VOLUME III
[CHAPTER I]
Whenever Mrs. Stafford and Emmeline were afterwards alone, they could think and speak of nothing but Lady Adelina. The misfortunes in which an unhappy marriage had involved her, her friendless youth, her lovely figure, the settled sorrow and deep regret that she seemed to feel for the error into which her too great sensibility of heart had betrayed her, engaged their tenderest pity, and made them both anxious to give her all the consolation and assistance she was now capable of receiving.
When they considered the uncertainty of her remaining long concealed where she was, and the probability that Fitz-Edward himself might discover her, they saw the necessity of her removal from Woodbury Forest. But it was a proposal they could not yet make—nor had they yet recollected any place where she might be more secure.
Emmeline, who felt herself particularly interested by her misfortunes, and who was more pleased with her conversation the oftener she conversed with her, seldom failed of seeing her every day: but Mrs. Stafford, more apprehensive of observation, could not so frequently visit her; and the precaution of both redoubled, when Mrs. Ashwood, Miss Galton, and the two Miss Ashwood's, arrived at Woodfield, where they declared an intention of staying the months of June and July.
Thither also, soon after, came the younger Mr. Crofts, who had made an acquaintance with Mr. Stafford in London with the hope of obtaining an invitation, which he eagerly accepted.
Sir Richard Crofts, in the ambition of making a family, had determined to give every advantage to his eldest son, which might authorise him to look up to those alliances that would, he hoped, make his own obscurity forgotten. From the first dawn of his fortune, he had considered Mr. Crofts as it's general heir; and had very plainly told his younger son, that a place under government, which he had procured for him, of about three hundred a year, must be his only dependance; till he should possess two thousand pounds, all the provision he intended making for him at his death—as he meant not to diminish, by a more equal division, the patrimony of his brother. He recommended to him therefore to remedy this deficiency of fortune, by looking out for an affluent wife.
Nature had not eminently qualified him for success in such a project; for his person was short, thick, and ill made, and his face composed of large broad features, two dim grey eyes, and a complexion of a dull sallow white. A vain attempt to look like a gentleman, served only to render the meanness of his figure more remarkable; and the qualities of his heart and understanding were but little calculated to make his personal imperfections forgotten. His heart was selfish, narrow, unfeeling, and at once mean and proud; his understanding beneath mediocrity; and his conversation consisted of quaint scraps of something that he supposed was wit, or at least very like it. And even such attempts to be entertaining, poor as they were, he retailed from the office where he passed the greatest part of his time, and for a subaltern employment in which, his education had been barely such as fitted him. But ignorant as he was, and devoid of every estimable accomplishment, he had an infinite deal of that inferior kind of policy called cunning; and being accustomed to consider his establishment as depending wholly on himself, he had acquired a habit of sacrificing every sentiment and every passion to that one purpose; and would adopt the opinions, and submit to the caprices of others, whenever he thought they could promote it. He had learned the obsequious attention, the indefatigable industry, the humble adulation which is necessary for the under departments of political business: and while such acquisitions gave him hopes of rising in that line, they failed not to contribute to his success in another. He would walk from the extremity of Westminster to Wapping, to smuggle a set of china or of quadrille boxes, for the mother or aunt of an heiress; and would, with great temper, suffer the old ladies to take advantage of him at cards, while he ogled the young ones. Which, together with his being always ready to perform for them petty services, and to flatter them without scruple, had obtained for him the character of 'one of the best creatures breathing.' But whatever favour these various recommendations obtained for him for a time, from the elderly ladies, he lost his ground when his views were discovered; and tho' he had received what he fancied encouragement from two or three young women of fortune on their first emerging from the nursery, yet they had no sooner acquired an handsomer or richer lover, than 'the best creature breathing' was discarded.
He was not however discouraged; and meeting with Mrs. Ashwood at a rout at Lady Montreville's, he was told by Miss Delamere, who was extremely diverted with her airs of elegance, that she was a rich widow who wanted a husband. He enquired into the circumstances of her fortune; and being assured she possessed such an income as would make him easy, he thought some little advantage she had over him in point of age no diminution of her attractions, and found it convenient to fall immediately in love. She listened to him with complaisance; and soon discovered 'that he was not so plain as at first he appeared to be'—soon afterwards, 'that he was rather handsome, and vastly sensible and agreeable.' After which, he made a rapid progress in her heart; and it was concerted between them that he should follow her to Woodfield.
Emmeline and Mrs. Stafford were wearied to death with the party. But the former forbore to complain, and the latter was forced to submit, and to smile, while anguish was frequently at her heart.
Mrs. Ashwood talked of nothing but fashionable parties and fashionable people, to whom her acquaintance with Lord Montreville's family had introduced her; and she now seldom deigned to name an untitled acquaintance—while Crofts hung on her long narratives with affected admiration; and the two elder of her three daughters, who were all in training to be beauties, aped their mother in vanity and impertinence.
The eldest Miss Ashwood, now about fourteen, was an insupportable torment to Emmeline, as she had taken it into her head to form, with her, a sentimental friendship. She had learned all the cant of sentiment from novels; and her mama's lovers had extremely edified her in teaching her to express it. She talked perpetually of delicate embarrassments and exquisite sensibilities, and had probably a lover, as she extremely wanted a confidant; a post which Emmeline with some difficulty declined.—Of 'the sweet novels' she had read, she just understood as much as made her long to become the heroine of such an history herself, and she wanted somebody to listen to her hopes of being so. But Emmeline shrunk from her advances, and repaid her fondness with general and cool civility; tho' Mrs. Ashwood, who loved rather to listen to Crofts than to attend to her daughters, continually promoted the intimacy, in hopes that she would take them off her own hands, and allow them to be the companions of her walks.
This, Emmeline was obliged studiously to evade, as such companions would entirely have prevented her seeing Lady Adelina; and by repeated excuses she not only irritated the curiosity of Mrs. Ashwood and Miss Galton, but gave the former an additional cause of dislike to that which she had already conceived; inasmuch as she was younger, handsomer, and more admired than herself.
Emmeline received frequent letters from Delamere, as warm and passionate as his personal professions. He told her, that as his mother's health was greatly amended, he intended soon to visit those parts of France with which he was yet unacquainted; and should pass some time in the Northern Provinces, from whence he entreated her to allow him to come only for a few days to England to see her—an indulgence which he said would enable him to bear with more tranquillity the remaining months of his exile.
Tho' now accustomed to consider him as her husband, Emmeline resolutely refused to consent to this breach of his engagement to his father. She had lately seen in her friends, Mrs. Stafford and Lady Adelina, two melancholy instances of the frequent unhappiness of very early marriages; and she had no inclination to hazard her own happiness in hopes of proving an exception. She wished, therefore, rather to delay her union with Delamere two or three years; but to him she never dared hint at such a delay. A clandestine interview it was, however, in her power to decline; and she answered his request by entreating him not to think of such a journey; and represented to him that he could not expect Lord Montreville would finally adhere to his promises, if he himself was careless of fulfilling the conditions on which his Lordship had insisted. Having thus, as she supposed, prevented Delamere from offending his father, and without any immediate uneasiness on her own account, she gave up her mind to the solicitude she could not help feeling for Lady Adelina. This occupied almost all her time when she was alone; and gave her, when in company, an air of absence and reserve.
Tho' Mrs. Ashwood so much encouraged the attention of James Crofts, she had not forgotten Fitz-Edward, whom she had vainly sought at Lady Montreville's, in hopes of renewing an acquaintance which had in it's commencement offered her so much satisfaction. Fitz-Edward had been amused with her absurdity at the moment, but had never thought of her afterwards; nor would he then have bestowed so much time on a woman to him entirely indifferent, had not he been thrown in her way by his desire to befriend Delamere with Emmeline, on one of those days when Lady Adelina insisted on his leaving her, to avoid the appearance of his passing with her all his time. Happy in successful love, his gaiety then knew no bounds; and his agreeable flattery, his lively conversation, his fashionable manners, and his handsome person, had not since been absent from the memory of Mrs. Ashwood. His being sometimes at the house he had borrowed of Delamere, near Woodfield, was one of the principal inducements to her to go thither. She indulged sanguine hopes of securing such a conquest; and evaded giving to Crofts a positive answer, till she had made another essay on the heart of the Colonel.
He came, however, so seldom to Woodfield, that Mrs. Stafford had seen him there only once since her meeting Lady Adelina; and then he appeared to be under encreased dejection, for which she knew now, how to account.
Emmeline had given Mrs. Stafford so indifferent an account of Lady Adelina one evening, that she determined the next morning to see her. She therefore went immediately after breakfast, on pretence of visiting a poor family who had applied to her for assistance; when as Mrs. Ashwood, Miss Galton and Emmeline, were sitting together, Colonel Fitz-Edward was announced.
He came down to Tylehurst only the evening before; and not knowing there was company at Woodfield, rode over to pass an hour with the two friends, to whom he had frequently been tempted to communicate the source of his melancholy.
Whether it was owing to the consciousness of Lady Adelina's mournful story that arose in the mind of Emmeline, or whether seeing Fitz-Edward again in company with Mrs. Ashwood renewed the memory of what had befallen her when they last met, she blushed deeply the moment she beheld him, and arose from her chair in confusion; then sat down and took out her work, which she had hastily put up; and trying to recover herself, grew still more confused, and trembled and blushed again.
Mrs. Ashwood was in the mean time overwhelming Fitz-Edward with compliments and kind looks, which he answered with the distant civility of a slight acquaintance; and taking a chair close to Emmeline, enquired if she was not well?
She answered that she was perfectly well; and attempted to introduce general conversation. But Fitz-Edward was attentive only to her; and Mrs. Ashwood, extremely piqued at his distant manner, meditated an excuse to get Emmeline out of the room, in hopes of obtaining more notice.
Fitz-Edward, however, having talked apart with Miss Mowbray a short time, arose and took leave, having by his manner convinced Mrs. Ashwood of what she reluctantly believed, that some later attachment had obliterated the impression she had made at their first interview.
'I never saw such a figure in my life,' cried she, 'as Mr. Fitz-Edward. Mercy on me!—he is grown so thin, and so sallow!'
'And so stupid,'interrupted Miss Galton. 'He is in love I fancy.'
Emmeline blushed again; and Mrs. Ashwood casting a malicious look at her, said—'Oh! yes—he doubtless is in love. To men of his gay turn you know it makes no difference, whether a person be actually married or engaged.'
Emmeline, uncertain of the meaning of this sarcasm, and unwilling to be provoked to make a tart reply, which she felt herself ready to do, put up her work and left the room.
While she went in search of Mrs. Stafford, to enquire after Lady Adelina, and to relate the conversation that had passed between her and Fitz-Edward, Mrs. Ashwood and Miss Galton were indulging their natural malignity. Tho' well apprized of Emmeline's engagement to Delamere, yet they hesitated not to impute her confusion, and Fitz-Edward's behaviour, to a passion between them. They believed, that while her elopement with Delamere had beyond retreat entangled her with him, and while his fortune and future title tempted her to marry him, her heart was in possession of Fitz-Edward; and that Delamere was the dupe of his mistress and his friend.
This idea, which could not have occurred to a woman who was not herself capable of all the perfidy it implied, grew immediately familiar with the imagination of Mrs. Ashwood, and embittered the sense of her own disappointment.
Miss Galton, who hated Emmeline more if possible than Mrs. Ashwood, irritated her suspicions by remarks of her own. She observed 'that it was very extraordinary Miss Mowbray should walk out so early in a morning, and so studiously avoid taking any body with her—and that unless she had appointments to which she desired no witness, it was very singular she should chuse to ramble about by herself.'
From these observations, and her evident confusion on seeing him, they concluded that she had daily assignations with Fitz-Edward. They agreed, that it would be no more than common justice to inform Mr. Delamere of their discovery; and this they determined to do as soon as they had certain proofs to produce, with which they concluded a very little trouble and attention would furnish them.
James Crofts, whose success was now indisputable, since of the handsome Colonel there were no hopes, was let into the secret of their suspicions; and readily undertook to assist in detecting the intrigue, for which he assured them he had particular talents. While, therefore, Mrs. Ashwood, Miss Galton, and James Crofts, were preparing to undermine the peace and character of the innocent, ingenuous Emmeline, she and Mrs. Stafford were meditating how to be useful to the unhappy Lady Adelina. They became every day more interested and more apprehensive for the fate of that devoted young woman, whose health seemed to be such as made it very improbable she should survive the birth of her child. Her spirits, too, were so depressed, that they could not prevail on her to think of her own safety, or to allow them to make any overtures to her family; but, in calm and hopeless languor, she seemed resigned to the horrors of her destiny, and determined to die unlamented and unknown.
Her elder brother, Lord Westhaven, had returned from abroad almost immediately after her concealment. His enquiries on his first arrival in England had only informed him of the embarrassment of Trelawny's affairs, and the inconvenience to which his sister had consequently been exposed; and that after staying some time in England, to settle things as well as she could, she had disappeared, and every body believed was gone to her husband. His Lordship's acquaintance and marriage with Augusta Delamere, almost immediately succeeded; but while it was depending, he was astonished to hear from Lord and Lady Clancarryl that Lady Adelina had never written to them before her departure. He went in search of Fitz-Edward; but could never meet him at home or obtain from his servants any direction where to find him. Fitz-Edward, indeed, purposely avoided him, and had left no address at his lodgings in town, or at Tylehurst.
