Frank Mildmay Part 36

"I feel," said she, "now, but it is too late--I feel that I have acted wrongly in quitting Bordeaux. There I was loved and respected; and if not happy, at least I was composed. Too much dependence on my resolution, and the vanity of supposing myself superior in magnanimity to the rest of my s.e.x, induced me to trust myself in your society.

Dearly, alas! have I paid for it. My only chance of victory over myself was flight from you, after I had given the irrevocable sentence; by not doing so, the poison has found its way to my heart. I feel that I love you; that I cannot have you; and that death very shortly must terminate my intolerable sufferings."

This affecting address pierced me to the soul; and now the consequences of my guilt and duplicity rushed upon me like a torrent through a bursting flood gate. I would have resigned Emily--I would have fled with Eugenia to some distant country, and buried our sorrows in each other's bosoms; and, in a state of irrepressible emotion, I proposed this step to her.

"What do I hear, my beloved?" said she, starting up with horror from the couch on which she was sitting with her face between her knees; "what!

is it you that would resign home, friends, character, the possession of a virtuous woman, all for the polluted smiles of an--"

"Hold! hold! my Eugenia," said I; "do not, I beseech you, shock my ears with an epithet which you do not deserve! Mine, mine, is all the guilt; forget me, and you will still be happy."

She looked at me, then at her sweet boy, who was playing on the carpet-- but she made no answer; and then a flood of tears succeeded.

It was, indeed, a case of singular calamity for a beautiful young creature to be placed in. She was only in her three-and-twentieth year--and lovely as she was, nature had scarcely had time to finish the picture. The regrets which subdued my mind on that fatal morning may only be conceived by those who, like me, have led a licentious life-- have, for a time, buried all moral and religious feeling, and have been suddenly called to a full sense of their guilt, and the misery they have entailed on the innocent. I sat down and groaned. I cannot say I wept, for I could not weep; but my forehead burned, and my heart was full of bitterness.

While I thus meditated, Eugenia sat with her hand on her forehead in a musing att.i.tude. Had she been reverting to her former studies and thrown herself into the finest conceivable posture of the tragic muse, her appearance would not have been half so beautiful and affecting. I thought she was praying, and I think so still. The tears ran in silence down her face; I kissed them off, and almost forgot Emily.

"I am better, now, Frank," said the poor, sorrowful woman; "do not come again until after the wedding. When will it take place?" she inquired, with a trembling and faltering voice.

My heart almost burst within me as I told her, for I felt as if I was signing a warrant for her execution. I took her in my arms, and tenderly embracing her, endeavoured to divert her thoughts from the mournful fate that too evidently hung over her; she became tranquil, and I proposed taking a stroll in the adjoining park. I thought the fresh air would revive her.

She agreed to this; and going to her room, returned in a few minutes.

To her natural beauty was added on that fatal day a morning dress, which more than any other became her; it was white, richly trimmed, and fashionably made up by a celebrated French _artiste_. Her bonnet was white muslin, trimmed with light blue ribbons, and a sash of the same colour confined her slender waist. The little Eugenio ran before us, now at my side, and now at his mother's. We rambled about for some time, the burthen of our conversation being the future plans and mode of education to be adopted for the child: this was a subject on which she always dwelt with peculiar pleasure.

Tired with our walk, we sat down under a clump of beech-trees near a gra.s.sy ascent, winding among the thick foliage, contrived by the opulent owner to extend and diversify the rides in his n.o.ble domain. Eugenio was playing around us, picking the wild flowers, and running up to me to inquire their names.

The boy was close by my side, when, startled at a noise, he turned round and exclaimed--"Oh! look, mamma; look, papa; there are a lady and a gentleman a-riding."

I turned round, and saw Mr Somerville and Emily on horseback, within six paces of me; so still they stood, so mute, I could have fancied Emily a wax-work figure. They neither breathed nor moved; even their very horses seemed to be of bronze, or perhaps, the unfortunate situation in which I found myself made me think them so. They had come as unexpectedly on us as we had discovered them. The soft turf had received the impression of their horses' feet, and returned no sound; and if they snorted, we had either not attended to them, in the warmth of our conversation, or we had never heard them.

I rose up hastily--coloured deeply--stammered, and was about to speak.

Perhaps it was better that I did not; but I had no opportunity. Like apparitions they came, and like apparitions they vanished. The avenue from whence they had so silently issued, received them again, and they were gone before Eugenia was sensible of their presence.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

Fare thee well; and if for ever, Still for ever fare thee well: E'en though unforgiving, never 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

BYRON.

I was so stunned with this _contretemps_, that I fell senseless to the ground; and it was long before the kind attentions and a.s.siduity of Eugenia could restore me. When she had succeeded, my first act was one of base ingrat.i.tude, cruelty, and injustice: I spurned her from me, and upbraided her as the cause of my unfortunate situation. She only replied with tears. I quitted her and the child without bidding them adieu, little thinking I should never see them again. I ran to the inn, where I had left my horse, mounted, and rode back to --- Hall.

