Anna St. Ives Part 40

If it led me into error; otherwise not. I think I know what were the author's mistakes; and he not only teaches but impresses, rivets, volumes of truth in my mind.

The recollection of what had just pa.s.sed with Clifton forced itself upon me, Louisa; it made me desirous of putting a question to Frank on the subject, and I asked--

What is your opinion of promises?

I think them superfluous, nugatory, and therefore absurd.

Without exception?

Yes--We cannot promise to do wrong: or, if we do, cannot perform--Neither can we, without guilt, refrain from doing right; whether we have or have not promised.

Some glimpse of this truth, for I perceive it to be one, had shot across my mind; but not with the perspicuity of your proposition--I am inclined to be a rude interrogator: I have another question to ask [He bowed]--I own you are seldom wrong, and yet I hope--[I remember, Louisa, that I gave a deep sigh here; and it must not be concealed]--I hope that you have been wrong, once in your life.

Madam!

But perhaps you have changed your opinion--Do you still think as you did?--Are you still _certain that I act from mistaken principles?_ [He instantly understood me--Had you seen his look, Louisa--!]

I am, madam.

And _shall persist to the end of time?_

To the end of time.

I could not bear it, Louisa. I burst away.

What rash impulse was it that hurried me forward to tempt this trial?--Alas! It was the vain hope, for vain it appears to be, he might have retracted.

My heart is too full to proceed--Heaven bless you!--Heaven bless you, my dear friend!--You see how weak I am.

A. W. ST. IVES

LETTER LXXIII

_Frank Henley to Oliver Trenchard_

_London, Grosvenor Street_

Oliver, I must fly!--There is neither peace nor safety for me if I remain--Resolution begins to faint under these repeated and oppressive struggles--Life is useless, virtue inefficient, time murdered, and I must fly!--Here I can do nothing but doubt, hope, despair, and linger in uncertainty: my body listless, my mind incoherent, my days wasted in vain reveries on absurd possibilities, and my nights haunted by the confused phantoms of a disturbed and sickly brain!--I must fly!

But whither?--I know not!--If I mean to be truly master of my affections, seas must separate us! Impossibility must be made more impossible!--'Tis that, Oliver, which kills me, that ignis fatuus of false hope--Were she even married, if her husband were not immortal, I feel as if my heart would still dwell and feed on the meagre May-be! It refuses to renounce her, and makes a thousand and a thousand efforts to oblige me again to urge its just claims.

I am in the labyrinth of contradictions, and know not how to get out.

My own feelings, my remarks on hers, the looks, actions and discourse of this dangerous lover are all embroiled, all incongruous, all illusory. I seem to tempt her to evil by my stay, him I offend, and myself I torment--I must therefore begone!

Oliver, our hearts are united!--Truth and principle have made them one, and prejudice and pride have not the power to dissever them!--She herself feels this intimately, yet persists in her mistake. I think, Oliver, it is not what the world or what she understands by love which occasions this anarchy of mind. I think I could command and reprove my pa.s.sions into silence. Either I mistake myself, or even now, situated as I am, I could rejoice were there a certainty, nay were there but strong probabilities, that her favourite purpose on Clifton should be effected. But the more I meditate, and my hours, days, and weeks pa.s.s away and are lost in meditation on this subject, the more does my mind persist in its doubts, and my heart in its claims.

Surely, Oliver, she is under a double mistake! Surely her reasonings both on him and me are erroneous.

I must be honest, Oliver, and tell thee all my feelings, fears, and suspicions. They may be false. I hope they are, but they exist. I imagine I perceive in him repeated and violent struggles to appear what he is not, nay what I doubt he would despise himself for being!

Is not this an unjustifiable, a cruel accusation? Why have I this keen this jealous sensibility? Is it not dishonourable to my understanding?

Yet should there be real danger, and I blind to it! Should I neglect to warn her, or rather to guard and preserve her from harm, where shall I find consolation?

Oliver! There are times when these fears haunt me so powerfully that my heart recoils, my blood freezes, and my whole frame is shaken with the terrific dream!--A dream?--Yes, it must be a dream! If not, the perversion of his mind and the obduracy of his heart are to me wholly incomprehensible!

