gave me strength—I held him with a strenuous grasp—he raved—he stamped—he tore his hair—his passion became frenzy! At length, forcibly bursting from him, I fell on the floor, and the blood gushed from my nose and lips. He shuddered convulsively—stood a few moments, as if irresolute—and, then, throwing himself beside me, raised me from the ground; and, clasping me to his heart, which throbbed tumultuously, burst into a flood of tears.
'I will not be thymurderer, Emma!' said he, in a voice of agony, interrupted by heart-rending sobs—'I have had enough of blood!'
I tried to sooth him—I assured him I was not hurt—I besought him to confide his sorrows to the faithful bosom of his wife! He appeared softened—his tears flowed without controul.
'Unhappy woman!—you know not what you ask! To be ingenuous, belongs to purity like yours!—Guilt, black as hell!—conscious, aggravated, damnable, guilt!—Your fatal attachment—my accursed jealousy!—Ah! Emma! I have injured you—but you are, indeed, revenged!'
Every feature seemed to work—seemed pregnant with dreadful meaning—he was relapsing into frenzy.
'Be calm, my friend—be not unjust to yourself—you can have committed no injury that I shall not willingly forgive—you are incapable of persisting in guilt. The ingenuous mind, that avows, has already made half the reparation. Suffer me to learn the source of your inquietude! I may find much to extenuate—I may be able to convince you, that you are too severe to yourself.'
'Never, never, never!—nothing can extenuate—the expiation must be made!—Excellent, admirable, woman!—Remember, without hating, the wretch who has been unworthy of you—who could not conceive, who knew not how to estimate, your virtues!—Oh!—do not—do not'—straining me to his bosom—'curse my memory!'
He started from the ground, and, in a moment, was out of sight.
I raised myself with difficulty—faint, tottering, gasping for breath, I attempted to descend the stairs. I had scarcely reached the landing-place, when a violent knocking at the door shook my whole frame. I stood still, clinging to the balustrade, unable to proceed. I heard a chaise draw up—a servant opening the door—a plain-looking countryman alighted, and desired instantly to speak to the lady of the house—his business was, he said, of life and death! I advanced towards him, pale and trembling!
'What is the matter, my friend—whence came you?'
'I cannot stop, lady, to explain myself—you must come with me—I will tell you more as we go along.'
'Do you come,' enquired I, in a voice scarcely articulate, 'from my husband?'
'No—no—I come from a person who is dying, who has somewhat of consequence to impart to you—Hasten, lady—there is no time to lose!'
'Lead, then, I follow you.'
He helped me into the chaise, and we drove off with the rapidity of lightning.
I asked no more questions on the road, but attempted to fortify my mind for the scenes which, I foreboded, were approaching. After about an hour's ride, we stopped at a small, neat, cottage, embosomed in trees, standing alone, at a considerable distance from the high-road. A decent-looking, elderly, woman, came to the door, at the sound of the carriage, and assisted me to alight. In her countenance were evident marks of perturbation and horror. I asked for a glass of water; and, having drank it, followed the woman, at her request, up stairs. She seemed inclined to talk, but I gave her no encouragement—I knew not what awaited me, nor what exertions might be requisite—I determined not to exhaust my spirits unnecessarily.
On entering a small chamber, I observed a bed, with the curtains closely drawn. I advanced towards it, and, unfolding them, beheld the unhappy Rachel lying in a state of apparent insensibility.
'She is dying,' whispered the woman, 'she has been in strong convulsions; but she could not die in peace without seeing Madam Montague, and obtaining her forgiveness.'
I approached the unfortunate girl, and took her lifeless hand.—A feeble pulse still trembled—I gazed upon her, for some moments, in silence.—She heaved a deep sigh—her lips moved, inarticulately. She, at length, opened her eyes, and, fixing them upon me, the blood seemed to rush through her languid frame—reanimating it. She sprung up in the bed, and, clasping her hands together, uttered a few incoherent words.
'Be pacified, my dear—I am not angry with you—I feel only pity.'
She looked wildly. 'Ah! my dear lady, I am a wicked girl—but not—Oh, no!—not a murderer!I did not—indeed, I did not—murder my child!'
