Memoirs of Emma Courtney Part 22

'I cannot stop, lady, to explain myself--you must come with me--I will tell you more as we go along.'

'Do you come,' enquired I, in a voice scarcely articulate, 'from my husband?'

'No--no--I come from a person who is dying, who has somewhat of consequence to impart to you--Hasten, lady--there is no time to lose!'

'Lead, then, I follow you.'

He helped me into the chaise, and we drove off with the rapidity of lightning.

CHAPTER XXV

I asked no more questions on the road, but attempted to fortify my mind for the scenes which, I foreboded, were approaching. After about an hour's ride, we stopped at a small, neat, cottage, embosomed in trees, standing alone, at a considerable distance from the high-road. A decent-looking, elderly, woman, came to the door, at the sound of the carriage, and a.s.sisted me to alight. In her countenance were evident marks of perturbation and horror. I asked for a gla.s.s of water; and, having drank it, followed the woman, at her request, up stairs. She seemed inclined to talk, but I gave her no encouragement--I knew not what awaited me, nor what exertions might be requisite--I determined not to exhaust my spirits unnecessarily.

On entering a small chamber, I observed a bed, with the curtains closely drawn. I advanced towards it, and, unfolding them, beheld the unhappy Rachel lying in a state of apparent insensibility.

'She is dying,' whispered the woman, 'she has been in strong convulsions; but she could not die in peace without seeing Madam Montague, and obtaining her forgiveness.'

I approached the unfortunate girl, and took her lifeless hand.--A feeble pulse still trembled--I gazed upon her, for some moments, in silence.--She heaved a deep sigh--her lips moved, inarticulately. She, at length, opened her eyes, and, fixing them upon me, the blood seemed to rush through her languid frame--reanimating it. She sprung up in the bed, and, clasping her hands together, uttered a few incoherent words.

'Be pacified, my dear--I am not angry with you--I feel only pity.'

She looked wildly. 'Ah! my dear lady, I am a wicked girl--but not--Oh, no!--_not a murderer!_ I did not--indeed, I did not--murder my child!'

A cold tremor seized me--I turned heart-sick--a sensation of horror thrilled through my veins!

'My dear, my kind mistress,' resumed the wretched girl, 'can you forgive me?--Oh! that cruel, barbarous, man!--It was _he_ who did it--indeed, it was _he_ who did it!' Distraction glared in her eyes.

'I do forgive you,' said I, in broken accents. 'I will take care of you--but you must be calm.'

'I will--I will'--replied she, in a rapid tone of voice--'but do not send me to prison--_I did not murder it!_--Oh! my child, my child!'

continued she, in a screaming tone of frantic violence, and was again seized with strong convulsions.

We administered all the a.s.sistance in our power. I endeavoured, with success, to stifle my emotions in the active duties of humanity. Rachel once more revived. After earnestly commending her to the care of the good woman of the house, and promising to send medicines and nourishment proper for her situation, and to reward their attentions--desiring that she might be kept perfectly still, and not be suffered to talk on subjects that agitated her--I quitted the place, presaging but too much, and not having, at that time, the courage to make further enquiries.

CHAPTER XXVI

On entering my own house my heart misgave me. I enquired, with trepidation, for my husband, and was informed--'That he had returned soon after my departure, and had shut himself in his apartment; that, on being followed by Mr Lucas, he had turned fiercely upon him, commanding him, in an imperious tone, instantly to leave him; adding, he had affairs of importance to transact; and should any one dare to intrude on him, it would be at the peril of their lives.' All the family appeared in consternation, but no one had presumed to disobey the orders of their master.--They expressed their satisfaction at my return--Alas! I was impotent to relieve the apprehensions which, I too plainly perceived, had taken possession of their minds.

I retired to my chamber, and, with a trembling hand, traced, and addressed to my husband, a few incoherent lines--briefly hinting my suspicions respecting the late transactions--exhorting him to provide for his safety, and offering to be the companion of his flight. I added--'Let us reap wisdom from these tragical consequences of _indulged pa.s.sion_! It is not to atone for the past error, by cutting off the prospect of future usefulness--Repentance for what can never be recalled, is absurd and vain, but as it affords a lesson for the time to come--do not let us wilfully forfeit the fruits of our dear-bought experience! I will never reproach you! Virtuous resolution, and time, may yet heal these aggravated wounds. Dear Montague, be no longer the slave of error; inflict not on my tortured mind new, and more insupportable, terrors! I await your directions--let us fly--let us summon our fort.i.tude--let us, at length, bravely stem the tide of pa.s.sion--let us beware of the criminal pusillanimity of despair!'

With faultering steps, I sought the apartment of my husband. I listened a moment at the door--and hearing him in motion, while profound sighs burst every instant from his bosom, I slid my paper under the door, unfolded, that it might be the more likely to attract his attention.

Presently, I had the satisfaction of hearing him take it up. After some minutes, a slip of paper was returned, by the same method which I had adopted, in which was written, in characters blotted, and scarcely legible, the following words--

'Leave me, one half hour, to my reflections: at the end of that period, be a.s.sured, I will see, or write, to you.'

I knew him to be incapable of falsehood--my heart palpitated with hope.

I went to my chamber, and pa.s.sed the interval in a thousand cruel reflections, and vague plans for our sudden departure. Near an hour had elapsed, when the bell rang. I started, breathless, from my seat.

A servant pa.s.sed my door, to take his master's orders. He returned instantly, and, meeting me in the pa.s.sage, delivered to me a letter.