Lord Westhaven then wrote to Trelawny, but obtained no answer; and growing daily more alarmed at the uncertainty he was in about Lady Adelina, he determined to go, as soon as he was married, to Switzerland; being persuaded that tho' some accident had prevented his receiving her letters, she had found an asylum there, amongst his mother's relations.
Fitz-Edward, with anxiety even more poignant, had sought her with as little success. After the morning when she discharged her lodgings, and left them in an hackney coach with her maid, he could never, with all his unwearied researches, discover any traces of her.
He knew she was not gone to Trelawny; and dreading every thing from her determined sorrow, he passed his whole time between painful and fruitless conjectures, and the tormenting apprehension of hearing of some fatal event. Incessantly reproaching himself for being the betrayer of his trust, and the ruin of a lovely and amiable woman, he gave himself up to regret and despondence. The gay Fitz-Edward, so lately the envy and admiration of the fashionable world, was lost to society, his friends, and himself.
He passed much of his time at Tylehurst; because he could there indulge, without interruption, his melancholy reflections, and only saw Mrs. Stafford and Emmeline, in whose soft and sensible conversation he found a transient alleviation of his sorrow—sorrow which now grew too severe to be longer concealed, and which he resolved to take the earliest opportunity of acknowledging, in hopes of engaging the pity of his fair friends—perhaps their assistance in discovering the unhappy fugitive who caused it.
From Lady Adelina, they had most carefully concealed, that his residence was so near the obscure abode she had chosen. Fatal as he had been to her peace, and conscientiously as she had abstained from naming him after their first conversation, they knew that she still fondly loved him, and that her fears for his safety had assisted her sense of rectitude when she determined to tear herself from him. But were she again to meet him, they feared she would either relapse into her former fatal affection, or conquer it by an effort, which in her precarious state of health might prove immediately fatal.
The request which Fitz-Edward had made to Emmeline, that he might be allowed to see her and Mrs. Stafford together, without any other person being present, they both wished to evade; dreading least they should by their countenances betray the knowledge they had of his unhappy story, and the interest they took in it's catastrophe.
They hoped, therefore, to escape hearing his confession till Lady Adelina should be removed—and to remove her became indispensibly necessary, as Emmeline was convinced she was watched in her visits to the cottage.
Twice she had met James Crofts within half a quarter of a mile of the cottage; and at another time discovered, just as she was about to enter it, that the Miss Ashwoods had followed her almost to the door; which she therefore forbore to enter. These circumstances made both her and Mrs. Stafford solicitous to have Lady Adelina placed in greater security; and, added to Emmeline's uneasiness for her, was the unpleasant situation in which she found herself.
Observed with malicious vigilance by Mrs. Ashwood, James Crofts, Miss Galton, and the two Misses, she felt as awkward as if she really had some secret of her own to hide; and with all the purity and even heroism of virtue, learned the uneasy sensation which ever attends mystery and concealment. The hours which used to pass tranquilly and rationally with Mrs. Stafford, were now dedicated to people whose conversation made her no amends; and if she retired to her own room, it failed not to excite sneers and suspicions. She saw Mrs. Stafford struggling with dejection which she had no power to dissipate or relieve, and obliged to enter into frequent parties of what is called pleasure, tho' to her it gave only fatigue and disgust, to gratify Mrs. Ashwood, who hated all society but a crowd. James Crofts, indeed, helped to keep her in good humour by his excessive adulation; and chiefly by assuring her, that by any man of the least taste, the baby face of Emmeline could be considered only as a foil to her more mature charms, and that her fine dark eyes eclipsed all the eyes in the world. He protested too against Emmeline for affecting knowledge—'It is,' said he, 'a maxim of my father's—and my father is no bad judge—that for a woman to affect literature is the most horrid of all absurdities; and for a woman to know any thing of business, is detestable!'
Mrs. Ashwood laid by her dictionary, determined for the future to spell her own way without it.
Besides the powerful intervention of flattery, James Crofts had another not less successful method of winning the lady's favour. He told her that his brother, who had long cherished a passion in which he was at length likely to be disappointed, was in that case determined never to marry; that he was in an ill state of health; and if he died without posterity, the estate and title of his father would descend to himself.
The elder Crofts, very desirous of seeing a brother established who might otherwise be burthensome or inconvenient to him, suggested this finesse; and secured it's belief by writing frequent and melancholy accounts of his own ill health—an artifice by which he promoted at once his brother's views and his own. He affected the valetudinarian so happily, and complained so much of the ill effect that constant application to business had on his constitution, that nobody doubted of the reality of his sickness. He took care that Miss Delamere should receive an account of it, which he knew she would consider as the consequence of his despairing love; and when he had interested her vanity and of course her compassion, he contrived to obtain leave of absence for three months from the duties of his office, in order to go abroad for the recovery of his health. He hastened to Barege; and soon found means to re-establish himself in the favour of Miss Delamere; from which, absence, and large draughts of flattery dispensed with French adroitness, had a little displaced him. This stratagem put his brother James on so fair a footing with the widow, that he thought her fortune would be secured before she could discover it to be only a stratagem, and that her lover was still likely to continue a younger brother.
James Crofts seeing the necessity of dispatch, became so importunate, that Mrs. Ashwood, despairing of Fitz-Edward, and believing she might not again meet with a man so near a title, for which she had a violent inclination, was prevailed on to promise she would make him happy as soon as she returned to her own house.
It was now the end of June; and Lady Adelina, whose situation grew very critical, had at length yielded to the entreaties of her two friends, and agreed to go wherever they thought she could obtain assistance and concealment in the approaching hour.
Mrs. Stafford and Emmeline, after long and frequent reflections and consultations on the subject, concluded that no situation would be so proper as Bath. In a place resorted to by all sorts of people, less enquiry is excited than in a provincial town, where strangers are objects of curiosity to it's idle inhabitants. To Bath, therefore, it was determined Lady Adelina should go. But when the time of her journey, and her arrangements there, came to be discussed, she expressed so much terror least she should be known, so much anguish at leaving those to whose tender pity she was so greatly indebted, and such melancholy conviction that she should not survive, that the sensible heart of Emmeline could not behold without sharing her agonies; nor was Mrs. Stafford less affected. When they returned home after this interview, Emmeline was pursued by the image of the poor unhappy Adelina. But to give, to the wretched, only barren sympathy, was not in her nature, where more effectual relief was in her power. She thought, that if by her presence she could alleviate the anguish, and soothe the sorrows of the fair mourner, perhaps save her character and her life, and be the means of restoring her to her family, she should perform an action gratifying to her own heart, and acceptable to heaven. The more she reflected on it, the more anxious she became to execute it—and she at length named it to Mrs. Stafford.
Mrs. Stafford, tho' aware of the numberless objections which might have been made to such a plan, could not resolve strenuously to oppose it. She felt infinite compassion for Lady Adelina; but could herself do little to assist her, as her time was not her own and her absence must have been accounted for: but Emmeline was liable to no restraint; and would not only be meritoriously employed in befriending the unhappy, but would escape from the society at Woodfield, which became every day more disagreeable to her. These considerations, particularly the benevolent one of saving an unhappy young woman, over-balanced, in the mind of Mrs. Stafford, the objection that might be made to her accompanying a person under the unfortunate and discreditable circumstances of Lady Adelina; and her heart, too expansive to be closed by the cold hand of prudery against the sighs of weakness or misfortune, assured her that she was right. She knew that Emmeline was of a character to pity, but not to imitate, the erroneous conduct of her friend; and she believed that the reputation of Lady Adelina Trelawny might be rescued from reproach, without communicating any part of it's blemish to the spotless purity of Emmeline Mowbray.
[CHAPTER II]
As soon as Emmeline had persuaded herself of the propriety of this plan and obtained Mrs. Stafford's concurrence, she hinted her intentions to Lady Adelina; who received the intimation with such transports of gratitude and delight, that Emmeline, confirmed in her resolution, no longer suffered a doubt of it's propriety to arise; and, with the participation of Mrs. Stafford only, prepared for her journey, which was to take place in ten days.
Mrs. Stafford also employed a person on whom she could rely, to receive the money due to Lady Adelina from her husband's estate. But of this her Ladyship demanded only half, leaving the rest for Trelawny. The attorney in whose hands Trelawny's affairs were placed by Lord Westhaven, was extremely anxious to discover, from the person employed by Mrs. Stafford, from whence he obtained the order signed by Lady Adelina; and obliged him to attend several days before he would pay it, in hopes, by persuasions or artful questions, to draw the secret from him. He met, at the attorney's chambers, an officer who had made of him the same enquiry, and had followed him home, and since frequently importuned him—intelligence, which convinced Mrs. Stafford that Lady Adelina must soon be discovered, (as they concluded the officer was Fitz-Edward,) and made both her and Emmeline hasten the day of her departure.
About a quarter of a mile from Woodfield, and at the extremity of the lawn which surrounded it, was a copse in which the accumulated waters of a trout stream formed a beautiful tho' not extensive piece of water, shaded on every side by a natural wood. Mrs. Stafford, who had particular pleasure in the place, had planted flowering shrubs and caused walks to be cut through it; and on the edge of the water built a seat of reeds and thatch, which was furnished with a table and a few garden chairs. Thither Emmeline repaired whenever she could disengage herself from company. Solitude was to her always a luxury; and particularly desirable now, when her anxiety for Lady Adelina, and preparations for their approaching departure, made her wish to avoid the malicious observations of Mrs. Ashwood, the forward intrusion of her daughters, and the inquisitive civilities of James Crofts. She had now only one day to remain at Woodfield, before that fixed for their setting out; and being altogether unwilling to encounter the fatigue of such an engagement so immediately previous to her journey, she declined being of the party to dine at the house of a neighbouring gentleman; who, on the occasion of his son's coming of age, was to give a ball and fête champêtre to a very large company.
Mrs. Ashwood, seeing Emmeline averse, took it into her head to press her extremely to go with them; and finding she still refused, said—'it was monstrous rude, and that she was sure no young person would decline partaking such an entertainment if she had not some very particular reason.'
Emmeline, teized and provoked out of her usual calmness, answered—'That whatever might be her reasons, she was fortunately accountable to nobody for them.'
Mrs. Ashwood, provoked in her turn, made some very rude replies, which Emmeline, not to irritate her farther, left the room without answering; and as soon as the carriages drove from the door, she dined alone, and then desiring one of the servants to carry her harp into the summer-house in the copse, she walked thither with her music books, and soon lost the little chagrin which Mrs. Ashwood's ill-breeding had given her.
Fitz-Edward, who arrived in the country the preceding evening, after another fruitless search for Lady Adelina, walked over to Woodfield, in hopes, as it was early in the afternoon, that he might obtain, in the course of it, some conversation with Mrs. Stafford and Emmeline. On arriving, he met the servant who had attended Emmeline to the copse, and was by him directed thither. As he approached the seat, he heard her singing a plaintive air, which seemed in unison with his heart. She started at the sight of him—Mrs. Ashwood's suspicions immediately occurred to her, and at the same moment the real motive which had made him seek this interview. She blushed, and looked uneasy; but the innocence and integrity of her heart presently restored her composure, and when Fitz-Edward asked if she would allow him half an hour of her time, she answered—'certainly.'
He sat down by her, dejectedly and in silence. She was about to put aside her harp, but he desired her to repeat the air she was singing.
'It is sweetly soothing,' said he, 'and reminds me of happier days when I first heard it; while you sing it, I may perhaps acquire resolution to tell you what may oblige you to discard me from your acquaintance. It does indeed require resolution to hazard such a misfortune.'
Emmeline, not knowing how to answer, immediately began the air. The thoughts which agitated her bosom while she sung, made her voice yet more tender and pathetic. She saw the eyes of Fitz-Edward fill with tears; and as soon as she ceased he said—
'Tell me, Miss Mowbray—what does the man deserve, who being entrusted with the confidence of a young and beautiful woman—beautiful, even as Emmeline herself, and as highly accomplished—has betrayed the sacred trust; and has been the occasion—oh God!—of what misery may I not have been the occasion!
'Pardon me,' continued he—'I am afraid my despair frightens you—I will endeavour to command myself.'
Emmeline found she could not escape hearing the story, and endeavoured not to betray by her countenance that she already knew it.
Fitz-Edward went on—
'When first I knew you, I was a decided libertine. Yourself and Mrs. Stafford, lovely as I thought you both, would have been equally the object of my designs, if Delamere's passion for you, and the reserved conduct of Mrs. Stafford, had not made me doubt succeeding with either. But for your charming friend my heart long retained it's partiality; nor would it ever have felt for her that pure and disinterested friendship which is now in regard to her it's only sentiment, had not the object of my present regret and anguish been thrown in my way.
'To you, Miss Mowbray, I scruple not to speak of this beloved and lamented woman; tho' her name is sacred with me, and has never yet been mentioned united with dishonour.
'The connection between our families first introduced me to her acquaintance. In her person she was exquisitely lovely, and her manners were as enchanting as her form. The sprightly gaiety of unsuspecting inexperience, was, I thought, sometimes checked by an involuntary sentiment of regret at the sacrifice she had made, by marrying a man every way unworthy of her; except by that fortune to which she was indifferent, and of which he was hastening to divest himself.
