Memoirs of Emma Courtney Part 11

CHAPTER XXVIII

Week after week, month after month, pa.s.sed away in the anguish of vain expectation: my letter was not answered, and I again sunk into despondency.--Winter drew near. I shuddered at the approach of this dreary and desolate season, when I was roused by the receipt of a letter from one of the daughters of the maternal aunt, under whose care I had spent the happy, thoughtless, days of childhood. My cousin informed me--

'That she had married an officer in the East India service; that soon after their union he was ordered abroad, and stationed in Bengal for three years, during which period she was to remain in a commodious and pleasant house, situated in the vicinity of the metropolis. She had been informed of my removal from Morton Park, and had no doubt but I should be able to give a satisfactory account of the occasion of that removal. She purposed, during the absence of her husband, to let out a part of her house; and should I not be fixed in my present residence, would be happy to accommodate me with an apartment, on terms that should be rather dictated by friendship than interest. She also hinted, that a neighbouring lady, of respectable character, would be glad to avail herself of the occasional a.s.sistance of an accomplished woman in the education of her daughters; that she had mentioned me to her in advantageous terms, conceiving that I should have no objection, by such a means, to exercise my talents, to render myself useful, and to augment my small income.'

This intelligence filled me with delight: the idea of change, of exertion, of new scenes--shall I add, _of breathing the same air with Augustus_, rushed tumultuously through my imagination. Flying eagerly to my friend, to impart these tidings, I was not aware of the ungrateful and inconsiderate appearance which these exultations must give me in her eyes, till I perceived the starting tear.--It touched, it electrified, my heart; and, throwing myself into her arms, I caught the soft contagion, and wept aloud.

'Go, Emma--my daughter,' said this excellent woman; 'I banish the selfish regret that would prompt me to detain you. I perceive this solitude is destructive to thy ardent mind. Go, vary your impressions, and expand your sensations; gladden me only from time to time with an account of your progress and welfare.'

I had but little preparation to make. I canva.s.sed over, with my friend, a thousand plans, and formed as many expectations and conjectures; but they all secretly tended to one point, and concentrated in one object. I gave my cousin notice that I should be with her in a few days--settled a future correspondence with my friend--embraced her, at parting, with unfeigned, and tender, sorrow--and, placing myself in a stage-coach, that pa.s.sed daily through the village, took the road, once more, with a fluttering heart, to London. We travelled all night--it was cold and dreary--but my fancy was busied with various images, and my bosom throbbing with lively, though indistinct sensations.

The next day, at noon, I arrived, without accident, at the residence of my relation, Mrs Denbeigh. She received me with unaffected cordiality: our former amity was renewed; we spent the evening together, recalling past scenes; and, on retiring, I was shewn into a neat chamber, which had been prepared for me, with a light closet adjoining. The next day, I was introduced to the lady, mentioned to me by my kind hostess, and agreed to devote three mornings in the week to the instruction of the young ladies (her daughters), in various branches of education.

_Memoirs of Emma Courtney_

VOLUME II

TO AUGUSTUS HARLEY

'My friend, my son, it is for your benefit, that I have determined on reviewing the sentiments, and the incidents, of my past life. Cold declamation can avail but little towards the reformation of our errors. It is by tracing, by developing, the pa.s.sions in the minds of others; tracing them, from the seeds by which they have been generated, through all their extended consequences, that we learn, the more effectually, to regulate and to subdue our own.

'I repeat, it will cost me some pain to be ingenuous in the recital which I have pledged myself to give you; even in the moment when I resume my pen, prejudice continues to struggle with principle, and I feel an inclination to retract. While unfolding a series of error and mortification, I tremble, lest, in warning you to shun the rocks and quicksands amidst which my little bark has foundered, I should forfeit your respect and esteem, the pride, and the comfort, of my declining years. But you are deeply interested in my narrative, you tell me, and you entreat me to proceed.'

CHAPTER I

Change of scene, regular employment, attention to my pupils, and the conscious pride of independence, afforded a temporary relief to my spirits. My first care, on my arrival in town, was to gladden the mind of my dear benefactress, by a minute detail of the present comforts and occupations.

She had charged me with affectionate remembrance and letters to her son.

