With returning reason, the tide of recollection also returned. Oh! how complicated appeared to me the guilt of Augustus! Ignorant of his situation, I had been unconsciously, and perseveringly, exerting myself to seduce the affections of a husband from his wife. He had made me almost criminal in my own eyes—he had risqued, at once, by a disingenuous and cruel reserve, the virtue and the happiness of three beings. What is virtue, but a calculation of the consequences of our actions? Did we allow ourselves to reason on this principle, to reflect on its truth and importance, we should be compelled to shudder at many parts of our conduct, which, taken unconnectedly, we have habituated ourselves to consider as almost indifferent. Virtue can exist only in a mind capable of taking comprehensive views. How criminal, then, is ignorance!
During this sickness of the soul, Mr Francis, who had occasionally visited me since my residence in town, called, repeatedly, to enquire after my welfare; expressing a friendly concern for my indisposition. I saw him not—I was incapable of seeing any one—but, informed by my kind hostess of his humane attentions, soothed by the idea of having yet a friend who seemed to interest himself in my concerns, I once more had recourse to my pen (Mrs Denbeigh having officiously placed the implements of writing in my way), and addressed him in the wild and incoherent language of despair.
TO MR FRANCIS.
'You once told me, that I was incapable of heroism; and you were right—yet, I am called to great exertions! a blow that has been suspended over my head, days, weeks, months, years, has at length fallen—still I live! My tears flow—I struggle, in vain, to suppress them, but they are not tears of blood!—My heart, though pierced through and through, is not broken!
'My friend, come and teach me how to acquire fortitude—I am wearied with misery—All nature is to me a blank—an envenomed shaft rankles in my bosom—philosophy will not heal the festering wound—I am exquisitely wretched!
'Do not chide me till I get more strength—I speak to you of my sorrows, for your kindness, while I was yet a stranger to you, inspired me with confidence, and my desolate heart looks round for support.
'I am indebted to you—how shall I repay your goodness? Do you, indeed, interest yourself in my fate? Call upon me, then, for the few incidents of my life—I will relate them simply, and without disguise. There is nothing uncommon in them, but the effect which they have produced upon my mind—yet, that mind they formed.
'After all, my friend, what a wretched farce is life! Why cannot I sleep, and, close my eyes upon it for ever? But something whispers, "this would be wrong."—How shall I tear from my heart all its darling, close twisted, associations?—And must I live—live for what? God only knows! Yet, how am I sure that there is a God—is he wise—is he powerful—is he benevolent? If he be, can he sport himself in the miseries of poor, feeble, impotent, beings, forced into existence, without their choice—impelled, by the iron hand of necessity, through mistake, into calamity?—Ah! my friend, who will condemn the poor solitary wanderer, whose feet are pierced with many a thorn, should he turn suddenly out of the rugged path, seek an obscure shade to shrowd his wounds, his sorrows, and his indignation, from the scorn of a pitiless world, and accelerate the hour of repose.[16] Who would be born if they could help it? You would perhaps—you may do good—But on me, the sun shines only to mock my woes—Oh! that I had never seen the light.
'Torn by conflicting passions—wasted in anguish—life is melting fast away—A burthen to myself, a grief to those who love me, and worthless to every one. Weakened by long suspence—preyed upon, by a combination of imperious feelings—I fear, I greatly fear, the irrecoverable blow is struck! But I blame no one—I have been entangled in error—who is faultless?
'While pouring itself out on paper, my tortured mind has experienced a momentary relief: If your heart be inaccessible to tender sympathies, I have only been adding one more to my numberless mistakes!
'Emma.'
Mr Francis visited me, and evinced for my situation the most humane and delicate consideration. He reminded me of the offer I had made him, and requested the performance of my engagement. In compliance with this request, and to beguile my melancholy thoughts, I drew up a sketch of the events of my past life, and unfolded a history of the sentiments of my mind (from which I have extracted the preceding materials) reserving only any circumstance which might lead to a detection of the name and family of the man with whom they were so intimately blended.
[16:] This is the reasoning of a mind distorted by passion. Even in the moment of disappointment, our heroine judged better. See page 38.
CHAPTER XI
After having perused my manuscript, Mr Francis returned it, at my desire, accompanied by the following letter.
TO EMMA COURTNEY.