CHAPTER XXV

The day fixed for the departure of Mr Harley, for London, now drew near—I had anticipated this period with the most cruel inquietude. I was going to lose, perhaps for ever, my preceptor, my friend! He, from whom my mind had acquired knowledge, and in whose presence my heart had rested satisfied. I had hitherto scarcely formed a wish beyond that of daily beholding, and listening to him—I was now to gaze on that beloved countenance, to listen to those soothing accents, no longer. He was about to mix in the gay world—to lose in the hurry of business, or of pleasure, the remembrance of those tender, rational, tranquil, moments, sacred to virtue and friendship, that had left an indelible impression on my heart. Could I, indeed, flatter myself, that the idea of the timid, affectionate, Emma, would ever recur to his mind in the tumultuous scenes of the crouded metropolis, it would doubtless quickly be effaced, and lost in the multiplicity of engagements and avocations. How should I, buried in solitude and silence, recall it to his recollection, how contrive to mingle it with his thoughts, and entangle it with his associations? Ah! did he but know my tenderness—the desire of being beloved, of inspiring sympathy, is congenial to the human heart—why should I hesitate to inform him of my affection—why do I blush and tremble at the mere idea? It is a false shame! It is a pernicious system of morals, which teaches us that hypocrisy can be virtue! He is well acquainted with the purity, and with the sincerity, of my heart—he will at least regard me with esteem and tender pity—and how often has 'pity melted the soul to love!' The experiment is, surely, innocent, and little hazardous. What I have to apprehend? Can I distrust, for a moment, those principles of rectitude, of honour, of goodness, which gave birth to my affection? Have I not witnessed his humanity, have I not experienced his delicacy, in a thousand instances? Though he should be obliged to wound, he is incapable of insulting, the heart that loves him; and that, loving him, believed, alas! for a long time, that it loved only virtue!

The morning of our separation, at last, arrived. My friend, too much indisposed to attend the breakfast table, took leave of her son in her own apartment. I awaited him, in the library, with a beating heart, and, on his departure, put into his hands a paper.—

'Read it not,' said I, in a low and almost inarticulate tone of voice, 'till arrived at the end of your journey; or, at least, till you are ten miles from hence.'

He received it in silence; but it was a silence more expressive than words.

'Suffer me,' it said, 'for a few moments, to solicit your candour and attention. You are the only man in the world, to whom I could venture to confide sentiments, that to many would be inconceivable; and by those, who are unacquainted with the human mind, and the variety of circumstances by which characters are variously impressed and formed—who are accustomed to consider mankind in masses—who have been used to bend implicitly, to custom and prescription—the deviation of a solitary individual from rules sanctioned by usage, by prejudice, by expediency, would be regarded as romantic. I frankly avow, while my cheeks glow with the blushes of modesty, not of shame, that your virtues and accomplishments have excited in my bosom an affection, as pure as the motives which gave it birth, and as animated as it is pure.—This ingenuous avowal may perhaps affect, but will scarcely (I suspect) surprise, you; for, incapable of dissimulation, the emotions of my mind are ever but too apparent in my expressions, and in my conduct, to deceive a less penetrating eye than yours—neither have I been solicitous to disguise them.

'It has been observed, that,' "the strength of an affection is generally in the same proportion, as the character of the species, in the object beloved, is lost in that of the individual,"[5] and, that individuality of character is the only fastener of the affections. It is certain, however singular it may appear, that many months before we became personally acquainted, the report of your worth and high qualities had generated in my mind, an esteem and reverence, which has gradually ripened into a tenderness, that has, at length, mixed itself with all my associations, and is become interwoven with every fibre of my heart.

'I have reflected, again and again, on the imprudence of cherishing an attachment, which a variety of circumstances combine to render so unpromising, and—What shall I say?—So peculiar is the constitution of my mind, that those very circumstances have had a tendency directly opposite to what might reasonably have been expected; and have only served to render the sentiment, I have delighted to foster, more affecting and interesting.—Yes! I am aware of the tenure upon which you retain your fortunes—of the cruel and unnatural conditions imposed on you by the capricious testator: neither can I require a sacrifice which I am unable to recompence. But while these melancholy convictions deprive me of hope, they encourage me, by proving the disinterestedness of my attachment, to relieve my heart by communication.—Mine is a whimsical pride, which dreads nothing so much as the imputation of sordid, or sinister motives. Remember, then—should we never meet again—if in future periods you should find, that the friendship of the world is—"a shade that follows wealth and fame;"—if, where you have conferred obligations, you are repaid with ingratitude—where you have placed confidence, with treachery—and where you have a claim to zeal, with coldness! Remember, that you have once been beloved, for yourself alone, by one, who, in contributing to the comfort of your life, would have found the happiness of her own.