'I had never seen Mr. Trelawny; and knew him for some time only from report. But when he came to Lough Carryl, my pity for her, encreased in proportion to the envy and indignation with which I beheld the insensible and intemperate husband—incapable of feeling for her, any other sentiment, than what she might equally have inspired in the lowest of mankind.
'Her unaffected simplicity; her gentle confidence in my protection during a voyage in which her ill-assorted mate left her entirely to my care; made me rather consider her as my sister than as an object of seduction. I resolved to be the guardian rather than the betrayer of her honour—and I long kept my resolution.'
Fitz-Edward then proceeded to relate the circumstances that attended the ruin of Trelawny's fortune; and that Lady Adelina was left to struggle with innumerable difficulties, unassisted but by himself, to whom Lord Clancarryl had delegated the task of treating with Trelawny's sister and creditors.
'Her gratitude,' continued he, 'for the little assistance I was able to give her, was boundless; and as pity had already taught me to love her with more ardour than her beauty only, captivating as it is, would have inspired; gratitude led her too easily into tender sentiments for me. I am not a presuming coxcomb; but she was infinitely too artless to conceal her partiality; and neither her misfortunes, or her being the sister of my friend Godolphin, protected her against the libertinism of my principles.'
He went on to relate the deep melancholy that seized Lady Adelina; and his own terror and remorse when he found her one morning gone from her lodgings, where she had left no direction; and from her proceeding it was evident she designed to conceal herself from his enquiries.
'God knows,' pursued he, 'what is now become of her!—perhaps, when most in need of tenderness and attention, she is thrown destitute and friendless among strangers, and will perish in indigence and obscurity. Unused to encounter the slightest hardship, her delicate frame, and still more sensible mind, will sink under those to which her situation will expose her—perhaps I shall be doubly a murderer!'
He stopped, from inability to proceed—Emmeline, in tears, continued silent.
Struggling to conquer his emotion and recover his voice, Fitz-Edward at length continued—
'While I was suffering all the misery which my apprehension for her fate inflicted, her younger brother, William Godolphin, returned from the West Indies, where he has been three years stationed. I was the first person he visited in town; but I was not at my lodgings there. Before I returned from Tylehurst, he had informed himself of all the circumstances of Trelawny's embarrassments, and his sister's absence. He found letters from Lord Westhaven, and from my brother, Lord Clancarryl; who knowing he would about that time return to England, conjured him to assist in the attempt of discovering Lady Adelina; of whose motives for concealing herself from her family they were entirely ignorant, while it filled them with uneasiness and astonishment. As soon as I went back to London, Godolphin, of whose arrival I was ignorant, came to me. He embraced me, and thanked me for my friendship and attention to his unfortunate Adelina—I think if he had held his sword to my heart it would have hurt me less!
'He implored me to help his search after his lost sister, and again said how greatly he was obliged to me—while I, conscious how little I deserved his gratitude, felt like a coward and an assassin, and shrunk from the manly confidence of my friend.
'Since our first meeting, I have seen him several times, and ever with new anguish. I have loved Godolphin from my earliest remembrance; and have known him from a boy to have the best heart and the noblest spirit under heaven. Equally incapable of deserving or bearing dishonour, Godolphin will behold me with contempt; which tho' I deserve, I cannot endure. He must call me to an account; and the hope of perishing by his hand is the only one I now cherish. Yet unable to shock him by divulging the fatal secret, I have hitherto concealed it, and my concealment he must impute to motives base, infamous, and pusillanimous. I can bear such reflections no longer—I will go to town to-morrow, explain his sister's situation to him, and let him take the only reparation I can now make him.'
Emmeline, shuddering at this resolution, could not conceal how greatly it affected her.
'Generous and lovely Miss Mowbray! pardon me for having thus moved your gentle nature; and allow me, since I see you pity me, to request of you and Mrs. Stafford a favour which will probably be the last trouble the unhappy Fitz-Edward will give you.
'It may happen that Lady Adelina may hereafter be discovered—tho' I know not how to hope it. But if your generous pity should interest you in the fate of that unhappy, forlorn young woman, your's and Mrs. Stafford's protection might yet perhaps save her; and such interposition would be worthy of hearts like yours. As the event of a meeting between me and Godolphin is uncertain, shall I entreat you, my lovely friend, to take charge of this paper. It contains a will, by which the child of Lady Adelina will be entitled to all I die possessed of. It is enough, if the unfortunate infant survives, to place it above indigence. Lord Clancarryl will not dispute the disposition of my fortune; and to your care, and that of Mrs. Stafford, I have left it in trust, and I have entreated you to befriend the poor little one, who will probably be an orphan—but desolate and abandoned it will not be, if it's innocence and unhappiness interest you to grant my request. Delamere will not object to your goodness being so exerted; and you will not teach it, generous, gentle as you are! to hold in abhorrence the memory of it's father. This is all I can now do. Farewell! dearest Miss Mowbray!—Heaven give you happiness, ma douce amie! Farewell!'
These last words, in which Fitz-Edward repeated the name by which he was accustomed to address Emmeline, quite overcame her. He was hastening away, while, hardly able to speak, she yet made an effort to stop him. The interview he was about to seek was what Lady Adelina so greatly dreaded. Yet Emmeline dared not urge to him how fatal it would be to her; she knew not what to say, least he should discover the secret with which she was entrusted; but in breathless agitation caught his hand as he turned to leave her, crying—
'Hear me, Fitz-Edward! One moment hear me! Do not go to meet Captain Godolphin. I conjure, I implore you do not!'
She found it impossible to proceed. Her eyes were still eagerly fixed on his face; she still held his hand; while he, supposing her extreme emotion arose from the compassionate tenderness of her nature, found the steadiness of his despair softened by the soothing voice of pity, and throwing himself on his knees, he laid his head on one of the chairs, and wept like a woman.
Emmeline, who now hoped to persuade him not to execute the resolution he had formed, said—'I will take the paper you have given me, Fitz-Edward, and will most religiously fulfil all your request in it to the utmost extent of my power. But in return for my giving you this promise, I must insist'——
At this moment James Crofts stood before them.
Emmeline, shocked and amazed at his appearance, roused Fitz-Edward by a sudden exclamation.
He started up, and said fiercely to Crofts—'Well, Sir!—have you any commands here?'
'Commands, Sir,' answered Crofts, somewhat alarmed by the tone in which this question was put—'I have no commands to be sure Sir—but, but, I came Sir, just to enquire after Miss Mowbray. I did not mean to intrude.'
'Then, Sir,' returned the Colonel, 'I beg you will leave us.'
'Oh! certainly, Sir,' cried Crofts, trying to regain his courage and assume an air of raillery—'certainly—I would not for the world interrupt you. My business indeed is not at all material—only a compliment to Miss Mowbray—your's,' added he sneeringly, 'is, I see, of more consequence.'
'Look ye, Mr. Crofts,' sharply answered Fitz-Edward—'You are to make no impertinent comments. Miss Mowbray is mistress of her actions. She is in my particular protection on behalf of my friend Delamere, and I shall consider the slightest failure of respect to her as an insult to me. Sir, if you have nothing more to say you will be so good as to leave us.'
There was something so hostile in the manner in which Fitz-Edward delivered this speech, that James Crofts, more at home in the cabinet than the field, thought he might as well avoid another injunction to depart; and quietly submit to the present, rather than provoke farther resentment from the formidable soldier. He therefore, looking most cadaverously, made one of his jerking bows, and said, with something he intended for a smile—
'Well, well, good folks, I'll leave you to your tête a tête, and hasten back to my engagement. Every body regrets Miss Mowbray's absence from the ball; and the partner that was provided for her is ready to hang himself.'
An impatient look, darted from Fitz-Edward, stopped farther effusion of impertinence, and he only added—'Servant! servant!' and walked away.
Fitz-Edward, then turning towards Emmeline, saw her pale and faint.
'Why, my dear Miss Mowbray, do you suffer this man's folly to affect you? Your looks really terrify me!'
'Oh! he was sent on purpose,' cried Emmeline.—'Mrs. Ashwood has lately often hinted to me, that whatever are my engagements to Delamere I was much more partial to you. She has watched me for some time; and now, on my refusing to accompany them to the ball, concluded I had an appointment, and sent Crofts back to see.'
'If I thought so,' sternly answered Fitz-Edward, 'I would instantly overtake him, and I believe I could oblige him to secresy.'
'No, for heaven's sake don't!' said Emmeline—'for heaven's sake do not think of it! I care not what they conjecture—leave them to their malice—Crofts is not worth your anger. But Fitz-Edward, let us return to what we were talking of. Will you promise me to delay going to London—to delay seeing Mr. Godolphin until—in short, will you give me your honour to remain at Tylehurst a week, without taking any measures to inform Godolphin of what you have told me. I will, at the end of that time, either release you from your promise, or give you unanswerable reasons why you should relinquish the design of meeting him at all.'
Fitz-Edward, however amazed at the earnestness she expressed to obtain this promise, gave it. He had no suspicion of Emmeline's having any knowledge of Lady Adelina; and accounted for the deep interest she seemed to take in preventing an interview, by recollecting the universal tenderness and humanity of her character. He assured her he would not leave Tylehurst 'till the expiration of the time she had named. He conjured her not to suffer any impertinence from Crofts on the subject of their being seen together, but to awe him into silence by resentment. Emmeline now desired him to leave her. But she still seemed under such an hurry of spirits, that he insisted on being allowed to attend her to the door of the house, where, renewing his thanks for the compassionate attention she had afforded him, and entreating her to compose herself, he left her.
Emmeline intending to go to her own room, went first into the drawing room to deposit her music book. She had hardly done so, when she heard a man's step, and turning, beheld Crofts open the door, which he immediately shut after him.
'I thought, Sir,' said Emmeline, 'you had been gone back to your company.'
'No, not yet, my fair Emmeline. I wanted first to beg your pardon for having disturbed so snug a party. Ah! sly little prude—who would think that you, who always seem so cold and so cruel, made an excuse only to stay at home to meet Fitz-Edward? But it is not fair, little dear, that all your kindness should be for him, while you will scarce give any other body a civil look. Now I have met with you I swear I'll have a kiss too.'
Emmeline, terrified to death at his approaching her with this speech, flew to the bell, which she rang with so much violence that the rope broke from the crank.
'Now,' cried Crofts, 'if nobody hears, you are more than ever in my power.'
'Heaven forbid!' shrieked Emmeline, in an agony of fear. 'Let me go, Mr. Crofts, this moment.'
She would have rushed towards the door but he stood with his arms extended before it.
'You did not run thus—you did not scream thus, when Fitz-Edward, the fortunate Fitz-Edward, was on his knees before you. Then, you could weep and sigh too, and look so sweetly on him. But come—you see I know so much that it will be your interest, little dear, to make me your friend.'
'Rather let me apply to fiends and furies for friendship! hateful, detestable wretch! by what right do you insult and detain me?'
'Oh! these theatricals are really very sublime!' cried he, seizing both her hands, which he violently grasped.
She shrieked aloud, and fruitlessly struggled to break from him, when the footsteps of somebody near the door obliged him to let her go. She darted instantly away, and in the hall met one of the maids.
'Lord, Miss,' cried the servant, 'did you ring? I've been all over the house to see what bell it was.'
Emmeline, without answering, flew to her own room. The maid followed her: but desirous of being left alone, she assured the girl that nothing was the matter; that she was merely tired by a long walk; and desiring a glass of water, tried to compose and recollect herself; while Crofts unobserved returned to the house where the fête was given time enough to dress and dance with Mrs. Ashwood.
It was at her desire, that immediately after dinner Crofts had left the company under pretence of executing a commission with which she easily furnished him; but his real orders were to discover the motives of Emmeline's refusal to be of the party. This he executed beyond his expectation. It was no longer to be doubted that very good intelligence subsisted between Emmeline and Fitz-Edward, since he had been found on his knees before her; while she, earnestly yet kindly speaking, hung over him with tears in her eyes. Knowing that Emmeline was absolutely engaged to Delamere, he was persuaded that Fitz-Edward was master of her heart; and that the tears and emotion to which he had been witness, were occasioned by the impossibility of her giving him her hand. He knew Fitz-Edward's character too well to suppose he could be insensible of the lady's kindness; and possessing himself a mind gross and depraved, he did not hesitate to believe all the ill his own base and illiberal spirit suggested.
Tho', interested hypocrite as he was, he made every other passion subservient to the gratification of his avarice, Crofts had not coldly beheld the youth and beauty of Emmeline; he had, however, carefully forborne to shew that he admired her, and would probably never have betrayed what must ruin him for ever with Mrs. Ashwood, had not the conviction of her partiality to Fitz-Edward inspired him with the infamous hope of frightening her into some kindness for himself, by threatening to betray her stolen interview with her supposed lover.
The scorn and horror with which Emmeline repulsed him served only to mortify his self love, and provoke his hatred towards her and the man whom he believed she favoured; and with the inveterate and cowardly malignity of which his heart was particularly susceptible, he determined to do all in his power to ruin them both.
