“If he be the man I mean,” was my answer, “I know him but too well, and he is the only human being I both dislike and despise. Was not that letter written by Richard Cumberland?”
“Yes, that is his hateful name,” she replied, shuddering while she spoke, as at the aspect of some loathsome thing; then, suddenly changing her tone to one of the most passionate entreaty, she clasped her hands, and advancing a step towards me, exclaimed:—
“Oh! Mr. Fairlegh, only save me from him, and I will bless you, will pray for you!” and completely overcome by her emotion, she sank backwards, and would have fallen had not I prevented it.
There is a peculiar state of feeling which a man sometimes experiences when he has bravely resisted some hydra-headed temptation to do anything “pleasant but wrong,” yet which circumstances appear determined to force upon him: he struggles against it boldly at first; but, as each victory serves only to lessen his own strength, while that of the enemy continues unimpaired, he begins to tell himself that it is useless to contend longer—that the monster is too strong for him, and he yields at last, from a mixed feeling of fatalism and irritation—a sort of “have-it-your-own-way-then” frame of mind, which seeks to relieve itself from all responsibility by throwing the burden on things in general—the weakness of human nature—the force of circumstances—or any other indefinite and conventional scapegoat, which may serve his purpose of self-exculpation.
In much such a condition did I now find myself; I felt that I was regularly conquered—completely taken by storm—and that nothing was left for me but to yield to my destiny with the best grace I could. I therefore seated myself by Miss Saville on the sofa, and whispered, “You must promise me one thing more, Clara, dearest—say that you will love me—give me but that right to watch over you—to protect you, and believe me neither Cumberland, nor any other villain, shall dare for the future to molest you”.
As she made no answer, but remained with her eyes fixed on the ground, while the tears stole slowly down her cheeks, I continued—“You own that you are unhappy—that you have none to love you—none on whom you can rely;—do not then reject the tender, the devoted affection of one who would live but to protect you from the slightest breath of sorrow—would gladly die, if, by so doing, he could secure your happiness”.
“Oh! hush, hush!” she replied, starting, as if for the first time aware of the tenor of my words; “you know not what you ask; or even you, kind, noble, generous as you are, would not seek to link your fate with one so utterly wretched, so marked out for misfortune as myself. Stay,” she continued, seeing that I was about to speak, “hear me out. Richard Cumberland, the man whom you despise, and whom I hate only less than I fear, that man have I promised to marry, and, ere this, he is on his road hither to claim the fulfilment of the engagement.”
“Promised to marry Cumberland!” repeated I mechanically, “a low, dissipated swindler—a common cheat, for I can call him nothing better; oh, it's impossible!—why, Mr. Vernor, your guardian, would never permit it.”
“My guardian!” she replied, in a tone of the most cutting irony: “were it not for him this engagement would never have been formed; were it not for him I should even now hope to find some means of prevailing upon this man to relinquish it, and set me free. Richard Cumberland is Mr. Vernor's nephew, and the dearest wish of his heart is to see us united.”
“He never shall see it while I live to prevent it!” replied I, springing to my feet, and pacing the room with angry strides.