Mr Somerville and his daughter had just arrived, and Emily was lifted off her horse, and obliged to be carried up to her room.

Clara and Talbot came to inquire what had happened. I could give no account of it; but earnestly requested to see Emily. The answer returned was, that Miss Somerville declined seeing me. In the course of this day, which, in point of mental suffering, exceeded all I have ever endured in the utmost severity of professional hardship, an explanation had taken place between myself, my father, and Mr Somerville. I had done that by the impulse of dire necessity, which I ought to have done at first of my own free will. I was caught at last in my own snare.

"The trains of the devil are long," said I to myself, "but they are sure to blow up at last."

The consequence of the explanation was my final dismissal, and a return of all the presents which my father and myself had given to Emily. My conduct, though blameable, was not viewed in that heinous light, either by my father or Mr Somerville; and both of them did all that could be done to restore harmony. Clara and Talbot interposed their kind offices, but with no better success. The maiden pride of the inexorable Emily had been alarmed by a beautiful rival, with a young family, in the next village. The impression had taken hold of her spotless mind, and could not be removed. I was false, fickle, and deceitful, and was given to understand that Miss Somerville did not intend to quit her room until she was a.s.sured by her father that I was no longer a guest in the house.

Under these painful circ.u.mstances, our remaining any longer at the hall was both useless and irksome--a source of misery to all.

My father ordered his horses the next morning, and I was carried back to London, more dead than alive. A burning fever raged in my blood; and the moment I reached my father's house, I was put to bed, and placed under the care of a physician, with nurses to watch me night and day.

For three weeks I was in a state of delirium; and when I regained my senses, it was only to renew the anguish which had caused my disorder, and I felt any sentiment except grat.i.tude for my recovery.

My dear Clara had never quitted me during my confinement. I had taken no medicine but from her hand. I asked her to give me some account of what had happened. She told me that Talbot was gone; that my father had seen Mr Somerville, who had informed him that Emily had received a long letter from Eugenia, narrating every circ.u.mstance, exculpating me, and accusing herself. Emily had wept over it, but still remained firm in her resolution never to see me more. "And I am afraid, my dear brother," said Clara, "that her resolution will not be very easily altered. You know her character, and you should know something about our s.e.x: but sailors, they say, go round the world without going into it. This is the only shadow of an excuse I can form for you, much as I love and esteem you. You have hurt Emily in the nicest point, that in which we are all the most susceptible of injury. You have wounded her pride, which our s.e.x rarely if ever forgive. At the very moment she supposed you were devoted to her; that you were rapt up in the antic.i.p.ation of calling her your own, and counting the minutes with impatience until the happy day arrived; with all this persuasion on her mind, she comes upon you, as the traveller out of the wood suddenly comes across the poisonous snake in his path, and cannot avoid it. She found you locked hand-in-hand with another, a fortnight before marriage, and with the fruits of unlawful love in your arms. What woman could forgive this? I would not, I a.s.sure you. If Tal---, I mean if any man were to serve me so, I would tear him from my heart, even if the dissolution of the whole frame was to be the certain consequence. I consider it a kindness to tell you, Frank, that you have no hope. Much as you have and will suffer, she, poor girl, will suffer more; and although she will never accept you, she will not let your place be supplied by another, but sink broken-hearted into her grave. You, like all other men, will forget this; but what a warning ought it to be to you, that sooner or later, guilt will be productive of misery. This you have fully proved; your licentious conduct with this woman has ruined her peace for ever, and Divine vengeance has dashed from your lips the cup which contained as much happiness as this world could afford. Nor has the penalty fallen on you alone: the innocent, who had no share in the crime, are partakers in the punishment; we are all as miserable as yourself. But G.o.d's will be done," continued she, as she kissed my aching forehead, and her tears fell on my face.

How heavenly is the love of a sister towards a brother! Clara was now everything to me. Having said thus much to me on the subject of my fault (and it must be confessed that she had not been n.i.g.g.ardly in the article of words), she never named the subject again, but sought by every means in her power to amuse and to comfort me. She listened to my exculpation; she admitted that our meeting at Bordeaux was as unpremeditated as it was unfortunate; she condemned the imprudence of our travelling together, and still more the choice of a residence for Eugenia and her son.

Clara's affectionate attention and kind efforts were unavailing. I told her so, and that all hopes of happiness for me in this world were gone for ever.

"My dear, dear brother," said the affectionate girl, "answer me one question. Did you ever pray?"

My answer will pretty well explain to the reader the sort of religion mine was:--

"Why, Clara," said I, "to tell you the truth, though I may not exactly pray, as you call it, yet words are nothing. I feel grateful to the Almighty for his favours when he bestows them on me; and I believe a grateful heart is all he requires."