[CHAPTER III]
Such was the horror and detestation which Emmeline felt for Crofts, that she could not bear the thoughts of seeing him again. But as she feared Mrs. Stafford might resent his behaviour, and by that means embroil herself with the vain and insolent Mrs. Ashwood, with whom she knew Stafford was obliged to keep on a fair footing, she determined to say as little as she could of his impertinence to Mrs. Stafford, but to withdraw from the house without again exposing herself to meet him. As soon as she saw her the next morning, she related all that had passed between Fitz-Edward and herself; and after a long consultation they agreed that to prevent his seeing Godolphin was absolutely necessary; and that no other means of doing so offered, but Mrs. Stafford's relating to him the real circumstances and situation of Lady Adelina, as soon as she could be removed from her present abode and precautions taken to prevent his discovering her. This, Mrs. Stafford undertook to do immediately after their departure. It was to take place on the next day; and Emmeline, with the concurrence of her friend, determined that she would take no leave of the party at Woodfield: for tho' the appearance of mystery was extremely disagreeable and distressing to Emmeline, she knew that notice of her intentions would excite enquiries and awaken curiosity very difficult to satisfy; and that it was extremely probable James Crofts might be employed to watch her, and by that means render abortive all her endeavours to preserve the unhappy Lady Adelina.
Relying therefore on the generosity and innocence of her intentions, she chose rather to leave her own actions open to censure which they did not deserve, than to risk an investigation which might be fatal to the interest of her poor friend. She took nothing with her, Mrs. Stafford undertaking every necessary arrangement about her cloaths—and having at night taken a tender leave of this beloved and valuable woman, and promised to write to her constantly and to return as soon as the destiny of Lady Adelina should be decided, they parted.
And Emmeline, arising before the dawn of the following morning, set out alone to Woodbury Forest—a precaution absolutely necessary, to evade the inquisitive watchfulness of James Crofts. She stole softly down stairs, before even the servants were stirring, and opening the door cautiously, felt some degree of terror at being obliged to undertake so long a walk alone at such an hour. But innocence gave her courage, and friendly zeal lent her strength. As she walked on, her fears subsided. She saw the sun rise above the horizon, and her apprehensions were at an end.
As no carriage could approach within three quarters of a mile of the house where Lady Adelina was concealed, they were obliged to walk to the road where Mrs. Stafford had directed a post chaise to wait for them, which she had hired at a distant town, where it was unlikely any enquiry would be made.
Long disuse, as she had hardly ever left the cottage from the moment of her entering it, and the extreme weakness to which she was reduced, made Emmeline greatly fear that Lady Adelina would never be able to reach the place. With her assistance, and that of her Ladyship's woman, slowly and faintly she walked thither; and Emmeline saw her happily placed in the chaise. Every thing had been before settled as to the conveyance of the servant and baggage, and to engage the secresy of the woman with whom she had dwelt, by making her silence sufficiently advantageous; and as they hoped that no traces were left by which they might be followed, the spirits of the fair travellers seemed somewhat to improve as they proceeded on their journey.—Emmeline felt her heart elated with the consciousness of doing good; and from the tender affection and assistance of such a friend, which could be considered only as the benevolence of heaven itself, Lady Adelina drew a favourable omen, and dared entertain a faint hope that her penitence had been accepted.
They arrived without any accident at Bath, the following day; and Emmeline, leaving Lady Adelina at the inn, went out immediately to secure lodgings in a retired part of the town. As soon as it was dark, Lady Adelina removed thither in a chair; and was announced by Emmeline to be the wife of a Swiss officer, to be herself of Switzerland, and to bear the name of Mrs. St. Laure—while she herself, as she was very little known, continued to pass by her own name in the few transactions which in their very private way of living required her name to be repeated.
When Mrs. Ashwood found that Emmeline had left Woodfield clandestinely and alone, and that Mrs. Stafford evaded giving any account whither she was gone, by saying coldly that she was gone to visit a friend in Surrey whom she formerly knew in Wales, all the suspicions she had herself harboured, and Miss Galton encouraged, seemed confirmed. James Crofts had related, not without exaggerations, what he had been witness to in the copse; and it was no longer doubted but that she was gone with Fitz-Edward, which at once accounted for her departure and the sudden and mysterious manner in which it was accomplished. James Crofts had suspicions that his behaviour had hastened it; but he failed not to confirm Mrs. Ashwood in her prepossession that her entanglement with Fitz-Edward was now at a period when it could be no longer concealed—intelligence which was to be conveyed to Delamere.
The elder Crofts, who had been some time with Lady Montreville and her daughter, had named Delamere from time to time in his letters to his brother. The last, mentioned that he was now with his mother and sister, who were at Nice, and who purposed returning to England in about three months. Crofts represented Delamere as still devoted to Emmeline; and as existing only in the hope of being no longer opposed in his intention of marrying her in March, when the year which he had promised his father to wait expired; but that Lady Montreville, as time wore away, grew more averse to the match, and more desirous of some event which might break it off. Crofts gave his brother a very favourable account of his progress with Miss Delamere; and hinted that if he could be fortunate enough to put an end to Delamere's intended connection, it would so greatly conciliate the favour of Lady Montreville, that he dared hope she would no longer oppose his union with her daughter: and when once they were married, and the prejudices of the mother to an inferior alliance conquered, he had very little doubt of Lord Montreville's forgiveness, and of soon regaining his countenance and friendship.
This account from his brother added another motive to those which already influenced the malignant and illiberal mind of James Crofts to injure the lovely orphan, and he determined to give all his assistance to Mrs. Ashwood in the cruel project of depriving her at once of her character and her lover. In a consultation which he held on this subject with his promised bride and Miss Galton, the ladies agreed that it was perfectly shocking that such a fine young man as Mr. Delamere should be attached to a woman so little sensible of his value as Emmeline; that it had long been evident she was to him indifferent, and it was now too clear that she was partial to another; and that therefore it would be a meritorious action to acquaint him of her intimacy with Fitz-Edward; and it could not be doubted but his knowledge of it would, high spirited as he was, cure him effectually of his ill-placed passion, and restore the tranquillity of his respectable family. Hiding thus the inveterate envy and malice of their hearts under this hypocritical pretence, they next considered how to give the information which was so meritorious. Anonymous letters were expedients to which Miss Galton had before had recourse, and to an anonymous letter they determined to commit the secret of Emmeline's infidelity—while James Crofts, in his letters to his brother, was to corroborate the intelligence it contained, by relating as mere matter of news what had actually and evidently happened, Emmeline's sudden departure from Woodfield.
Delamere, when he saw his mother out of danger at Barege, had returned to the neighbourhood of Paris, where he had lingered some time, in hopes that Emmeline would accede to his request of being allowed to cross the channel for a few days; but her answer, in which she strongly urged the hazard he would incur of giving his father a pretence to withdraw his promise, by violating his own, had obliged him, tho' with infinite reluctance, to give up the scheme; and being quite indifferent where he was, if he was still at a distance from her, he had yielded to the solicitations of Lady Montreville, and rejoined her at Nice. There, he now remained; while every thing in England seemed to contribute to assist the designs of those who wished to disengage him from his passion for Emmeline.
The day after Emmeline's departure with Lady Adelina, Fitz-Edward went to Woodfield; and hearing that Miss Mowbray had suddenly left it, was thrown into the utmost astonishment—astonishment which Mrs. Ashwood and Miss Galton observed to each other was the finest piece of acting they had ever seen.
The whole party were together when he was introduced—a circumstance Mrs. Stafford would willingly have avoided, as it was absolutely necessary for her to speak to him alone; and determined to do so, whatever construction the malignity of her sister-in-law might put upon it, she said—
'I have long promised you, Colonel, a sight of the two pieces of drawing which Miss Mowbray and I have finished as companions. They are now framed; and if you will come with me into my dressing-room you shall see them.'
As the rest of the company had frequently seen these drawings, there was no pretence for their following Mrs. Stafford; who, accompanied by the Colonel, went to her dressing room.
A conference thus evidently sought by Mrs. Stafford, excited the eager and painful curiosity of the party in the parlour.
'Now would I give the world,' cried Mrs. Ashwood, 'to know what is going forward.'
'Is it not possible to listen?' enquired Crofts, equal to any meanness that might gratify the malevolence of another or his own.
'Yes,' replied Mrs. Ashwood, 'if one could get into the closet next the dressing-room without being perceived, which can only be done by passing thro' the nursery. If indeed the nursery maids and children are out, it is easy enough.'
'They are out, mama, I assure you,' cried Miss Ashwood, 'for I saw them myself go across the lawn since I've been at breakfast. Do, pray let us go and listen—I long of all things to know what my aunt Stafford can have to say to that sly-looking Colonel.'
'No, no, child,' said her mother, 'I shall not send you, indeed—but Crofts, do you think we should be able to make it out?'
'Egad,' answered he, 'I'll try—for depend upon it the mischief will out. It will be rare, to have such a pretty tale to tell Mr. Delamere of his demure-looking little dear.—I'll venture.'
Mrs. Ashwood then shewing him the way, he went on tip toe up stairs, and concealing himself in a light closet which was divided from the dressing room only by lath and plaister, he lent an attentive ear to the dialogue that was passing.
It happened, however, that the window near which Mrs. Stafford and Fitz-Edward were sitting was exactly opposite to that side of the room to which Crofts' hiding-place communicated; and tho' the room was not large, yet the distance, the partition, and the low voice in which both parties spoke, made it impossible for him to distinguish more than broken sentences. From Mrs. Stafford he heard—'Could not longer be concealed—in all probability may now remain unknown—the child, I will myself attend to.' From Fitz-Edward, he could only catch indistinct sounds; his voice appearing to be lost in his emotion. But he seemed to be thanking Mrs. Stafford, and lamenting his own unhappiness. His last speech, in which his powers of utterance were returned, was—'Nothing can ever erase the impression of your angelic goodness, best and loveliest of friends!—oh, continue it, I beseech you, to those for whom only I am solicitous, and forgive all the trouble I have given you!'
He then hurried away. Mrs. Stafford, after remaining alone a moment as if to compose herself, went back to the parlour; and Crofts, who thought he had heard enough, tho' he wished to have heard all, slunk from his closet and walked into the garden; where being soon afterwards joined by Mrs. Ashwood and Miss Galton, he, by relating the broken and disjointed discourse he had been witness to, left not a doubt remaining of the cause of Emmeline's precipitate retreat from Woodfield.
And perhaps minds more candid than their's—minds untainted with the odious and hateful envy which ulcerated their's, might, from the circumstances that attended her going and Fitz-Edward's behaviour, have conceived disadvantageous ideas of her conduct. But such was the uneasiness with which Mrs. Ashwood ever beheld superior merit, and such the universal delight which Miss Galton took in defamation, that had none of those circumstances existed, they would with equal malignity have studied to ruin the reputation of Emmeline; and probably with equal success—for against such attacks, innocence, however it may console it's possessor, is too frequently a feeble and inadequate defence!
While the confederates, exulting in the certainty of Emmeline's ruin, were manufacturing the letter which was to alarm the jealous and irascible spirit of Delamere, Fitz-Edward, (from whom Mrs. Stafford, before she would tell him any thing, had extorted a promise that he would enquire no farther than what she chose to relate to him,) was relieved from insupportable anguish by hearing that Lady Adelina was in safe hands; but he lamented in bitterness of soul the despondency and affliction to which Mrs. Stafford had told him she entirely resigned herself. He knew not that Emmeline was with her, whatever he might suspect; and Mrs. Stafford had protested to him, that if he made any attempt to discover the residence of Lady Adelina, or persisted in meeting her brother, she would immediately relinquish all concern in the affair, and no longer interest herself in what his rashness would inevitably render desperate.
He solemnly assured her he would take no measures without her knowledge; and remained at Tylehurst, secluded from every body, and waiting in fearful and anxious solicitude to hear of Lady Adelina by Mrs. Stafford.
Delamere, (still at Nice with his mother,) who with different sources of uneasiness thought the days and weeks insupportably long in which he lived only in the hope of seeing Emmeline at the end of six months, was roused from his involuntary resignation by the following letter, written in a hand perfectly unknown to him.
'Sir,
'A friend to your worthy and noble family writes this; which is meant to serve you, and to undeceive you in regard to Miss Mowbray—who, without any gratitude for the high honour you intend her, is certainly too partial to another person. She is now gone from Woodfield to escape observation; and none but Mrs. Stafford is let into the secret of where she is. You will judge what end it is to answer; but certainly none that bodes you good. One would have supposed that the Colonel's being very often her attendant at Woodfield might have made her stay there agreeable enough; but perhaps (for I do not aver it) the young lady has some particular reasons for wishing to have private lodgings. No doubt the Colonel is a man of gallantry; but his friendship to you is rather more questionable. The writer of this having very little knowledge of the parties, can have no other motive than the love of justice, and being sorry to see deceit and falsehood practised on a young gentleman who deserves better, and who has a respectful tho' unknown friend in
Y. Z.'
London, July 22, 17—.
