Anna St. Ives Part 50

A thousand thoughts had crowded to my mind; a dread of having used him ungenerously, unjustly; a recollection of all he had done and all he had suffered; his enquiring, penetrating, and unbounded genius; his superlative virtues; a horror of his being banished his native country by me; of his wandering among strangers, exposed to poverty, perils, and death, with the conviction in his heart that I had done him wrong!--My tumultuous feelings rushed upon me, overpowered me, and in a moment of enthusiasm I ran to him, s.n.a.t.c.hed his hand, fell on my knee and exclaimed--'For the love of G.o.d, Mr. Henley, do not think of leaving us!'

Clifton like myself could not conquer the first a.s.sault of pa.s.sion: he p.r.o.nounced the word madam! in a tone mingled with surprise and severe energy, which recalled me to myself--

You see, said I, turning to him, what an unworthy weak creature I am!--But Mr. Henley has taken the strangest resolution--!

What, madam, said your brother, recovering himself, and with some pleasantry, is he for a voyage to the moon? Or does he wait the arrival of the next comet, to make the tour of the universe?

Nay, answered I, you must join me, and not treat my poor pet.i.tion with ridicule--You must not go, Mr. Henley; indeed you must not! I, Mr.

Clifton, my father, my brother, we will none of us hear of it! We are all your debtors, and it would be unjust in you to deprive us of every opportunity of testifying our friendship.

Your brother, Louisa, made an effort worthy of himself, repressed the error of his first feelings, a.s.sumed the gentle aspect of entreaty, and kindly joined me.

We are indeed your debtors, said he to Mr. Henley. But I hope it is not true. I hope there is no danger that you should forsake us. Where would you go? Where can you be so happy? I mean first, replied Frank, to go to Wenbourne Hill; and after that my intentions are for America.

This, Louisa, brought on a long discussion. I and your brother both endeavoured to convince him it was his duty to remain in England; that he could be more serviceable here, and would find better opportunities for effecting that good which he had so warmly at heart than in any other country.

He answered that, though he was not convinced by our arguments, he should think it his duty seriously to consider them. But we could not make him promise any thing further. Previous to his return from Wenbourne Hill he would determine.

Indeed, Louisa, this affair lies very heavily upon my mind. I am incessantly accusing myself as the cause of his exile. And am I not? By the manner of Sir Arthur I am sure he must have said something very highly in my praise. I have gone too far with your brother to recede: that is now impossible. It would be more flagrant injustice than even the wrong to Frank, if a wrong it be, and indeed, Louisa, I dread it is!--Indeed I do!--I dread it even with a kind of horror!

I thought reason would have appeased these doubts ere this; but every occasion I find calls them forth with unabated vigour. Surely this mental blindness must be the result of neglect. Had we but the will, the determination, it might be removed. Oh how reprehensible is my inconsistency!

The rapid decline of Mrs. Clifton grieves me deeply. Your brother too has frequently mentioned it with feelings honourable to his heart. He is now more than ever sensible of her worth. He has been with me since I began to write this letter, and there is not the least appearance of remaining umbrage on his mind. It was indeed but of short duration, though too strong and sudden not to be apparent.

All kindness, peace, and felicity be with you.

A. W. ST. IVES

LETTER Lx.x.xVIII

_c.o.ke Clifton to Guy Fairfax_

_London, Dover Street_

I will curse no more, Fairfax. Or, if curse I do, it shall be at my own fatuity. I will not be the dilatory, languid, ranting, moralizing Hamlet of the drama; that has the vengeance of h.e.l.l upon his lips and the charity of heaven in his heart. I will use not speak daggers--

Fairfax, I am mad!--Raging!--The smothered and pent-up mania must have vent--What! Was not the page sufficiently black before?--I am amazed at my own infatuation! My very soul spurns at it!--But 'tis past--Deceitful, d.a.m.ned s.e.x!--Idiot that I was, I began to fancy myself beloved!--I!--Blind, deaf, insensate driveler!--Torpid, blockish, brainless mammet!--Most sublime a.s.s!--Oh for a bib and barley sugar, with the label _Meac.o.c.k_ pinned before and behind!--

Fairfax, I never can forgive my own absurd and despicable stupidity!--Marriage?--What, with a woman in whose eye the perfect impression and hated form of a mean rival is depicted?--In colours glowing hot!--Who lives, revels, triumphs in her heart!--I marry such a woman?--I?--

'I had rather be a toad, And live upon the vapour of a dungeon, Than keep a corner in the thing I love For other's use.'