A cold tremor seized me—I turned heart-sick—a sensation of horror thrilled through my veins!
'My dear, my kind mistress,' resumed the wretched girl, 'can you forgive me?—Oh! that cruel, barbarous, man!—It washewho did it—indeed, it washewho did it!' Distraction glared in her eyes.
'I do forgive you,' said I, in broken accents. 'I will take care of you—but you must be calm.'
'I will—I will'—replied she, in a rapid tone of voice—'but do not send me to prison—I did not murder it!—Oh! my child, my child!' continued she, in a screaming tone of frantic violence, and was again seized with strong convulsions.
We administered all the assistance in our power. I endeavoured, with success, to stifle my emotions in the active duties of humanity. Rachel once more revived. After earnestly commending her to the care of the good woman of the house, and promising to send medicines and nourishment proper for her situation, and to reward their attentions—desiring that she might be kept perfectly still, and not be suffered to talk on subjects that agitated her—I quitted the place, presaging but too much, and not having, at that time, the courage to make further enquiries.
On entering my own house my heart misgave me. I enquired, with trepidation, for my husband, and was informed—'That he had returned soon after my departure, and had shut himself in his apartment; that, on being followed by Mr Lucas, he had turned fiercely upon him, commanding him, in an imperious tone, instantly to leave him; adding, he had affairs of importance to transact; and should any one dare to intrude on him, it would be at the peril of their lives.' All the family appeared in consternation, but no one had presumed to disobey the orders of their master.—They expressed their satisfaction at my return—Alas! I was impotent to relieve the apprehensions which, I too plainly perceived, had taken possession of their minds.
I retired to my chamber, and, with a trembling hand, traced, and addressed to my husband, a few incoherent lines—briefly hinting my suspicions respecting the late transactions—exhorting him to provide for his safety, and offering to be the companion of his flight. I added—'Let us reap wisdom from these tragical consequences ofindulged passion! It is not to atone for the past error, by cutting off the prospect of future usefulness—Repentance for what can never be recalled, is absurd and vain, but as it affords a lesson for the time to come—do not let us wilfully forfeit the fruits of our dear-boughtexperience! I will never reproach you! Virtuous resolution, and time, may yet heal these aggravated wounds. Dear Montague, be no longer the slave of error; inflict not on my tortured mind new, and more insupportable, terrors! I await your directions—let us fly—let us summon our fortitude—let us, at length, bravely stem the tide of passion—let us beware of the criminal pusillanimity of despair!'
With faultering steps, I sought the apartment of my husband. I listened a moment at the door—and hearing him in motion, while profound sighs burst every instant from his bosom, I slid my paper under the door, unfolded, that it might be the more likely to attract his attention. Presently, I had the satisfaction of hearing him take it up. After some minutes, a slip of paper was returned, by the same method which I had adopted, in which was written, in characters blotted, and scarcely legible, the following words—
'Leave me, one half hour, to my reflections: at the end of that period, be assured, I will see, or write, to you.'
I knew him to be incapable of falsehood—my heart palpitated with hope. I went to my chamber, and passed the interval in a thousand cruel reflections, and vague plans for our sudden departure. Near an hour had elapsed, when the bell rang. I started, breathless, from my seat. A servant passed my door, to take his master's orders. He returned instantly, and, meeting me in the passage, delivered to me a letter. I heard Montague again lock the door.—Disappointed, I re-entered my chamber. In my haste to get at the contents of the paper, I almost tore it in pieces—the words swam before my sight. I held it for some moments in my hand, incapable of decyphering the fatal characters. I breathed with difficulty—all the powers of life seemed suspended—when the report of a pistol roused me to a sense of confused horror.—Rushing forward, I burst, with preternatural strength, into the apartment of my husband—What a spectacle!—Assistance was vain!—Montague—the impetuous, ill-fated, Montague—was no more—was a mangled corpse!—Rash, unfortunate, young, man!
But, why should I harrow up your susceptible mind, by dwelling on these cruel scenes?Ah! suffer me to spread a veil over this fearful catastrophe!Some time elapsed ere I had fortitude to examine the paper addressed to me by my unfortunate husband. Its contents, which were as follows, affected me with deep and mingled emotions.