This infamous scroll had no sooner been perused by Delamere, than fury flashed from his eyes, and anguish seized his heart. But the moment the suddenness of his passion gave way to reflection, the tumult of his mind subsided, and he thought it must be an artifice of his mother's to separate him from Emmeline. The longer he considered her inveterate antipathy to his marriage, the more he was convinced that this artifice, unworthy as it was, she was capable of conceiving, and, by means of the Crofts, executing, if she hoped by it to put an eternal conclusion to his affection. He at length so entirely adopted this idea, that determining 'to be revenged and love her better for it,' and to settle the matter very peremptorily with the Crofts' if they had been found to interfere, he obtained a tolerable command over his temper and his features, and joined Lady Montreville and Miss Delamere, whom he found reading letters which they also had received from England. His mother asked slightly after his; and, in a few moments, Mr. Crofts arrived, asking, with his usual assiduity, after the health of Lord Montreville and that of such friends as usually wrote to her Ladyship? She answered his enquiries—and then desired to hear what news Sir Richard or his other correspondents had sent him?
'My father's letters,' said he, 'contain little more than an order to purchase some particular sort of wine which he is very circumstantial, as usual, in telling me how to forward safely. He adds, indeed, that he can allow my absence no longer than until the 20th of September.'—He sighed, and looked tenderly at Miss Delamere.
'I have no other letters,' continued he, 'but one from James.'
'And does he tell you no news,' asked Lady Montreville?
'Nothing,' answered Crofts, carelessly, 'but gossip, which I believe would not entertain your Ladyship.'
'Oh, why should you fancy that,' returned she—'you know I love to hear news, tho' about people I never saw or ever wish to see.'
'James has been at Mr. Stafford's at Woodfield,' said he, 'where your Ladyship has certainly no acquaintance.'
'At Woodfield, Sir?' cried Delamere, unable to express his anxiety—'at Woodfield!—And what does he say of Woodfield?'
'I don't recollect any thing very particular,' answered Crofts, carelessly—'I believe I put the letter into my pocket.' He took it out.
'Read it to us Crofts'—said Miss Delamere.
----'I have lately passed a very agreeable month at Woodfield. We were a large party in the house. Among other pleasant circumstances, during my stay there, was a ball and fête champêtre, given by Mr. Conway on his son's coming of age. It was elegant, and well conducted beyond any entertainment of the sort I ever saw. There were forty couple, and a great number of very pretty women; but it was agreed on all hands that Miss Mowbray would have eclipsed them all, who unluckily declined going. She left Woodfield a day or two afterwards.'
Delamere's countenance changed.—Crofts, as if looking for some other news in his letter, hesitated, then smiled, and went on.—
'The gossip Fame has made a match for me with Mrs. Ashwood. I wish she may be right. In some other of her stories I really think her wrong, so I will not be the means of their circulation.'
'The rest,' said Crofts, putting up the letter, 'is only about my father's new purchases and other family affairs.'
Delamere, who, in spite of his suspicions of Crofts' treachery, could not hear this corroboration of his anonymous letter without a renewal of all his fears, left the room in doubt, suspence and wretchedness.
The seeds of jealousy and mistrust thus skilfully sown, could hardly fail of taking root in an heart so full of sensibility, and a temper so irritable as his. Again he read over his anonymous letter, and compared it with the intelligence which seemed accidentally communicated by Crofts; and with a fearful kind of enquiry compared the date and circumstances. He dared hardly trust his mind with the import of this investigation; and found nothing on which to rest his hope, but that it might be a concerted plan between his mother and Crofts.
His heart alternately swelling between the indignation such a supposition created and shrinking with horror from the idea of perfidy on the part of Emmeline, kept him in such a state of mind that he could hardly be said to possess his reason. But when he remembered how often his extreme vivacity had betrayed him into error, and hazarded his losing for ever all he held valuable on earth, he tried to subdue the acuteness of his feelings, and to support at least without betraying it, the anguish which oppressed him, till the next pacquet from England, when it was possible a letter from Emmeline herself might dissipate his doubts. Resolutely however resolving to call Crofts to a serious account, if he found him accessory to a calumny so dark and diabolical.
When the next post from England arrived, he saw, among the letters which were delivered to him, one directed by the hand of Emmeline. He flew to his own room, and with trembling hands broke the seal.
It was short, and he fancied unusually cold. Towards it's close, she mentioned that she was going to Bath for a few weeks with a friend, and as she did not know where she should lodge, thought he had better not write till she was again fixed at Woodfield.
That she should go to Bath in July, with a nameless friend, and quit so abruptly her beloved Mrs. Stafford—that she should apparently wish to evade his letters, and make her actual residence a secret—were a cloud of circumstances calculated to persuade him that some mystery involved her conduct; a mystery which the fatal letter served too evidently to explain.
As if fire had been laid to the train of combustibles which had, since the receipt of it, been accumulating in the bosom of Delamere, his furious and uncontroulable spirit now burst forth. A temporary delirium seized him; he stamped round the room, and ran to his pistols, which fortunately were not charged. The noise he made brought Millefleur into the room, whom he instantly caught by the collar, and shaking him violently, cried—
'Scoundrel!—why are not these pistols loaded?'
'Eh! eh! Monsieur!' exclaimed Millefleur, almost strangled-'que voudriez vous?—vos pistolets!—Mon Dieu! que voudriez vous avec vos pistolets?'
'Shoot you perhaps, you blockhead!' raved Delamere, pushing furiously from him the trembling valet—then snatching up the pistols, he half kicked, half pushed him out of the room, and throwing them after him, ordered him to clean and load them: after which he locked the door, and threw himself upon the bed.
The resolution he had made in his cooler moments, never again to yield to such impetuous transports of passion, was now forgotten. He could not conquer, he could not even mitigate the tumultuous anguish which had seized him; but seemed rather to call to his remembrance all that might justify it's excess.
He remembered how positively Emmeline had forbidden his returning to England, tho' all he asked was to be allowed to see her for a few hours. He recollected her long and invincible coldness; her resolute adherence to the promise she need not have given; and forgetting all the symptoms which he had before fondly believed he had discovered of her returning his affection, he exaggerated every circumstance that indicated indifference, and magnified them into signs of absolute aversion.
Tho' he could not forget that Fitz-Edward had assisted him in carrying Emmeline away, and had on all occasions promoted his interest with her, that recollection did not at all weaken the probability of his present attachment; for such was Delamere's opinion of Fitz-Edward's principles, that he believed he was capable of the most dishonourable views on the mistress, or even on the wife of his friend. He tortured his imagination almost to madness, by remembering numberless little incidents, which, tho' almost unattended to at the time, now seemed to bring the cruellest conviction of their intelligence—particularly that on the night he had taken Emmeline from Clapham, Fitz-Edward was found there; tho' neither his father or himself, who had repeatedly sent to his lodgings, could either find him at home or get any direction where to meet with him. Almost all his late letters too had been dated from Tylehurst, where it was certain he had passed the greatest part of the summer.—Fitz-Edward, fond of society, and courted by the most brilliant circles, shut himself up in a country house, distant from all his connections. And to what could such an extraordinary change be owing, if not to his attachment to Emmeline Mowbray?
Irritated by these recollections, he gave himself up to all the dreadful torments of jealousy—jealousy even to madness; and he felt this corrosive passion in all it's extravagance. It was violent in proportion to his love and his pride, and more insupportably painful in proportion to it's novelty; for except once at Swansea, when he fancied that Emmeline in her flight was accompanied by Fitz-Edward, he had never felt it before; however they might serve him as a pretence, Rochely and Elkerton were both too contemptible to excite it.
The night approached; and without having regained any share of composure, he had at length determined to quit Nice the next day, that his mother and Crofts might not be gratified with the sight of his despair, and triumph in the detected perfidy of Emmeline.
Lady Montreville and her daughter were out when the letters arrived; and he now apprehended that when they returned Millefleur might alarm them by an account of his frantic behaviour, and that they would guess it to have been occasioned by his letters from England. Starting up, therefore, he called the poor fellow to him, who was not yet recovered from his former terrifying menaces; and who approached, trembling, the table where Delamere sat; his dress disordered, his eyes flashing fire, and his lips pale and quivering.
'Come here, Sir!' sternly cried he.
Millefleur sprung close to the table.
'Have you cleaned and loaded my pistols?'
'Monsieur—je, je m'occupais—je, je—Monsieur, ils sont——'
'Fool, of what are you afraid?—what does the confounded poltron tremble for?'
'Mais Monsieur—c'est que—que—mais Monsieur,je ne scais!'
'Tenez, Mr. Millefleur!' said Delamere sharply—'Remember what I am going to say. Something has happened to vex me, and I shall go out to-morrow for a few days, or perhaps I may go to England. My mother is to know nothing of it, but what I shall myself tell her; therefore at your peril speak of what has happened this evening, or of my intentions for to-morrow. Come up immediately, and put my things into my portmanteaus, and put my fire arms in order. I shall take you with me. David need not be prepared till to-morrow. I shall go on horseback and shall want him also. The least failure on your part of executing these orders, you will find very inconvenient—you know I will not be trifled with.'
Millefleur, frightened to death at the looks and voice of his master, dared not disobey; and Delamere employing him in putting up his cloaths till after Lady Montreville came in, was, he thought, secure of his secresy. He then made an effort, tho' a successless one, to hide the anguish that devoured him; and went down to supper. He found, that besides their constant attendant Crofts, his mother and sister were accompanied by two other English gentlemen, and a French man of fashion and his sister, who full of the vivacity and gaiety of their country, kept up a lively conversation with Miss Delamere and the Englishmen. But Delamere hardly spoke—his eyes were wild and inflamed—his cheeks flushed—and deep sighs seemed involuntarily to burst from his heart. Lady Montreville observed him, and then said—
'Surely, Frederic, you are not well?'
'Not very well,' said he; 'but I am otherwise, merely from the intolerable heat. I have had the head-ache all day.'
'The head-ache!' exclaimed his mother—'Why then do you not go to bed?'
'No,' answered he, 'I am better up. Since the heat is abated, I am in less pain. I will take a walk by the fine moon that I see is rising, and be back again presently—and to-morrow,' continued he—'to-morrow, I shall go northward for a month. I cannot stay under this burning atmosphere.'
Then desiring the company not to move on his account, he arose from table and hastened away.
'Do, my good Crofts,' said Lady Montreville—'do follow Frederic—he frightens me to death—he is certainly very ill.'
Crofts hesitated a moment, being in truth afraid to interfere with Delamere's ramble while he was in a humour so gloomy; but on her Ladyship's repeating her request, dared not shew his reluctance. He went out therefore under pretence of following him; while the party present, seeing Lady Montreville's distress, almost immediately departed.
Crofts walked on without much desire to fulfill his commission; for Delamere, whenever he was obliged to associate with him, treated him generally with coldness, and sometimes rudely. There was, however, very little probability of his overtaking him; for Delamere had walked or rather run to a considerable distance from the street where his mother lived, and then wandering farther into the fields, had thrown himself upon the grass, and had forgotten every thing but Emmeline—'Emmeline and Fitz-Edward gone together!—the mistress on whom he had so fondly doated!—the friend whom he had so implicitly trusted!' These cruel images, drest in every form most fatal to his peace, tormented him, and the agony of disappointed passion seemed to have affected his brain. Deep groans forced their way from his oppressed heart—he cursed his existence, and seemed resolutely bent, in the gloominess of his despair, to shake it off and free himself from sufferings so intolerable.
To the first effusions of his phrenzy, a sullen calm, more alarming, succeeded. He fixed his eyes on the moon which shone above him, but had no idea of what he saw, or where he was; his breath was short, his hands clenched; he seemed as if, having lost the power of complaint, he was unable to express the pain that convulsed his whole frame.
While he continued in this situation, a favourite little spaniel of his mother's, of which he had from a boy been fond, ran up to him and licked his hands and face. The caresses of an animal he had so long remembered, touched some chord of the heart that vibrated to softer emotions than those which had for the last three hours possessed him—he burst into tears.
'Felix!' said he, sobbing, 'poor Felix!'
The dog, rejoicing to be noticed, ran barking round him; and presently afterwards, with hurried steps, came Miss Delamere, leaning on the arm of Crofts.
'My God!' exclaimed she, almost screaming, 'here he is! Oh Frederic, you have so terrified my mother! and Mr. Crofts has been two hours in search of you. Had it not been for the dog, we should not now have found you. Mr. Crofts has returned twice to the house without you.'
'Mr. Crofts may return then a third time,' said Delamere, 'and cease to give himself such unnecessary trouble.'
'But you will come with us, brother?—Surely you will now come home?'
'At my leisure,' replied he, sternly—'Lady Montreville need be under no apprehensions about me. I shall be at home presently. But I will not be importuned! I will not be watched and followed! and above all, I will not have a governor!'
So saying, he turned from them and walked another way; while they, seeing him so impracticable, could only return to report what they had seen to Lady Montreville. Delamere, however, who had taken another way, entered the house at the same moment.
Lady Montreville had strictly questioned Millefleur as to the cause of his master's disorder; and the poor fellow, who dared not relate the furious passion into which he had fallen on reading his letter, trembled, prevaricated, stammered, and looked so white, that her Ladyship, more alarmed, fancied she knew not what; and full of terror, had sent out Crofts a second time, and the servants different ways, in search of her son. At length Crofts returning the second time without success, Miss Delamere went with him herself; and the dog following her, led her to her brother. But before their return, Lady Montreville's apprehensions had arisen to such an height, that a return of her fits seemed to threaten her, and with difficulty was she brought to her senses when she saw him before her; and when he, moved by the keenness of her sorrow at his imaginary danger, assured her, in answer to her repeated enquiries, that he was merely affected by the heat; that he had no material complaint, and should be quite well and in his usual spirits when he returned from the excursion he proposed going upon the next day. Then, being somewhat appeased, his mother suffered him to retire; and called her counsellor, Mr. Crofts, to debate whether in such a frame of mind she ought to allow the absence of Delamere? Crofts advised her by all means to let him go. He suspected indeed that the anonymous letter had occasioned all the wild behaviour he had been witness to, and thought it very likely that Delamere might be going to England. But he knew that James Crofts and his fair associates were prepared for the completion of their project if he did; and his absence was, on account of Crofts' own affairs, particularly desirable.
