CHAPTER XXIV
Some months thus passed away, with little variation in my situation. Returning home one morning, early, from the nurse's, where I had left my Emma with Augustus (whom I never, now, permitted to be brought to my own house) as I entered, Mr Montague shot suddenly by me, and rushed up stairs towards his apartment. I saw him but transiently, as he passed; but his haggard countenance, and furious gestures, filled me with dismay. He had been from home the preceding night; but to these absences I had lately been too much accustomed to regard them as any thing extraordinary. I hesitated a few moments, whether I should follow him. I feared, lest I might exasperate him by so doing; yet, the unusual disorder of his appearance gave me a thousand terrible and nameless apprehensions. I crept toward the door of his apartment—listened attentively, and heard him walking up and down the room, with hasty steps—sometimes he appeared to stop, and groaned heavily:—once I heard him throw up the sash, and shut it again with violence.
I attempted to open the door, but, finding it locked, my terror increased.—I knocked gently, but could not attract his attention. At length I recollected another door, that led to this apartment, through my own chamber, which was fastened on the outside, and seldom opened. With trembling steps I hurried round, and, on entering the room, beheld him sitting at a table, a pen in his hand, and paper before him. On the table lay his pistols—his hair was dishevelled—his dress disordered—his features distorted with emotion—while in his countenance was painted the extreme of horror and despair.
I uttered a faint shriek, and sunk into a chair. He started from his seat, and, advancing towards me with hurried and tremulous steps, sternly demanded, Why I intruded on his retirement? I threw myself at his feet,—I folded my arms round him—I wept—I deprecated his anger—I entreated to be heard—I said all that humanity, all that the most tender and lively sympathy could suggest, to inspire him with confidence—to induce him to relieve, by communication, the burthen which oppressed his heart.—He struggled to free himself from me—my apprehensions gave me strength—I held him with a strenuous grasp—he raved—he stamped—he tore his hair—his passion became frenzy! At length, forcibly bursting from him, I fell on the floor, and the blood gushed from my nose and lips. He shuddered convulsively—stood a few moments, as if irresolute—and, then, throwing himself beside me, raised me from the ground; and, clasping me to his heart, which throbbed tumultuously, burst into a flood of tears.
'I will not be thy murderer, Emma!' said he, in a voice of agony, interrupted by heart-rending sobs—'I have had enough of blood!'
I tried to sooth him—I assured him I was not hurt—I besought him to confide his sorrows to the faithful bosom of his wife! He appeared softened—his tears flowed without controul.
'Unhappy woman!—you know not what you ask! To be ingenuous, belongs to purity like yours!—Guilt, black as hell!—conscious, aggravated, damnable, guilt!—Your fatal attachment—my accursed jealousy!—Ah! Emma! I have injured you—but you are, indeed, revenged!'
Every feature seemed to work—seemed pregnant with dreadful meaning—he was relapsing into frenzy.
'Be calm, my friend—be not unjust to yourself—you can have committed no injury that I shall not willingly forgive—you are incapable of persisting in guilt. The ingenuous mind, that avows, has already made half the reparation. Suffer me to learn the source of your inquietude! I may find much to extenuate—I may be able to convince you, that you are too severe to yourself.'
'Never, never, never!—nothing can extenuate—the expiation must be made!—Excellent, admirable, woman!—Remember, without hating, the wretch who has been unworthy of you—who could not conceive, who knew not how to estimate, your virtues!—Oh!—do not—do not'—straining me to his bosom—'curse my memory!'