I enclosed these letters; and, after informing him (in the cover) of the change of my situation, and the incident which had occasioned it, complained of the silence he had observed towards my last letter.

--'If,' said I, 'from having observed the social and sympathetic nature of our feelings and affections, I suffered myself to yield, involuntarily, to the soothing idea, that the ingenuous avowal of an attachment so tender, so sincere, so artless, as mine, could not have been unaffecting to a mind with which my own proudly claimed kindred:--if I fondly believed, that simplicity, modesty, truth--the eye beaming with sensibility, the cheek mantling with the glow of affection, the features softened, the accents modulated, by ineffable tenderness, might, in the eyes of a virtuous man, have supplied the place of more dazzling accomplishments, and more seductive charms: if I over-rated my own merit, and my own powers--surely my mistakes were sufficiently humiliating! You should not, indeed you should not, have obliged me to arrive at the conviction through a series of deductions so full of mortification and anguish. You are too well acquainted with the human heart not to be sensible, that no certainty can equal the misery of conjecture, in a mind of ardour--the agonizing images which _suspense_ forces upon the tender and sensible heart! You should have written, in pity to the situation of my mind. I would have thanked you for being ingenuous, even though, like Hamlet, you had _spoke daggers_. I expected it, from your character, and I had a claim to your sincerity.

'But it is past!--the vision is dissolved! The barbed arrow is not extracted with more pain, than the enchantments of hope from the ardent and sanguine spirit! But why am I to lose your friendship? My heart tells me, I have not deserved this! Do not suspect, that I have so little justice, or so little magnanimity, as to refuse you the privilege, the enviable privilege, of being master of your own affections.

I am unhappy, I confess; the princ.i.p.al charm of my life is fled, and the hopes that should enliven future prospects are faint: melancholy too often obscures reason, and a heart, perhaps too tender, preys on itself.

'I suspect I had formed some vain and extravagant expectations. I could have loved you, had you permitted it, with no mean, nor common attachment.--My words, my looks, my actions, betrayed me, ere I suffered my feelings to dictate to my pen. Would to G.o.d, I had buried this fatal secret in the bottom of my soul! But repentance is, now, too late. Yet the sensible heart yearns to disclose itself--and to whom can it confide its sentiments, with equal propriety, as to him who will know how to pity the errors, of which he feels himself, however involuntarily, the cause? The world might think my choice in a confident singular; it has been my misfortune seldom to think with the world, and I ought, perhaps, patiently to submit to the inconveniences to which this singularity has exposed me.

'I know not how, without doing myself a painful violence, to relinquish your society; and why, let me again ask, should I? I now desire only that repose which is the end of doubt, and this, I think, I should regain by one hour's frank conversation with you; I would compose myself, listen to you, and yield to the sovereignty of reason. After such an interview, my mind--no longer harra.s.sed by vague suspicion, by a thousand nameless apprehensions and inquietudes--should struggle to subdue itself--at least, I would not permit it to dictate to my pen, not to bewilder my conduct. I am exhausted by perturbation. I ask only certainty and rest.

'EMMA.'

A few days after I had written the preceding letter, Mr Harley called on me. Mrs Denbeigh was with me on his entrance; I would have given worlds to have received him alone, but had not courage to hint this to my relation. Overwhelmed by a variety of emotions, I was unable for some time to make any reply to his friendly enquiries after my health, and congratulations on my amended prospects. My confusion and embarra.s.sment were but too apparent; perceiving my distress, he kindly contrived to engage my hostess in discourse, that I might have time to rally my spirits. By degrees, I commanded myself sufficiently to join in the conversation--I spoke to him of his mother, expressed the lively sense I felt of her goodness, and my unaffected regret at parting with her.

Animated by my subject, and encouraged by the delicacy of Augustus, I became more a.s.sured: we retraced the amus.e.m.e.nts and studies of H----shire, and two hours pa.s.sed delightfully and insensibly away, when Mrs Denbeigh was called out of the room to speak to a person who brought her letters and intelligence from the India House. Mr Harley, rising at the same time from his seat, seemed about to depart, but hesitating, stood a few moments as if irresolute.

'You leave me,' said I, in a low and tremulous tone, 'and you leave me still in suspense?'