'Is it possible that a mind like yours, neither hardened by prosperity, nor debased by fashionable levity—which vice has not corrupted, nor ignorance brutalized—can be wholly insensible to the balmy sweetness, which natural, unsophisticated, affections, shed through the human heart?

"Shall those by heaven's own influence join'd,
By feeling, sympathy, and mind,
The sacred voice of truth deny,
And mock the mandate of the sky?"

'But I check my pen:—I am no longer—

"The hope-flush'd enterer on the stage of life."

'The dreams of youth, chaced by premature reflection, have given place to soberer, to sadder, conclusions; and while I acknowledge, that it would be inexpressibly soothing to me to believe, that in happier circumstances, my artless affection might have awakened in your mind a sympathetic tenderness:—this is the extent of my hopes!—I recollect you once told me "It was our duty to make our reason conquer the sensibility of our heart." Yet, why? Is, then, apathy the perfection of our nature—and is not that nature refined and harmonized by the gentle and social affections? The Being who gave to the mind its reason, gave also to the heart its sensibility.

'I make no apologies for, because I feel no consciousness of, weakness. An attachment sanctioned by nature, reason, and virtue, ennoble the mind capable of conceiving and cherishing it: of such an attachment a corrupt heart is utterly incapable.

'You may tell me, perhaps, "that the portrait on which my fancy has dwelt enamoured, owes all its graces, its glowing colouring—like the ideal beauty of the ancient artists—to the imagination capable of sketching the dangerous picture."—Allowing this, for a moment, the sentiments it inspires are not the less genuine; and without some degree of illusion, and enthusiasm, all that refines, exalts, softens, embellishes, life—genius, virtue, love itself, languishes. But, on this subject, my opinions have not been lightly formed:—it is not to the personal graces, though "the body charms, because the mind is seen," but to the virtues and talents of the individual (for without intellect, virtue is an empty name), that my heart does homage; and, were I never again to behold you—were you even the husband of another—my tenderness (a tenderness as innocent as it is lively) would never cease!

'But, methinks, I hear you say,—"Whither does all this tend, and what end does it propose?" Alas! this is a question I scarcely dare to ask myself!—Yet, allow me to request, that you will make me one promise, and resolve me one question:—ah! do not evade this enquiry; for much it imports me to have an explicit reply, lest, in indulging my own feelings, I should, unconsciously, plant a thorn in the bosom of another:—Is your heart, at present, free? Or should you, in future, form a tender engagement, tell me, that I shall receive the first intimation of it from yourself; and, in the assurance of your happiness, I will learn to forget my own.

'I aspire to no higher title than that of the most faithful of your friends, and the wish of becoming worthy of your esteem and confidence shall afford me a motive for improvement. I will learn of you moderation, equanimity, and self-command, and you will, perhaps, continue to afford me direction, and assistance, in the pursuit of knowledge and truth.

'I have laid down my pen, again and again, and still taken it up to add something more, from an anxiety, lest even you, of whose delicacy I have experienced repeated proofs, should misconstrue me.—"Oh! what a world is this!—into what false habits has it fallen! Can hypocrisy be virtue? Can a desire to call forth all the best affections of the heart, be misconstrued into something too degrading for expression?"[6] But I will banish these apprehensions; I am convinced they are injurious.

'Yes!—I repeat it—I relinquish my pen with reluctance. A melancholy satisfaction, from what source I can scarcely define, diffuses itself through my heart while I unfold to you its emotions.—Write to me; be ingenuous; I desire, I call for, truth!

'Emma.'

"Shall those by heaven's own influence join'd,
By feeling, sympathy, and mind,
The sacred voice of truth deny,
And mock the mandate of the sky?"

[5:] Wolstonecraft's Rights of Woman.

[6:] Holcroft's Anna St Ives.