I must be more guarded--Wrongfully to doubt were irreparably to injure!

My first care must be to be just.

Mark, Oliver, how these wanderings of the mind mislead and torment me!

One minute I must fly, to recover myself, and not to disturb and way-lay others; the next I must stay, to protect her who perhaps is best able to protect herself!

I have no plan: I labour to form one in vain. That single channel into which my thoughts are incessantly impelled is destructive of all order and connexion. The efforts of the understanding are a.s.sa.s.sinated by the emotions of the heart; till the reproaches of principle become intolerable, and the delusions of hope distracting!--A state of such painful inutility is both criminal and absurd.

The kindness of the father, brother, and aunt, the sympathising tenderness which bursts from and overcomes the benign Anna, the delay of the marriage--Oliver!--I was recapitulating the seeming inspirations of my good angel, and have conjured up my chief tormentor!--This delay!--Where does it originate?--With whom?--With--! I must fly!--This of all motives is the most irrefragable! I must fly!--But when, or how, or where, what I must undertake, whither go, or what become, is yet all vague and incoherent conjucture.

F. HENLEY

LETTER LXXIV

_Sir Arthur St. Ives to Abimelech Henley_

_London, Grosvenor Street_

Mr. Henley,

It is now some time since I received your letter. It astonished and I must say offended me so much, that I do not yet know what answer to return. You say I have thrown you into a quandary, Mr. Henley; and I can very sincerely return your compliment, Mr. Henley; for nothing can be more unintelligible than your whole letter is to me, Mr. Henley. And I must say, I think it not very grateful in you, Mr. Henley, nor in my opinion very proper, to write me such a letter, Mr. Henley; that is as far as I understand its meaning, Mr. Henley. I have no desire, Mr.

Henley, to quarrel with you, if I can help it; but I must say I think you have forgotten yourself, Mr. Henley. It is very unlike the manner in which you have been used to comport yourself to me, Mr. Henley; for, if I understand you rightly, which I own it is very difficult to do, you threaten me with foreclosures, Mr. Henley; which I must say, Mr.

Henley, is very improper demeanour from you to me, Mr. Henley. Not that I seek a rupture with you, Mr. Henley; though I must say that all this lies very heavy upon my mind, Mr. Henley.

You insinuate that you are grown rich, I think, Mr. Henley. So much the better for you. And you seem to know, Mr. Henley, that I am grown poor: or I think, Mr. Henley, you would not have written to me in a style which I could almost be tempted to call impertinent, but that I wish to avoid a quarrel with you, Mr. Henley, unless you force me to it. There is law as you say, Mr. Henley, for every man; but law is a very fretful and indeed fearful thing, to which you know I am averse, Mr. Henley.

Not but there are proceedings, Mr. Henley, which may lead me to consider how far it is necessary.

I must say, Mr. Henley, that my astonishment is very great, after writing me word, as you did, that I might have the money, which I took very kindly of you, that you should now contradict yourself so flagrantly [I am obliged to repeat it, Mr. Henley] and tell me it is not to be had. What you mean by the whats, and the whys, and the wherefores being forthcoming, is really above my capacity, Mr. Henley; and I request you would speak plainly, that I may give a plain answer.

You say you can keep your hat on your head, and look your betters in the face, Mr. Henley. May be so. But I leave it to your better judgment to consider, Mr. Henley, whether you ought to forget that they are your betters.

There are indeed, as you tell me, wheels within wheels, Mr. Henley; for I find that you, and not my son, are in possession of the Edgemoor estate. G.o.d bless us all, and give us clean hands and hearts, Mr.

Henley! I say no more! Though I must say that, when I heard it, my hair almost stood an end!

You talk a great deal about somebody's son, Mr. Henley. You have puzzled me much; but I think you must mean your own son. Though what you mean beside is more than I can divine. I am very unwilling, Mr.

Henley, to think any thing to your disadvantage; and I must say that I could wish you would not speak by ifs, and ands, and innuendos; but let me know at once what you mean, and all you mean, and then I shall know how to act.