I am too full of phrensy, Fairfax, to tell thee what I mean: but she has given me another proof, more d.a.m.ning even than all the former, of the gluttony with which her soul gorges. Her gloating eye devours him; ay, I being present. Nay, were I this moment in her arms, her arms would be clasping him, not me: with him she would carouse, nor would any thing like me exist--Contagion!--Poison and boiling oil!--

Never before was patience so put to the proof--My danger was extreme.

With rage flaming in my heart, I was obliged to wear complacency, satisfaction and smiles on my countenance.

The fellow has determined to ship himself for America--Would it were for the bottomless pit!--And had you beheld her panic?--St. Luke's collected maniacs at the full of the moon could not have equalled her!--'Twas well indeed her frantic outrage was so violent, or I had been detected and all had been lost--As it was I half betrayed myself--the fellow's eye glanced at me. However it gave me my cue; and, all things considered, I afterward performed to a miracle. Her own enthusiastic torrent swept all before it, and gave me time. She was in an ecstasy; reasoning, supplicating, conjuring, panting. I, her friends, the whole world must join her: and join her I did. It was the very relief of which hypocrisy stood in need. I entreated this straight-backed youth, stiff in determination, to condescend to lend a pitying ear to our pet.i.tions; to suffer us to permeate his bowels of compa.s.sion, and avert this fatal and impending cloud, fraught with evils, misery, and mischief--

But marry no!--It could not be!--Sentence was pa.s.sed--He had been at the trouble to make a pair of scales, and knew the weight to a scruple of every link in the whole chain of cause and effect--Teach him, truly!--Advise him!--Move him!--When? Who? How?--At last compliance, willing to be royally gracious, said, Well it would consider--Though there was but little hope--Nothing it had heard had any cogency of perscrutation--But, in fine, it would be clement, and consider.

Do you not see this fellow, Fairfax? Is he not now before your eyes? Is he not the most consummate--? But why do I trouble myself a moment about him?--It is her!--Her!--

Nor is this all. Did that devil that most delights in mischief direct every concurring circ.u.mstance, they could not all and each be more uniform, more coercive to the one great end. This poor dotterel, Sir Arthur, is playing fast and loose with me. He has been at his soundings--He!--Imbecile animal!--Could wish there were not so many difficulties--Is afraid they cannot be all removed--Has his doubts and his fears--Twenty thousand pounds is a large sum, and Mrs. Clifton is very positive--His own affairs much less promising than he supposed--Then by a declension of hems, hums, and has, he descended to young Mr. Henley--A very extraordinary young gentleman!--A very surprising youth!--One made on purpose as it were for plum-cake days, high festivals, and raree show!--A prodigy!--Not begotten, born or bred in the dull blind-man's-buff way of simple procreation; but sent us on a Sunday morning down Jacob's ladder!--Then for obligations to him, count them who could!--He must first study more arithmetic!--And as for affection it was a very wayward thing--Not always in people's power--There was no knowing what was best--The hand might be given and the heart be wanting--And with respect to whether the opinions of the world ought to be regarded, good truth he knew not. Marry! The world was much more ready to blame others than to amend itself: and he had been almost lately persuaded not to care a fico for the world. But for his part he was a G.o.dly Christian, and wished all for the best. He had faith, hope, and charity, which were enough for one.

Do not imagine, Fairfax, the poor dotard would have dared to betray himself thus far, had not I presently perceived his drift and wormed him of these dismal cogitations of the spirit. He beat about, and hovered, and fluttered, and chirped mournfully, like the poor infatuated bird that beholds the serpent's mouth open, into which it is immediately to drop and be devoured. However, having begun, I was determined to make him unburden his whole heart. If hereafter he can possibly find courage to face me, in order to reproach, I have my lesson ready. 'Out of thy own mouth will I judge thee, sinner.'