For these reasons, he represented to Lady Montreville that opposition would only irritate and inflame her son, without inducing him to stay. He departed, therefore, the next morning, without any impediment on the part of his mother; but was yet undecided whither to go. While Crofts, no longer thwarted by his observation, or humbled by his haughty disdain, managed matters so well, that in spite of the pride of noble blood, in spite of her reluctance to marry a commoner, he conquered and silenced all the scruples and objections of Miss Delamere; and a young English clergyman, a friend of his, coming to Nice, as both he and Crofts declared, by the meerest accident in the world, just about that time, Crofts obtained her consent to a private marriage; and his friend took especial care that no form might be wanting, to enable him legally to claim his bride, on their return to England.
[CHAPTER IV]
Emmeline had now been near a month at Bath, whence she had not written to Delamere. She had seldom done so oftener than once in six or eight weeks; and no reason subsisted at present for a more frequent correspondence.
Far from having any idea that he would think her temporary removal extraordinary, she had not attempted to conceal it from him; and of his jealousy of Fitz-Edward she had not the remotest suspicion. For tho' Mrs. Ashwood's hints, and the behaviour of James Crofts, had left no doubt of their ill opinion of her, yet she never supposed them capable of an attempt to impress the same idea on the mind of Delamere; and had no notion of the variety of motives which made the whole family of the Crofts, with which Mrs. Ashwood was now connected, solicitous to perpetuate the evil by propagating the scandalous story they had themselves invented.
Unconscious therefore of the anguish which preyed upon the heart of her unhappy lover, Emmeline gave her whole attention to Lady Adelina, and she saw with infinite concern the encreasing weakness of her frame; with still greater pain she observed, that by suffering her mind to dwell continually on her unhappy situation, it was no longer able to exert the powers it possessed; and that, sunk in hopeless despondence, her intellects were frequently deranged. Amid these alienations of reason, she was still gentle, amiable and interesting; and as they were yet short and slight, Emmeline flattered herself, that the opiates which her physician (in consequence of the restless and anxious nights Lady Adelina had for some time passed) found it absolutely necessary to administer, might have partly if not entirely occasioned this alarming symptom.
Still, however, the busy imagination of Emmeline perpetually represented to her impending sorrow, and her terror hourly encreased. She figured to herself the decided phrenzy, or the death of her poor friend; and unable to conquer apprehensions which she was yet compelled to conceal, she lived in a continual effort to appear chearful, and to soothe the wounded mind of the sufferer, by consolatory conversation; while she watched her with an attention so sedulous and so painful, that only the excellence of her heart, which persuaded her she was engaged in a task truly laudable, could have supported her thro' such anxiety and fatigue.
She was, however, very desirous that as Mr. Godolphin was now in England he might be acquainted with his sister's calamitous and precarious situation; and she gently hinted to Lady Adelina, how great a probability she thought there was, that such a man as her brother was represented to be, would in her sorrow and her suffering forget her error.
But by the most distant idea of such an interview, she found Lady Adelina so violently affected, that she dared not again urge it; and was compelled, in fearful apprehension, to await the hour which would probably give the fair penitent to that grave, where she seemed to wish her disgrace and affliction might be forgotten.
To describe the anxiety of Emmeline when that period arrived, is impossible; or the mingled emotions of sorrow and satisfaction, pleasure and pity, with which she beheld the lovely and unfortunate infant whose birth she had so long desired, yet so greatly dreaded.
Lady Adelina had, till then, wished to die. She saw her child—and wished to live.—The physical people who attended her, gave hopes that she might.—Supported by the tender friendship of Emmeline, and animated by maternal fondness, she determined to attempt it.
Emmeline, now full of apprehension, now indulging feeble hopes, prayed fervently for her recovery; and zealously and indefatigably attended her with more than her former solicitude. For three days, her hopes gradually grew stronger; when on the evening of the third, as she was sitting alone by the side of the bed where Lady Adelina had fallen into a quiet sleep, she suddenly heard a sort of bustle in the next room; and before she could rise to put an end to it, a gentleman to whom she was a stranger, walked hastily into that where she was. On seeing her, he started and said—
'I beg your pardon, Madam—but I was informed that here I might find Lady Adelina Trelawny.'
The name of Trelawny, thus suddenly and loudly pronounced, awakened Lady Adelina. She started up—undrew the curtain—and fixing her eyes with a look of terrified astonishment on the stranger, she exclaimed, faintly—'Oh! my brother!—my brother William!' then sunk back on her pillow, to all appearance lifeless.
Mr. Godolphin now springing forward, caught the cold and insensible hand which had opened the curtain; and throwing himself on his knees, cried—
'Adelina! my love! are you ill?—have I then terrified and alarmed you? Speak to me—dear Adelina—speak to me!'
Emmeline, whose immediate astonishment at his presence had been lost in terror for his sister, had flown out of the room for the attendants, and now returning, cried—
'You have killed her, Sir!—She is certainly dead!—Oh, my God! the sudden alarm, the sudden sight of you, has destroyed her!'
'I am afraid it has!' exclaimed Godolphin wildly, and hardly knowing what he said—'I am indeed afraid it has! My poor sister—my unhappy, devoted Adelina!—have I then found you only to destroy you? But perhaps,' continued he, after a moment's pause, during which Emmeline and the nurse were chafing the hands and temples of the dying patient—'perhaps she may recover. Send instantly for advice—run—fly—let me go myself for assistance.'
He would now have run out of the room; but Emmeline, whose admirable presence of mind this sudden scene of terror had not conquered, stopped him.
'Stay, Sir,' said she, 'I beseech you, stay. You know not whither to go. I will instantly send those who do.'
She then left the room, and ordered a servant to fetch the physician; for she dreaded least Mr. Godolphin should discover the real name and quality of the patient to those to whom he might apply; and on returning to the bed side, where Lady Adelina still lay without any signs of existence, and by which her brother still knelt in speechless agony, her fears were again alive, least when the medical gentlemen arrived, his grief and desperation should betray the secret to them. While her first apprehension was for the life of her friend, these secondary considerations were yet extremely alarming—for she knew, that should Lady Adelina recover, her life would be for ever embittered, if not again endangered, by the discovery which seemed impending and almost inevitable.
The women who were about her having now applied every remedy they could think of without success, began loudly to lament themselves. Emmeline, commanding her own anguish, besought them to stifle their's, and not to give way to fruitless exclamations while there was yet hope, but to continue their endeavours to recover their lady. Then addressing herself to Mr. Godolphin, she roused him from the stupor of grief in which he had fallen, while he gazed with an impassioned and agonizing look on the pale countenance of his sister.
'Pardon me, Sir,' said she, 'if I entreat you to go down stairs and await the arrival of the advice I have sent for. Should my poor friend recover, your presence may renew and encrease the alarm of her spirits, and embarrass her returning recollection; and should she not recover, you had better hear such mournful tidings in any place rather than this.'
'Oh! if I do hear them,' answered he, wildly, 'it matters little where. But I will withdraw, Madam, since you seem to desire it.'
He had hardly seen Emmeline before. He now turned his eyes mournfully upon her—'It is, I presume, Miss Mowbray,' said he, 'who thus, with an angel's tenderness in an angel's form, would spare the sorrows of a stranger?'
Emmeline, unable to speak, led the way down to the parlour, and Godolphin silently followed her.
'Go back,' said he, tremulously, as soon as they reached the room—'go back to my sister; your tender assiduity may do more for her than the people about her. Your voice, your looks, will soothe and tranquillize her, should she awaken from her long insensibility. Ah! tell her, her brother came only to rescue her from the misery of her unworthy lot—Tell her his affection, his brotherly affection, hopes to give her consolation; and restore her—if it may yet be—to her repose. But go, dearest Miss Mowbray go!—somebody comes in—perhaps the physician.'
Emmeline now opening the parlour door, found it to be indeed the physician she expected; and with a fearful heart she followed him, informing him, as they went up stairs, that the sudden appearance of Mrs. St. Laure's brother, whom she had not seen for two or three years, had thrown her into a fainting fit, from which not all their endeavours had recovered her.
He remonstrated vehemently against the extreme indiscretion of such an interview. Emmeline, who knew not by what strange chain of circumstances it had been brought about, had nothing to reply.
So feeble were the appearances of remaining life, that the physician could pronounce nothing certainly in regard to his patient. He gave, however, directions to her attendants; but after every application had been used, all that could be said was, that she was not actually dead. As soon as the physician had written his prescription and retired, Emmeline recollected the painful state of suspense in which she had left Mr. Godolphin, and trying to recover courage to go thro' the painful scene before her, she went down to him.
As she opened the door, he met her.
'I have seen the doctor,' said he, in a broken and hurried voice—'and from his account I am convinced Adelina is dying.'
'I hope not,' faintly answered Emmeline. 'There is yet a possibility, tho' I fear no great probability of her recovery.'
'My Adelina!' resumed he, walking about the room—'my Adelina! for whose sake I so anxiously wished to return to England—Gracious God! I am come too late to assist her! Some strange mystery surely hangs over her! Long lost to all her friends, I find her here dying! The sight of me, instead of relieving her sorrow seems to have accelerated her dissolution! And you, Madam, to whose goodness she appears to be so greatly indebted—may I ask by what fortunate circumstance, lost and obscure as she has been, she has acquired such a friend?'
Emmeline, shuddering at the apprehension of enquiries she found it impossible to answer, was wholly at a loss how to reply to this. She knew not of what Mr. Godolphin was informed—of what he was ignorant; and dreaded to say too much, or to be detected in a false representation. She therefore, agitated and hesitating, gravely said—
'It is not now a time, Sir, to ask any thing relative to Lady Adelina. I am myself too ill to enter into conversation; and wish, as you have been yourself greatly affected, that you would now retire, and endeavour to make yourself as easy as you can. To-morrow may, perhaps, afford us more chearful prospects—or at least this cruel suspense will be over, and the dear sufferer at peace.'
She sobbed, and turned away. Godolphin rising, said in a faultering voice—
'Yes, I will go! since my stay can only encrease the pain of that generous and sensible heart. I will go—but not to rest!—I cannot rest! But do you try, most amiable creature! to obtain some repose—Try, I beseech you, to recover your spirits, which have been so greatly hurried.'
He knew not what he said; and was hastening out of the room, when Emmeline, recollecting how ardently Lady Adelina had desired the concealment of her name and family, stopped him as he was quitting her.
'Yet one thing, Captain Godolphin, allow me to entreat of you?'
'What can I refuse you?' answered he, returning.
'Only—are you known at Bath?'
'Probably I may. It is above three years since I was in England, and much longer since I have been here. But undoubtedly some one or other will know me.'
'Then do indulge me in one request. See as few people as you can; and if you accidentally meet any of your friends, do not say that Lady Adelina is here.'
'Not meet any one if I can avoid it!—and if I do, not speak of my sister! And why is all this?—why this concealment, this mystery?—why—'
Emmeline, absolutely overcome, sat down without speaking. Godolphin, seeing her uneasiness, said—
'But I will not distress you, Madam, by farther questions. Your commands shall be sufficient. I will stifle my anxiety and obey you.' Then bowing respectfully, he added—'To-morrow, at as early an hour as I dare hope for admittance, I shall be at the door. Heaven bless and reward the fair and gentle Miss Mowbray—and may it have mercy on my poor Adelina!'—He sighed deeply, and left the house.
Lady Adelina, tho' not so entirely insensible, was yet but little amended. But as what alteration there was, was for the better, Emmeline endeavoured to recall her own agitated and dissipated spirits. The extraordinary scene which had just passed, was still present to her imagination; the last words of Godolphin, still vibrated in her ears. 'Fair and gentle Miss Mowbray!' repeated she. 'He knows my name; yet seems ignorant of every thing that relates to his sister!'
Her astonishment at this circumstance was succeeded by reflecting on the unpleasant task she must have if Mr. Godolphin should again enquire into her first acquaintance with his sister. To relate to him the melancholy story she had heard, would, she found, be an undertaking to which she was wholly unequal; and she was equally averse to the invention of a plausible falsehood. From this painful apprehension she meditated how to extricate herself; but the longer she thought of it, the more she despaired of it. The terrors of such a conversation hourly augmented; and wholly and for ever to escape from it, she sometimes determined to write. But from executing that design, was withheld by considering that if Godolphin was of a fiery and impetuous temper, he would probably, without reflection or delay, fly to vengeance, and precipitate every evil which Lady Adelina dreaded.
After having exhausted every idea on the subject, she could think of nothing on which her imagination could rest, but to send to Mrs. Stafford, acquaint her with the danger of Lady Adelina, and conjure her if possible to come to her. This she knew she would do unless some singular circumstance in her own family prevented her attention to her friends.
