“Insuperable! do not say insuperable, Mrs Jameson! I know that the shortness of my acquaintance with Miss Martin hardly warrants my presuming to address her; but will not time and the most devoted attachment work a change in my favour? Oh, let me see her! let me plead my own cause before her, and, if unsuccessfully, let me at least have the melancholy satisfaction of hearing my sentence from her own lips?”
“An interview would only be distressing to you both, Mr Morton. I am not at liberty to say more; but I know that the result will be unfavourable to your wishes.”
Morton’s importunity, however, prevailed; the kind-hearted friend, melted by the sight of his distress, promised to procure him a private interview with Miss Martin. Great was Jessie’s agitation when she received Mrs Jameson’s communication. She had resolutely and firmly avoided meeting Morton, ever since her eyes had been opened to the nature of her feelings towards him, which she considered it her bounden duty to repress, as a proper sacrifice to principle; but the struggle was a severe one—the arrow rankled deeper than she suspected. She was sitting alone, when Morton, by Mrs Jameson’s invitation, entered the cabin. A crimson flush overspread her cheek, which as quickly left it again. She was looking very pale, and received him with visible agitation. It was in a tremulous and low tone of voice, that Morton first began to address her; but, as he proceeded, his countenance glowed, and his words followed each other in such a rapid and fervent torrent, that she in vain attempted to interrupt him. He described the impression her first appearance had made upon his heart, the charm he had experienced in her society, and the gradual, yet rapid growth of his admiration and esteem upon a closer acquaintance with her character. He dwelt long and deeply upon the grief her apparent estrangement had occasioned him, begged her to forgive him if he had in any way given her cause of offence, explained to her his circumstances and views in life, and ended by laying his heart and fortune at her feet.
“Mr Morton,” replied she, “I would fain have spared myself and you the pain of this meeting; but I owed it to you, to make some reparation for the error into which I have unfortunately led you; otherwise, I would have deputed my friend to take upon her a duty so distressing to my own feelings. Severely do I now blame myself for having so inconsiderately indulged in the pleasure which your society afforded me. I mistook your feelings. I looked upon you as a friend, and I forgot how near akin friendship is to love. Forgive me, Mr Morton!—I never can be yours—I am the affianced bride of another.”
“Affianced!” exclaimed Morton, pressing his hand upon his brow, and absolutely gasping with oppression of feelings. “O heaven! I did not expect this, Miss Martin. But is your heart in the engagement?”
Jessie burst into tears. “Urge me no farther, Mr Morton—my fate is in the hands of another. Henceforth, we must be as strangers to each other—Adieu!” And she glided into an inner apartment. Morton gazed after her for a moment, and then with a heavy heart left the cabin. His friend Hardy found him sitting, with his face buried in his hands upon the table, and eagerly and affectionately inquired the cause of his distress. Morton related to him all that had passed, and ended with saying—“And now, there is no more happiness for me in this world.”
“My dear fellow,” said his friend, “I give you joy.”
“Give me joy, Hardy! I did not expect this from you! Instead of sympathising with me, you rejoice in my disappointment!”
“I rejoice, but not in your disappointment. Mark my words, Morton! The girl loves you, and, though at present, appearances are against you, do not be downcast—many a more broken boat has reached the land. If my suspicions are correct, depend upon it, a girl of Miss Martin’s principles will not be guilty of the treachery of deceiving the man who claims her hand, into the belief that he possesses her heart.”
During the remainder of the voyage, Jessie strictly adhered to her resolution, and Philip had too much respect for the woman he loved, to endeavour to shake it. It was soon evident to Mrs Jameson, who sincerely sympathised with him, that he was not the only sufferer; but that it was a grievous trial to them both; and, while she truly pitied them both, she could not but admire and respect the high sense of principle by which they were mutually actuated. The thought of the approaching termination of the voyage, which was by all else on board looked forward to with delight, was to them like the haunting recollection of a frightful dream, which they strove to drive from their minds; for, unhappy as they now were, it was bliss compared to the thought of being separated for ever. At length, the high land about Ganjam was seen from the masthead, and, two days afterwards, a strange sail hove in sight, which, on a nearer approach, proved to be a brig, with the pilot flag fluttering aloft. “All hands shorten sail!” was soon the cry, and “Up there, topmen!” In a few minutes, the lofty canvass was taken in, and the active topmen were busily employed in rolling it up; while the Lady Flora, with her maintopsail to the mast, scarcely moved through the water, as she gracefully rose and fell, or, as a popular authoress expresses it, “curtseyed,” as if saluting the approaching stranger, which shortened sail as she came near, and rounded to on the opposite tack. A double-banked boat, manned with Lascars, shoved off from the brig, and the pilot soon made his appearance on board. The purser of the Flora, with letters and despatches for Calcutta, returned in the boat to the brig, which immediately made all sail for Kedgeree; and the Lady Flora, under easy canvass, followed at a distance in her wake. In the evening, the ship was brought to an anchor, at which time the brig was, lower masts down, a-head. Next morning, the Flora got under way, and was soon snug at anchor off Kedgeree, where she was to discharge some of her cargo, before proceeding up the river. In the meantime, her letters had been forwarded by “dawk” to Calcutta. In three days’ time, a schooner-rigged budgerow was seen coming down the river, which anchored inshore of the Flora, and hailed her for a boat. A cutter was immediately despatched to her, which soon returned with a stranger sitting in the stern sheets. Jessie Martin had been sadly and listlessly employed, all the morning, in making preparations for landing, arranging, and directing her trunks; but her work proceeded slowly; for, in spite of her better reason, her thoughts dwelt mournfully on her approaching separation from Morton, when a knock was heard at the cabin door, and, as if to reproach her with her inconstancy, the lover of her youth stood before her. Jessie had, for months, been anticipating with dread, her meeting with Edward Malcolmson, and had, as she thought, nerved herself to go through the trial with firmness; but, now it had come upon her, she was taken unawares. The surprise was too great for her; she felt a mortal sickness creeping over her, and, turning deadly-pale, fell fainting into her chair. Malcolmson ran to her assistance, and, sprinkling some water on her forehead, restored her to consciousness, when she hid her face in her hands, and burst into tears.