I heard Montague again lock the door.--Disappointed, I re-entered my chamber. In my haste to get at the contents of the paper, I almost tore it in pieces--the words swam before my sight. I held it for some moments in my hand, incapable of decyphering the fatal characters. I breathed with difficulty--all the powers of life seemed suspended--when the report of a pistol roused me to a sense of confused horror.--Rushing forward, I burst, with preternatural strength, into the apartment of my husband--What a spectacle!--a.s.sistance was vain!--Montague--the impetuous, ill-fated, Montague--_was no more--was a mangled corpse_!--Rash, unfortunate, young, man!

But, why should I harrow up your susceptible mind, by dwelling on these cruel scenes? _Ah! suffer me to spread a veil over this fearful catastrophe!_ Some time elapsed ere I had fort.i.tude to examine the paper addressed to me by my unfortunate husband. Its contents, which were as follows, affected me with deep and mingled emotions.

TO MRS MONTAGUE.

'Amidst the reflections which press, by turns, upon my burning brain, an obscure consciousness of the prejudices upon which my character has been formed, is not the least torturing--because I feel the _inveterate force of habit_--I feel, that my convictions come too late!

'I have destroyed myself, and you, dearest, most generous, and most unfortunate, of women! I am a monster!--I have seduced innocence, and embrued my hands in blood!--Oh, G.o.d!--Oh, G.o.d!--_'Tis there distraction lies!_--I would, circ.u.mstantially, retrace my errors; but my disordered mind, and quivering hand, refuse the cruel task--yet, it is necessary that I should attempt a brief sketch.

'After the cruel accident, which destroyed our tranquillity, I nourished my senseless jealousies (the sources of which I need not, now, recapitulate), till I persuaded myself--injurious wretch that I was!--that I had been perfidiously and ungenerously treated. Stung by false pride, I tried to harden my heart, and foolishly thirsted for revenge. Your meekness, and magnanimity, disappointed me.--I would willingly have seen you, not only suffer the PANGS, but express the _rage_, of a slighted wife. The simple victim of my baseness, by the artless affection she expressed for me, gained an ascendency over my mind; and, when you removed her from your house, we still contrived, at times, to meet. The consequences of our intercourse could not long be concealed. It was, then, that I first began to open my eyes on my conduct, and to be seized with remorse!--Rachel, now, wept incessantly. Her father, she told me, was a stern and severe man; and should he hear of her misconduct, would, she was certain, be her destruction.

I procured for her an obscure retreat, to which I removed the unhappy girl [Oh, how degrading is vice!], under false pretences. I exhorted her to conceal her situation--to pretend, that her health was in a declining state--and I visited her, from time to time, as in my profession.

'This poor young creature continued to bewail the disgrace she antic.i.p.ated--her lamentations pierced my soul! I recalled to my remembrance your emphatic caution. I foresaw that, with the loss of her character, this simple girl's misfortune and degradation would be irretrievable; and I could, now, plainly distinguish the morality of _rule_ from that of _principle_. Pursuing this train of reasoning, I entangled myself, for my views were not yet sufficiently clear and comprehensible! Bewildered, amidst contending principles--distracted by a variety of emotions--in seeking a remedy for one vice, I plunged (as is but too common), into others of a more scarlet dye. With shame and horror, I confess, I repeatedly tried, by medical drugs, to procure an abortive birth: the strength and vigour of Rachel's const.i.tution defeated this diabolical purpose. Foiled in these attempts, I became hardened, desperate, and barbarous!

'Six weeks before the allotted period, the infant saw the light--for a moment--to close its eyes on it for ever!

I, only, was with the unhappy mother. I had formed no deliberate purpose--I had not yet arrived at the acme of guilt--but, perceiving, from the babe's premature birth, and the consequences of the pernicious potions which had been administered to the mother, that the vital flame played but feebly--that life was but as a quivering, uncertain, spark--a sudden and terrible thought darted through my mind.

I know not whether my emotion betrayed me to the ear of Rachel--but, suddenly throwing back the curtain of the bed, she beheld me grasp--with savage ferocity--_with murderous hands_!--Springing from the bed, and throwing herself upon me--her piercing shrieks--

'_I can no more_--of the rest you seem, from whatever means, but too well informed!

I need not say--protect, if she survive, the miserable mother!--To you, whose heavenly goodness I have so ill requited, it would be injurious as unnecessary! I read, too late, the heart I have insulted!

'I have settled the disposal of my effects--I have commanded my feelings to give you this last, sad, proof of my confidence.--_Kneeling_, I entreat your forgiveness for the sufferings I have caused you! I found your heart wounded--and into those festering wounds I infused a deadly venom--curse not my memory--_We meet no more_.

'Farewel! first, and last, and only, beloved of women!--a long--a long farewel!

'MONTAGUE.'

These are the consequences of confused systems of morals--and thus it is, that minds of the highest hope, and fairest prospect, are blasted!

CHAPTER XXVII

The unhappy Rachel recovered her health by slow degrees. I had determined, when my affairs were settled, to leave a spot, that had been the scene of so many tragical events. I proposed to the poor girl to take her again into my family, to which she acceded with rapture. She has never since quitted me, and her faithful services, and humble, grateful attachment, have repaid my protection an hundred fold.

Mr Montague left ten thousand pounds, the half of which was settled on his daughter, the remainder left to my disposal. This determined me to adopt you wholly for my son. I wrote to your uncle to that purport, taking upon myself the entire charge of your education, and entreating, that you might never know, unless informed by myself, to whom you owed your birth. That you should continue to think me _your mother_, flattered my tenderness, nor was my Emma, herself, more dear to me.