"Then, brother, how do you feel when he afflicts you?"

"That I have nothing to thank him for," answered I.

"Then, my dear Frank, that is not religion."

"May be so," said I; "but I am in no humour to feel otherwise at present; so pray drop the subject."

She burst into tears. "This," said she, "is worse than all. Shall we receive good from the hand of the Lord, and shall we not receive evil?"

But, seeing that I was in that sullen and untameable state of mind, she did not venture to renew the subject.

As soon as I was able to quit my room, I had a long conversation with my father, who, though deeply concerned for my happiness, said he was quite certain that any attempt at reconciliation would be useless. He therefore proposed two plans, and I might adopt whichever was the most likely to divert my mind from my heavy affliction. The first was, to ask his friends at the Admiralty to give me the command of a sloop of war; the second, that I should go upon the Continent, and, having pa.s.sed a year there, return to England, when there was no knowing what change of sentiment time and absence might not produce in my favour. "For,"

said he, "there is one very remarkable difference in the heart of a man and of a woman. In the first, absence is very often a cure for love; in the other, it more frequently cements and consolidates it. In your absence, Emily will dwell on the bright parts of your character, and forget its blemishes. The experiment is worth making, and it is the only way which offers a chance of success."

I agreed to this. "But," said I, "as the war with France is now over, and that with America will be terminated no doubt very shortly, I have no wish to put you to the expense, or myself to the trouble, of fitting out a sloop of war in time of peace, to be a pleasure-yacht for great lords and ladies, and myself to be neither more nor less than a _maitre d'hotel_: and, after having spent your money and mine, and exhausted all my civilities, to receive no thanks, and hear that I am esteemed at Almack's only 'a tolerable sea-brute enough.' A ship, therefore,"

continued I, "I will not have; and as I think the Continent holds out some novelty at least, I will, with your consent, set off."

This point being settled, I told Clara of it. The poor girl's grief was immoderate. "My dearest brother, I shall lose you, and be left alone in the world. Your impetuous and unruly heart is not in a state to be trusted among the gay and frivolous French. You will be at sea without your compa.s.s--you have thrown religion overboard--and what is to guide you in the hour of trial?"

"Fear not, dear Clara," said I; "my own energies will always extricate me from the dangers you apprehend."

"Alas! it is these very energies which I dread," said Clara; "but I trust that all will be for the best. Accept," said she, "of this little book from poor broken-hearted Clara; and, if you love her, look at it sometimes."

I took the book, and, embracing her affectionately, a.s.sured her that for her sake I would read it.

When I had completed my arrangements for my foreign tour, I determined to take one last look at --- Hall before I left England. I set off unknown to my family, and contrived to be near the boundaries of the park by dusk. I desired the post-boy to stop half a mile from the house, and to wait my return. I cleared the paling; and, avoiding the direct road, came up to the house. The room usually occupied by the family was on the ground-floor, and I cautiously approached the window.

Mr Somerville and Emily were both there. He was reading aloud; she sat at a table with a book before her: but her thoughts, it was evident, were not there; she had inserted her taper fingers into the ringlets of her hair, until the palms of her hand reached her forehead; then, bending her head towards the table, she leaned on her elbows, and seemed absorbed in the most melancholy reflections.

"This, too, is my work," said I; "this fair flower is blighted, and withering by the contagious touch of my baneful hand! Good Heaven! what a wretch am I! whoever loves me is rewarded by misery. And what have I gained by this wide waste and devastation which my wickedness has spread around me? Happiness? No, no--that I have lost for ever. Would that _my_ loss were all! would that comfort might visit the soul of this fair creature and another. But I dare not--I cannot pray; I am at enmity with G.o.d and man. Yet I will make an effort in favour of this victim of my baseness. O G.o.d," continued I, "if the prayers of an outcast like me can find acceptance, not for myself, but for her, I ask that peace which the world cannot give; shower down Thy blessings upon her, alleviate her sorrows, and erase from her memory the existence of such a being as myself. Let not my hateful image hang as a blight upon her beauteous frame."

Emily resumed her book when her father had ceased reading aloud; and I saw her wipe a tear from her cheek.

The excitement occasioned by this scene, added to my previous illness, from the effects of which I had not sufficiently recovered, caused a faintness; I sat down under the window, in hopes that it would pa.s.s off.

It did not, however; for I fell, and lay on the turf in a state of insensibility, which must have lasted nearly half an hour. I afterwards learned from Clara that Emily had opened the window, it being a French one, to walk out and recover herself. By the bright moonlight, she perceived me lying on the ground. Her first idea was, that I had committed suicide; and, with this impression, she shut the window, and tottering to the back part of the room, fainted. Her father ran to her a.s.sistance, and she fell into his arms. She was taken up to her room, and consigned to the care of her woman, who put her to bed; but she was unable to give any account of herself, or the cause of her disorder, until the following day.