Resolved to embrace therefore this hope, she dispatched an hasty billet by an express to Woodfield; and then betook herself to a bed on the floor, which she had ordered to be placed by the side of that where Lady Adelina, in happy tho' dangerous insensibility, still seemed to repose almost in the arms of death.
Emmeline could not, however, obtain even a momentary forgetfulness. Tho' she could not repent her attention to the unhappy Lady Adelina, she was yet sensible of her indiscretion in having put herself into the situation she was now in; the cruel, unfeeling world would, she feared, condemn her; and of it's reflections she could not think without pain. But her heart, her generous sympathizing heart, more than acquitted—it repaid her.
Towards the middle of the night, Lady Adelina, who had made two or three faint efforts to speak, sighed, and again in faint murmurs attempted to explain herself. Emmeline started up and eagerly listened; and in a low whisper heard her ask for her child.
Emmeline ordered it instantly to be brought; and those eyes which had so lately seemed closed for ever, were opened in search of this beloved object: then, as if satisfied in beholding it living and well, they closed again, while she imprinted a kiss on it's little hand. She then asked for Emmeline; who, delighted with this apparent amendment, prevailed on her to take what had been ordered for her. She appeared still better in a few moments, but was yet extremely languid.
'I have had a dreadful dream, my Emmeline,' said she, at length—'a long and dreadful dream! But it is gone—you are here; my poor little boy too is well; and this alarming vision will I hope haunt me no more.'
Emmeline, who feared that the dream was indeed a reality, exhorted her to think only of her recovery; of which, added she cheerfully, we have no longer any doubt.
'Comfortable and consoling angel!' sighed Lady Adelina—'your presence is surely safety. Do not leave me!'
Emmeline promised not to quit the room; and elate with hopes of her friend's speedy restoration to health, fell herself into a tranquil and refreshing slumber.
On awakening the next morning, she found Lady Adelina much better; but still, whenever she spoke, dwelling on her supposed dream, and sometimes talking with that incoherence which had for some weeks before so greatly alarmed her. Her own dread of meeting Godolphin was by no means lessened; and to prevent an immediate interview, she dispatched to him a note.
'Sir,
'I am happy in having it in my power to assure you that our dear patient is much better. But as uninterrupted tranquillity is absolutely necessary, that, and other considerations, induce me to beg you will forbear coming hither to day. You may depend on having hourly intelligence, and that we shall be desirous of the pleasure of seeing you when the safety of my friend admits it.
I have the honour to be, Sir,
your most humble servant,
Emmeline Mowbray.'Sept. 20,17—.
To this note, Mr. Godolphin answered—
'If Miss Mowbray will only allow me to wait on her for one moment in the parlour, I will not again trespass on her time till I have her own permission.
W. G.'
This request, Emmeline was obliged, with whatever reluctance, to comply with. She therefore sent a verbal acquiescence; and repaired to the bed-side of Lady Adelina, who had asked for her.
'Will you pardon my folly, my dear Emmeline,' said she languidly—'but I cannot be easy till I have told you what a strange idea has seized me. I seemed, last night, I know not at what time, to be suddenly awakened by a voice which loudly repeated the name of Trelawny. Startled by the sound, I thought I undrew the curtain, and saw my brother William, who stood looking angrily on me. I felt greatly terrified; and growing extremely sick, I lost the vision. But now again it's recollection harrasses my imagination; and the image of my brother, sterner, and with a ruder aspect than he was wont to wear, still seems present before me. Oh! he was accustomed to be all goodness and gentleness, and to love his poor Adelina. But now he too will throw me from him—he too will detest and despise me—Or perhaps,' continued she, after a short pause—'perhaps he is dead. I am not superstitious—but this dream pursues me.'
Emmeline, who had hoped that the very terror of this sudden interview had obliterated it's remembrance, said every thing she thought likely to quiet her mind, and to persuade her that the uneasy images represented in her imperfect slumbers were merely the effect of her weakness and perturbed spirits.
The impression, however, was too strong to be effaced by arguments. It still hung heavy on her heart, irritated the fever which had before been only slight, and deprived her almost entirely of sleep; or if she slept, she again fancied herself awakened by her brother, angrily repeating the name of Trelawny.
Sometimes, starting in terror from these feverish dreams, she called on her brother to pardon and pity her; sometimes in piercing accents deplored his death, and sometimes besought him to spare Fitz-Edward. These incoherences were particularly distressing; as names were often heard by the attendants which Emmeline hoped to have concealed; and it was hardly possible longer to deceive the physician and apothecary who attended her.
With an uneasy heart, and a countenance pensively expressive of it's feelings, she went down to receive Captain Godolphin in the parlour.
'I fear, Miss Mowbray,' said he, as soon as they were seated, 'you will think me too ready to take advantage of your goodness. But there is that appearance of candour and compassion about you, that I determined rather to trust to your goodness for pardon, than to remain longer in a state of suspense about my sister, which I have already found most insupportable. In the note you honoured me with to day you say she is better. Is she then out of danger? Has she proper advice?'
'She has the best advice, Sir. I cannot, however, say that she is out of danger, but'—She hesitated, and knew not how to proceed.
'But—you hope, rather than believe, she will recover,' cried Godolphin eagerly.
'I both hope it and believe it. Mr. Godolphin, you yesterday did me the honour to suppose I had been fortunate enough to be of some service to Lady Adelina; suffer me to take advantage of a supposition so flattering, and to claim a sort of right to ask in my turn a favour.'
'Surely I shall consider it as an honour to receive, and as happiness to obey, any command of Miss Mowbray's.'
'Promise me then to observe the same silence in regard to your sister as I asked of you last night. Trust me with her safety, and believe it will not be neglected. But you must neither speak of her to others, or question me about her.'
'Good God! from whence can arise the necessity for these precautions! What dreadful obscurity surrounds her! What am I to fear? What am I to suppose?'
'You will not, then,' said Emmeline, gravely—'you will not oblige me, by desisting from all questions 'till this trifling restraint can be taken off?'
'I will, I do promise to be guided wholly by you; and to bear, however difficult it may be, the suspense, the frightful suspense in which I must remain. Tell me, however, that Adelina is not in immediate danger. But, but' added he, as if recollecting himself, 'may I not apply for information on that head to her physician?'
'Not for the world!' answered Emmeline, with unguarded quickness—'not for the world!'
'Not for the world!'—repeated Godolphin, with an accent of astonishment. 'Heaven and earth! But I have promised to ask nothing—I must obey—and will now release you, Madam.'
Godolphin then took his leave; and Emmeline, whose heart had throbbed violently throughout this dialogue, sat down alone to compose and recollect herself. She saw, that to keep Godolphin many days ignorant of the truth would be impossible: and from the eager anxiety of his questions, she feared that all the horrors Lady Adelina's troubled imagination had represented would be realized—apprehensions, which seemed armed with new terror since she had seen and conversed with this William Godolphin, of whose excellent heart and noble spirit she had before heard so much both from Lady Adelina and Fitz-Edward, and whose appearance seemed to confirm the favourable impression those accounts had given her.
Godolphin, who was now about five and twenty, had passed the greatest part of his life at sea. The various climates he had visited had deprived his complexion of much of it's English freshness; but his face was animated by dark eyes full of intelligence and spirit; his hair, generally carelessly dressed, was remarkably fine, and his person tall, light, and graceful, yet so commanding, that whoever saw him immediately and involuntarily felt their admiration mingled with respect. His whole figure was such as brought to the mind ideas of the race of heroes from which he was descended; his voice was particularly grateful to the ear, and his address appeared to Emmeline to be a fortunate compound of the insinuating softness of Fitz-Edward with the fire and vivacity of Delamere. Of this, however, she could inadequately judge, as he was now under such depression of spirits: and however pleasing he appeared, Emmeline, who conceived herself absolutely engaged to Delamere, thought of him only as the brother of Lady Adelina; yet insensibly she felt herself more than ever interested for the event of his hearing how little Fitz-Edward had deserved the warm friendship he had felt for him. And her thoughts dwelling perpetually on that subject, magnified the painful circumstances of the approaching éclaircissemen; while her fears for Lady Adelina's life, who continued to languish in a low fever with frequent delirium, so harrassed and oppressed her, that her own health was visibly affected. But without attending to it, she passed all her hours in anxiously watching the turns of Lady Adelina's disorder; or, when she could for a moment escape, in giving vent to her full heart by weeping over the little infant, whose birth, so similar to her own, seemed to render it to her a more interesting and affecting object. She lamented the evils to which it might be exposed; tho' of a sex which would prevent it's encountering the same species of sorrow as that which had embittered her own life. Of her friendless and desolate situation, she was never more sensible than now. She felt herself more unhappy than she had ever yet been; and would probably have sunk under her extreme uneasiness, had not the arrival of Mrs. Stafford, at the end of three days, relieved her from many of her fears and apprehensions.
[CHAPTER V]
Mrs. Stafford no sooner heard from Emmeline that Godolphin was yet ignorant of the true reason of Lady Adelina's concealment, than she saw the necessity of immediately explaining it; and this task, however painful, she without hesitation undertook.
He was therefore summoned to their lodgings by a note from Emmeline, who on his arrival introduced him to Mrs. Stafford, and left them together; when, with as much tenderness as possible, and mingling with the mortifying detail many representations of the necessity there was for his conquering his resentment, she at length concluded it; watching anxiously the changes in Godolphin's countenance, which sometimes expressed only pity and affection for his sister, sometimes rage and indignation against Fitz-Edward.
Both the brothers of Lady Adelina had been accustomed to consider her with peculiar fondness. The unfortunate circumstance of her losing her mother immediately after her birth, seemed to have given her a melancholy title to their tenderness; and the resemblance she bore to that dear mother, whom they both remembered, and on whose memory their father dwelt with undiminished regret, endeared her to them still more. To these united claims on the heart and the protection of William Godolphin, another was added equally forcible, in a letter written by his father with the trembling hand of anxious solicitude, when he felt himself dying, and when, looking back with lingering affection on the children of her whom he hoped soon to rejoin, he saw with anguish his youngest daughter liable from her situation to deviate into indiscretion, and surrounded by the numberless dangers which attend on a young and beautiful woman, whose husband has neither talents to attach her affections or judgment to direct her actions. Lord Westhaven, conscious of her hazardous circumstances, and feeling in his last moments the keenest anguish, in knowing that his mistaken care had exposed her to them, hoped, by interesting both her brothers to watch over her, that he should obviate the dangers he apprehended. He had therefore, in all their conversations, recommended her to his eldest son; and as he was not happy enough to embrace the younger before he died, had addressed to him a last letter on the same subject.
Such were the powerful ties that bound Mr. Godolphin to love and defend Lady Adelina with more than a brother's fondness. Hastening therefore to obey the dying injunctions of his father, and in the hope of rendering the life of this beloved sister, if not happy, at least honourable and contented, he had heard, that she had clandestinely absented herself from her family, and after a long search had found her abandoned to remorse and despair; her reputation blasted; her health ruined; her intellects disordered; and all by the perfidy of a man, in whom he, from long friendship, and his sister, from family connection, had placed unbounded confidence.
Tho' Godolphin had one of the best tempers in the world—a temper which the roughness of those among whom he lived had only served to soften and humanize, and which was immovable by the usual accidents that ruffle others, yet he had also in a great excess all those keen feelings, which fill a heart of extreme sensibility; added to a courage, that in the hour of danger had been proved to be as cool as it was undaunted. Of him might be said what was the glorious praise of immortal Bayard—that he was 'sans peur et sans reproche;'[1] and educated with a high sense of honour himself, as well as possessing a heart calculated to enjoy, and a hand to defend, the unblemished dignity of his family, all his passions were roused and awakened by the injury it had sustained from Fitz-Edward, and he beheld him as a monster whom it was infamy to forgive. Hardly therefore had Mrs. Stafford concluded her distressing recital, than, as if commanding himself by a violent effort, he thanked her warmly yet incoherently for her unexampled goodness to his sister, recommended her still to her generous care, and the friendship of Miss Mowbray, and without any threat against Fitz-Edward, or even a comment on what he had heard, arose to depart. But Mrs. Stafford, more alarmed by this determined tho' quiet resentment and by the expression of his countenance than if he had burst into exclamations and menaces, perceived that the crisis was now come when he must either be persuaded to conquer his just resentment, or by giving it way destroy, while he attempted to revenge, the fame of his sister.
She besought him therefore to sit down a moment; and when he had done so, she told him, that if he really thought himself under any obligations to Miss Mowbray or to her for the services they had been so fortunate as to render Lady Adelina, his making all they had been doing ineffectual, would be a most mortifying return; and such must be the case, if he rashly flew to seek vengeance on Fitz-Edward: 'for that you have such a design,' continued she, 'I have no doubt; allow me, however, to suppose that I have, by doing your sister some good offices, acquired a right to speak of her affairs.'
'Surely,' answered Mr. Godolphin, 'you have; and surely I must hear with respect and attention, tho' possibly not with conviction, every opinion with which you may honour me.'
She then represented to him, with all the force of reason, how little he could remedy the evil by hazarding his own life or by taking that of Fitz-Edward.