'Could you,' replied he, visibly affected, 'but have seen me on the receipt of your last letter, you would have perceived that my feelings were not enviable--Your affecting expostulation, added to other circ.u.mstances of a vexatious nature, oppressed my spirits with a burthen more than they were able to sustain.'

He resumed his seat, spoke of his situation, of the tenure on which he held his fortune,--'I am neither a stoic nor a philosopher,' added he,--'I knew not how--_I could not answer your letter_. What shall I say?--I am with-held from explaining myself further, by reasons --_obligations_--Who can look back on every action of his past life with approbation? Mine has not been free from error! I am distressed, perplexed--_Insuperable obstacles_ forbid what otherwise'--

'I feel,' said I, interrupting him, 'that I am the victim of my own weakness and vanity--I feel, that I have been rushing headlong into the misery which you kindly sought to spare me--I am sensible of your delicacy--of your humanity!--And is it with the full impression of your virtues on my heart that I must teach that heart to renounce you--renounce, for ever, the man with whose pure and elevated mind my own panted to mingle? My reason has been blinded by the illusions of my self-love--and, while I severely suffer, I own my sufferings just--yet, the sentiments you inspired were worthy of you! I understand little of--I have violated common forms--seeking your tenderness, I have perhaps forfeited your esteem!'

'Far, _very far_, from it--I would, but cannot, say more.'

'Must we, then, separate for ever--will you no longer a.s.sist me in the pursuit of knowledge and truth--will you no more point out to me the books I should read, and aid me in forming a just judgment of the principles they contain--Must all your lessons be at an end--all my studies be resigned? How, without your counsel and example, shall I regain my strength of mind--to what _end_ shall I seek to improve myself, when I dare no longer hope to be worthy of him--'

A flood of tears checked my utterance; hiding my face with my hands, I gave way to the kindly relief, but for which my heart had broken.

I heard footsteps in the pa.s.sage, and the voice of Mrs Denbeigh as speaking to her servant--covered with shame and grief, I dared not in this situation appear before her, but, rushing out at an opposite door, hid myself in my chamber. A train of confused recollections tortured my mind, I concluded, that Augustus had another, a prior attachment.

I felt, with this conviction, that I had not the fort.i.tude, and that perhaps I ought not, to see him again. I wrote to him under this impression; I poured out my soul in anguish, in sympathy, in fervent aspirations for his happiness. These painful and protracted conflicts affected my health, a deep and habitual depression preyed upon my spirits, and, surveying every object through the medium of a distempered imagination, I grew disgusted with life.

CHAPTER II

I began, at length, to think, that I had been too precipitate, and too severe to myself.--Why was I to sacrifice a friend, from whose conversation I had derived improvement and pleasure? I repeated this question to myself, again and again; and I blushed and repented. But I deceived myself. I had too frequently acted with precipitation, I determined, now, to be more prudent--I waited three months, fortified my mind with many reflections, and resumed my pen--

TO AUGUSTUS HARLEY.

'Near three months have elapsed, since I last addressed you.

I remind you of this, not merely to suppress, as it arises, any apprehension which you may entertain of further embarra.s.sment or importunity: for I can no longer afflict myself with the idea, that my peace, or welfare, are indifferent to you, but will rather adopt the sentiment of Plato--who on being informed, that one of his disciples, whom he had more particularly distinguished, had spoken ill of him, replied, to the slanderer--"I do not believe you, for it is impossible that I should not be esteemed by one whom I so sincerely regard."

'My motive, for calling to your remembrance the date of my last, is, that you should consider what I am now about to say, as the result of calmer reflection, the decision of judgment after having allowed the pa.s.sions leisure to subside. It is, perhaps, unnecessary to premise, that I am not urged on by pride, from an obscure consciousness of having been betrayed into indiscretion, to endeavour to explain away, or to extenuate, any part of my former expressions or conduct. To a mind like yours, such an attempt would be impertinent; from one like mine, I hope, superfluous. I am not ashamed of being a human being, nor blush to own myself liable to "the shakes and agues of his fragile nature." I have ever spoken, and acted, from the genuine dictates of a mind swayed, at the time, by its own views and propensities, nor have I hesitated, as those views and propensities have changed, to avow my further convictions--"Let not the coldly wise exult, that their heads were never led astray by their hearts." I have all along used, and shall continue to use, the unequivocal language of sincerity.