Gangrened as my heart is, I still find a satisfaction in this self convalescence. The lady of mellifluous speech shall suborn no more; no more shall lull me into beatific slumbers. I have recovered from my trance, and what I dreamed was celestial I will demonstrate to be mere woman.

From his own lips I learn that this insolent scoundrel received a visit from the Count de Beaunoir, which was intended for me: and, out of tender pity to my body, lest, G.o.d 'ild us, it should get a drilling, he did bestow some trifle of that wit and reason of which he has so great a superflux upon the Count, thereby to turn aside his wrathful ire.

I heard the gentleman tell his tale, and tickle his imagination with the remembrance of his own doctiloquy, with infinite composure; and, whenever I put a question, took care first to prepare a smile. Every thing was well, better could not be.

With respect to _Monsieur le Comte_, I'll take some opportunity to whisper a word in his ear. It is not impossible, Fairfax, but that I may visit Paris even within this fortnight. Not that I can pretend to predict. They shall not think I fly them, should any soul among them dare to dream of vengeance. I know the Count to be as vain of his skill in the sword as he is of his pair of watch strings, his Paris-Birmingham snuff-box, or the bauble that glitters on his finger.

I think I can give him a lesson: at least I mean to try.

My mother's health declines apace. I know not whether it may not shortly be necessary for me to visit her. The loss of her will afflict me, but in all appearance it is inevitable, and I fear not far distant.

Once more, Fairfax, should you again fall in company with the Count, and he should give himself the most trifling airs, a.s.sure him that I will do myself the honour to embrace him within a month at farthest from that date, be it when it will.

Adieu.

C. CLIFTON

LETTER Lx.x.xIX

_Anna Wenbourne St. Ives to Louisa Clifton_

_London, Grosvenor-Street_

He is gone, Louisa; has left us; his purpose unchanged, his heart oppressed, and his mind intent on promoting the happiness of those by whom he is exiled. And what am I, or who, that I should do him this violence? What validity have these arguments of rank, relationship, and the world's opprobrium? Are they just? He refuted them: so he thought, and so _persists_ to think. And who was ever less partial, or more severe to himself?

Louisa, my mind is greatly disturbed. His high virtues, the exertion of them for the peculiar protection of me and my family, and the dread of committing an act of unpardonable injustice, if unjust it be, are images that haunt and tantalize me incessantly.

If my conclusions have been false, and if his a.s.serted claims be true, how shall I answer those which I have brought upon myself? The claims of your brother, which he urges without remission, are still stronger.

They have been countenanced, admitted, and encouraged. I cannot recede.

What can I do but hope, ardently hope, Frank Henley is in an error, and that he himself may make the discovery? Yet how long and fruitless have these hopes been! My dilemma is extreme; for, if I have been mistaken, act how I will, extreme must be the wrong I commit!

Little did I imagine a moment so full of bitter doubt and distrust as this could come. Were I but satisfied of the rect.i.tude of my decision, there are no sensations which I could not stifle, no affections which I could not calm, nor any wandering wishes but what I could reprove to silence. But the dread of a flagrant, an odious injustice distracts me, and I know not where or of whom to seek consolation. Even my Louisa, the warm friend of my heart, cannot determine in my favour.

Your brother has been with me. He found me in tears, enquired the cause, and truth demanded a full and unequivocal confidence. I shewed him what I had been writing. You may well imagine, Louisa, he did not read it with total apathy. But he suppressed his own feelings with endeavours to give relief to mine. He argued to shew me my motives had been highly virtuous. He would not say--[His candour delighted me, Louisa.]--He would not say there was no ground for my fears: he was interested and might be partial. He believed indeed I had acted in strict conformity to the purest principles; but, had I even been mistaken, the origin of my mistake was so dignified as totally to deprive the act of all possible turpitude.