'At present,' continued she, 'the secret is known only to me, Miss Mowbray, and Lady Adelina's woman; if it is farther exposed, the heirs of Mr. Trelawny, who are so deeply interested, will undoubtedly take measures to prove that the infant has no just claim to the estate they so eagerly expect. Mr. Trelawny's sister has already entertained suspicions, which the least additional information would give her grounds to pursue, and the whole affair must then inevitably become public. Surely this consideration alone should determine you—why then need I urge others equally evident and equally forcible.'
Godolphin acknowledged that there was much of truth in the arguments she used; but denied that any consideration should influence him to forgive the man who had thus basely and ungenerously betrayed the confidence of his family.
'However,' added he again, checking the heat into which he feared a longer conversation on this subject might betray him—'I have not yet, Madam, absolutely formed the resolution of which you seem so apprehensive; and am indeed too cruelly hurt to be able to talk longer on the subject. Suffer me therefore once more to bid you a good day!'
But the encreasing gloom of his countenance, and forced calm of his manner, appeared to be symptoms so unfavourable, that Mrs. Stafford thought there was no hope of being able to prevent an immediate and fatal meeting between him and Fitz-Edward but by engaging him in a promise at least to delay it; this she attempted by the most earnest arguments, and the most pressing persuasions; but all she could obtain was an assurance that he would remain at Bath 'till the next day, and see her again in the evening.
In the mean time the delirium of Lady Adelina, (which had recurred at intervals ever since the transient sight she had of her brother) more frequently, and with more alarming symptoms, returned; and the fever which had at first threatened the loss of her life, now seemed to be fixing on her brain, and to menace, by a total deprivation of reason, reducing her to a condition to which death itself must be preferable. She still, even in her wildest wanderings, knew Emmeline, and still caressed her little boy; but much of her time passed in incoherent and rambling discourse; in which she talked of Fitz-Edward and her brother William, and held with them both imaginary dialogues. Sometimes she deprecated the wrath of her elder brother: and then her disordered fancy ran to the younger; to him from whom she had, in her early life, found pity and protection in all her little sorrows.
Mrs. Stafford thought it too hazardous to let her again see her brother, while her intellects were thus disarranged; as she trembled lest she should start into actual madness. But it was absolutely necessary to do something; not only because Mr. Godolphin's impatience made every delay dangerous, but because it was hardly possible to keep the secret from the physicians and attendants, who had already heard much more than they ought to have known.
She determined, therefore, after consulting with Emmeline, to introduce Godolphin into the room adjoining to that where Lady Adelina now sat some hours every day in an easy chair. The affecting insanity of his unhappy sister, and the mournful and pathetic entreaties she frequently used, were likely, in the opinion of the fair friends, to effectuate more than their most earnest persuasions; and prevail on him to drop all thoughts of that resentment, which could not cure but might encrease her calamities.
Mrs. Stafford had heard from him, that he gained information as to the place of his sister's residence from the mother of Lady Adelina's woman; who being the reduced widow of a clergyman, resided in the Bishop's alms-houses at Bromley, where her daughter frequently sent her such assistance as her own œconomy, or the bounty of her lady, enabled her to supply. A few weeks before, she had sent her a note for ten pounds; and not apprehending that an enquiry would be made of her, had desired her to acknowledge the receipt of it, and direct to her at Bath, where she said her lady was with a Miss Mowbray.
Lady Clancarryl, among many expedients to recover traces of her sister, had at length recollected this widow, and had desired Mr. Godolphin to make immediate enquiry of her.
He had hastened therefore to Bromley, and easily found the poor woman, who was paralytic and almost childish. Her letters were read for her by one of her neighbours; a person, who, being present at the arrival of Mr. Godolphin, immediately found that something was to be got; and busily put into his hands the very letter which had enclosed the note, and which contained the direction.
He eagerly copied the address; and leaving a handsome present for the use of the old widow, he delayed not a moment to set out for Bath, where he soon found the house, and where he had enquired for Lady Adelina Trelawny.
The servant of the house who opened the door assured him no such person was there. He supposed that for some reason or other she was denied; and insisting on being allowed to go up stairs, had entered the room in the abrupt manner which had so greatly alarmed his sister.
In hopes of counteracting the fatal effects of the discovery which had unavoidably followed this interview, Godolphin was, on his return in the afternoon, introduced into the dining-room, which opened into Lady Adelina's bed-chamber. The door was a-jar; the partition thin; and Mrs. Stafford was pretty well assured that the poor patient would be heard distinctly. Godolphin came in, pale from the conflict of his mind; and all his features expressed anger and sorrow, with which he seemed vainly struggling. He bowed, and sat down in silence.
Mrs. Stafford only was in the room; and as soon as he was seated, said, in a low voice, yet with forced chearfulness—
'Well, Sir, I hope that Miss Mowbray and myself have prevailed on you to drop at present every other design than the truly generous one of healing the wounded heart of our fair unfortunate friend.'
'And shall he who has wounded it,' slowly and sternly replied Godolphin—'shall he who has wounded it so basely, escape me?'
At this instant Lady Adelina, who had been some time silent, exclaimed hastily—'Oh! spare him! my dear brother! and spare your poor Adelina! who will not trouble—who will not disgrace you long!'
'Where is she?' said Godolphin, starting—'Good God! what is it I hear?'
'Your unhappy sister,' answered Mrs. Stafford; 'whom the idea of your determined vengeance has already driven to distraction.'
Again Lady Adelina spoke. Her brother listened in breathless anguish.
'Ah! William!—and are you grown cruel? You, on whom I depended for pity and protection?'
'Surely,' said he, 'surely she knows I am here?'
'No,' answered Mrs. Stafford, 'she knows nothing. But this fear has incessantly pursued her; and since she saw you she dwells more frequently on it, tho' her erring memory sometimes wanders to other objects.'
'It is very true, my Lord!' cried Lady Adelina, with affected calmness, her thoughts wavering again towards Lord Westhaven—'It is all very true! I have deserved all your reproaches! I am ready to make all the atonement I can! Then you will both of you, my brothers, be satisfied—for William has told me that if I died he should be content, for then all might be forgotten.' She ended with a deep sigh; and Godolphin, wildly starting from his seat, said—
'This is too much! you cannot expect me to bear this!—let me go to her!'
'Would you go then,' answered Mrs. Stafford, 'to confirm her fears and to drive her to deeper desperation? If you see her, it must be to soothe and comfort her; to assure her of your forgiveness, and that you will bury your resentment against——'
'Accursed! doubly accursed be the infamous villain who has driven her to this! And must I bear it tamely! Oh! injured memory of my father!—oh! my poor, undone sister!' He walked about the room; the tears ran from his eyes; and Mrs. Stafford, fearing that his hurried step and deep sobs would be heard by Lady Adelina, determined to bring the scene to a crisis and not to lose the influence she hoped she had gained on his mind. She therefore went into the other room, and shutting the door, advanced with a smile towards the lovely lunatic.
'What will you say, my dear Adelina, if I bring you the best news you can possibly hear?'
'News!' repeated Lady Adelina, looking at her with eyes which too plainly denoted her unsettled mind—'News!—Ah! dear Madam! I know very well that all the world is happy but me; and if you are happy, I am very glad; but as to me—Do you indeed think it is reasonable I should part with him?'
'With whom?' said Mrs. Stafford.
'Why, one condition which they insist upon is, that I should give up my poor little one to them, and never ask to see him again. William was the most urgent for this—William, who used to be so good, so gentle, so compassionate to every body! Alas! he is now more cruel and relentless than the rest!'
'So far from it,' said Mrs. Stafford, 'your brother William loves you as much as ever; he will come and tell you so himself if you will only be composed, and talk less strangely.'
'To see me!' exclaimed she, as if suddenly recovering her recollection—'Oh! when?—where?—how?'
But again it forsook her; and she continued—
'Ah! he comes perhaps to tell me of the blood he has spilt, and to load me with reproaches for having obliged him to destroy a friend whom he once loved. If that is indeed so, why let him come and plunge another dagger in this poor heart, which has always loved him!'
She was silent a moment, and then languidly went on—
'I thought some time since that I saw him, and Miss Mowbray was with him; but it was only a dream, for I know he is in Jamaica: and when he does come home, he will harden his heart against me—he will be my judge, and sternly will he judge me—he will forget that he is my brother!'
'Never! my poor Adelina,' cried Godolphin, rushing into the room, 'never can I forget that I am your brother—never can I cease to feel for you compassion and tenderness.'
He would have taken her in his arms; but struck by the dreadful alteration that appeared in her face and figure, he stopt short, and looking at her with silent horror, seemed incapable of uttering what he felt.
She knew him; but could neither speak or shed a tear for some moments. At length, she held out to him her emaciated hand.
'It is indeed William!' said she. 'He seems, too, very sorry for me. My dear brother, do you then pardon and pity the poor Adelina?'
'Both! both!' answered Godolphin, sobbing, and seating himself by her. He threw his arms round her, and her pale cheek rested on his bosom, while her eyes were fixed on his face.
'Stay!' exclaimed she, after a momentary pause, and disengaging herself suddenly from him—'Stay! I have yet another question, if I dared ask it! Do you know all? and have you no blood to answer for, on my account? Will you assure me you will not seek it?'
'For mercy's sake!' said Mrs. Stafford, 'satisfy her, Mr. Godolphin—satisfy her at once—you see to what is owing this alienation of her reason.'
'No,' reassumed the afflicted Adelina, 'you need not answer me; I see you cannot—will not forgive——'
'Name him not, Adelina!' sternly and quickly answered he—'my soul recoils at his idea! I cannot, I will not promise any thing!'
At this period, Emmeline, who was unwilling to trust the servants in such a moment, entered with the infant of Lady Adelina sleeping in her arms.
'See,' said Mrs. Stafford, 'a little unfortunate creature, whose innocence must surely plead forcibly to you: he comes to join our intreaties to you to spare his mother!'
Emmeline laid the infant in the lap of Lady Adelina, who was yet unable to shed a tear. Godolphin beheld it with mingled horror and pity; but the latter sentiment seemed to predominate; and Emmeline, whose voice was calculated to go to the heart, began to try it's influence; and imploring him to be calm, and to promise his sister an eternal oblivion of the past, she urged every argument that should convince him of it's necessity, and every motive that could affect his reason or his compassion.
He gazed on her with reverence and admiration while she spoke, and seemed greatly affected by what she said. Animated by the hope of success, her eyes were lightened up with new brilliancy, and her glowing cheeks and expressive features became more than ever attractive. A convulsive laugh from Lady Adelina interrupted her, and drew the attention of Godolphin entirely to his sister. Emmeline, who saw her reason again forsaking her, took the sleeping baby from her lap. She had hardly done so, before, trying to rise from her chair, she shrieked aloud—for again the image of Fitz-Edward, dying by the hand of her brother, was before her.
'See!' cried she, 'see! there he lies!—he is already expiring! yet William forgives him not! What? would you strike him again? now! while he is dying?—Go! cruel, cruel brother!' attempting to put Godolphin from her—'Go!—Oh! touch me not with those polluted hands, they are stained with human blood!' A convulsive shudder and a deep sigh seemed to exhaust all her remaining strength, and she fell back in her chair, pale and faint; and with fixed, unmeaning eyes, appeared no longer conscious even of the terrors which pursued her.
But the look of incurable anguish which her features wore; the wild import of her words; and the sight of the unfortunate child, who seemed born only to share her wretchedness; could not long be beheld unmoved by a heart like Godolphin's, which possessed all that tenderness that distinguishes the truly brave. Again he threw his arms round his sister, and sobbing, said—
'Hear me, Adelina—hear me and be tranquil! I will promise to be guided by your excellent friends—I will do nothing that shall give pain to them or to you!'
'Thank God!' exclaimed Emmeline, 'that you at last hear reason! Remember this promise is given to us all.'
'It is,' answered Godolphin; 'but try to make poor Adelina sensible of it.' She no longer understood any thing; but with her eyes shut, and her hands clasped in each other, was at least quiet.
'I cannot bear it!' continued Godolphin—'I must go for a few moments to recover myself!' He then left the room, desiring Emmeline to comfort and compose his sister, who soon afterwards asked hastily what was become of him?
Emmeline, pleased to find she had a clear recollection of his having been with her, now told her that he had most solemnly assured them he would think no more of seeking Fitz-Edward on account of this unhappy affair. As she seemed still, in fearful apprehension, to doubt the reality of this promise, Godolphin, who was only in the next room with Mrs. Stafford, returned, and assured her of his pity, his forbearance and his forgiveness.
After some farther efforts on the part of Emmeline, and protestations on that of Godolphin, tears, which had been long denied to Lady Adelina, came to her relief. She wept, caressed her infant, and blessed and thanked her brother and her friends. When capable of recollection, she knew that towards those whom he had once pardoned, he was incapable of reproach or unkindness; and her mind, eased of the fears which had so long harrassed it, seemed to be recovering it's tone. Still, however, the sense of her own incurable unhappiness, her own irretrievable unworthiness, and the disgrace of having sullied the honour of her family, and given pain to such a brother, overwhelmed her with grief and confusion; while her reason, as it at intervals returned, served only to shew her the abyss into which she had fallen: and she sometimes even regretted those hours of forgetfulness, when she possessed not the power of steady reflection, and when the sad reality was obliterated by wild and imaginary horrors.