The Adventures of Hugh Trevor Part 71

When she had appeased her feelings sufficiently to be able to speak, I found that, like her brother, she was come with a disinterested plan for my relief. She began by blaming herself for not having strenuously enough opposed my forbearance with respect to Wakefield; and pleaded with great energy of feeling to persuade me immediately to do myself right. I took the first favourable opportunity to interrupt her; and enquired if she had seen or heard any thing of Wakefield since the letter he wrote? She answered, he had been with her above an hour that very morning.

'In what temper of mind was he?'

'Extremely exasperated.'

'Not at you?'

'Oh no: at Lord Bray: at your persecutors: at the world in general. He says you are not fit to live in it: you are no match for it. You have been persuading him, contrary to all history and experience, that men are capable of virtue and happiness. In short, he owns that he was more than half convinced: but that he believes he shall be obliged to relapse into his former opinions.'

'I have persuaded him?'

'So he says.'

'When? Where?'

'I cannot tell. I thought from his discourse that he had met with you.'

While we were engaged in this conversation, Charlotte again entered; and told me there was a gentleman of the name of Wakefield, who desired to see me. 'Is it possible?' exclaimed Miss Wilmot.

The door opened, and he appeared. 'Belmont!' cried I, with surprise.

'Why did you announce yourself by the name of Wakefield?'

He stretched out his hand to me, and turned his face aside: then recovering himself replied 'The farce is over.'

'What do you mean?'

'That I suppose you will despise me. But do, if you please: for, though I love you, I too despise to fear you. I have done you various wrongs. My name is Wakefield. I have been one of the infernal instruments to bring you here: but I am come to make you all the atonement in my power, and take you out. Forgive me only so far as not to insult me, by repeating your contempt of that villain Wakefield.

It is a d.a.m.ned undigestible term: but I deserved it; and you applied it to me without intending an affront. I know you are as brave as you are generous. Till I met with you, I thought myself the first man in the world: but, notwithstanding my evasive raillery, I felt your hand upon me. I sunk under you. There was something in you that excited my envy, at first; and afterward, perhaps, a better pa.s.sion. What d.a.m.ned accidents they were that made me what I have been I cannot tell. I know not what I shall be: but I know what I am. I disdain penitential promises. If you will be my friend, here is my hand. Good fortune or bad, we will share it together.'

Thus invited, could I refrain? Oh no. I cannot describe the scene that pa.s.sed. We did not embrace, for we were no actors; and, as our pa.s.sions for a time were too big for utterance, we were silent.

Miss Wilmot at length looked up; and, while the tears were streaming down her cheeks, her countenance a.s.sumed an expression infinitely beyond smiling, though something like it, while she exclaimed--'This is a happy day!'

Her eye first met mine, and then Wakefield's. He instantly hung his head, and said--'Lydia! When we were alone, I could just endure to look at you: but now I cannot. Yet I am an a.s.s. What is done is done.

The affections that I have are yours: but I must not, no nor I will not be afraid, even of my own thoughts. I know I have nothing to fear from you. Man is a strange animal; and may be many things in the course of a short life.'

Wakefield then rang the bell, and desired the bailiff would send immediately to Lord Bray's attorney; that my debts might be settled, and I released; and to call, as he knew they must for form's sake, and see that there were no more detainers.

Hearing him give these directions, I could not but ask his meaning?

'What,' replied he, with generous indignation, 'do you suppose that I am come to cant about virtue? That, at least, is a vice of which you have never yet found me guilty. I am here to pay your debts, with money in my possession. Whether, in a court of law, it would be proved to be yours or mine I neither know nor care. But there is something better that I do know: which is that, if I were in your place and you in mine, you would not long let me remain in a house like this. With respect to the future, I am partly persuaded we shall neither of us act the miser.'

Miss Wilmot again exclaimed--'This is a happy day!'

Wakefield was impatient to see me released; and was well acquainted with bailiffs. 'If you are expeditious,' said he to George, 'you will have a guinea for your industry. If you are dilatory, not a farthing more than your fees.'

The promised guinea gave the messenger wings; and in less than an hour the debt was discharged, and a receipt in full delivered.

Just as this account was closed, another messenger came from a different quarter. The anxiety of Miss Wilmot had induced her to take a bold step. In the first emotions of grief, she wrote to Olivia; and informed her of every circ.u.mstance, as well as of the place of my detention. This information produced the following letter, and the bills inclosed; as mentioned in its contents.

'I have no words to speak my feelings. I have never yet had an opportunity, since I thought the love I bear you justifiable, to declare them. This is the time. To be silent now would argue a distrust of you, which would degrade me; and render me unworthy both of you and the dignified virtues by which your conduct is guided.

Every new fact that I hear of you does but increase that affection; which I find enn.o.bled by being so worthily placed. After the proofs you have so repeatedly given, it would be cowardice and hypocrisy to say less.

'I inclose you five hundred pounds. They are my own. I would sooner even see you suffer than be guilty of an action which I know you could not approve. They are what I have reserved, from money allowed me, to be employed on any urgent occasion. Surely there can be few more urgent than the present. Your refusal of them would wound me to the soul. It would break my heart. I need not add any thing more.

OLIVIA MOWBRAY.'

Who will tell me that virtue is not its own reward? Who will affirm that to conquer selfish desires, to render the pa.s.sions subservient to reason, and to make those principles we commend in others rules for ourselves, is not the way to be happy? The tide of joy was full to overflowing! And yet, when I recollected that, though no longer a prisoner it was denied me to obey the yearnings of my heart and pa.s.s the threshold of Olivia, how suddenly did it ebb!

CHAPTER XVI

_A journey to aid Hector once more projected: An interview with the wounded stranger: A discovery of great importance_

I shall forbear to repeat the joy and congratulations of friends, with other less events; and hasten to one which gave a more surprising turn to my affairs than even any that I had yet experienced. The morning after my release, it was my intention to go down into the county of ****: agreeable to the desire of Hector. Of this I informed Mr.

Hilary, the evening before: but, as I was become very cautious in money matters, I meant to go by the coach.

When he heard this, Mr. Hilary smiled: and told me, if I would go post, he believed he could find me a companion, who would willingly bear half the expence.

I enquired who? and found it was no other than the stranger. He had been down into Cambridgeshire, to settle some affairs; and was now preparing for a journey into my native county, for purposes which he will himself presently explain. A proposal more agreeable than this could not have been made to me; and it was agreed that we should meet and breakfast with Mr. Hilary. When I made the appointment, Mr. Hilary pressed me with unusual earnestness not to be induced to break it, by any accident whatever.

The morning came, I was punctual, and the stranger was there. He had slept at the house of Mr. Hilary. 'This, sir,' said the latter, presenting me, 'is the young gentleman of whose acquaintance you are so very desirous.'

The stranger regarded me earnestly; and, with great emotion in his countenance, asked--'Are you, sir, the humane person, who found me almost expiring; and by whose care I am now among the living?'

'I hope, sir, you do not think there was any thing extraordinary in what I did?'

'I wish I had not reason so to think. How many there are who, from mean and selfish motives, would have pa.s.sed me I cannot say: but there are few indeed that would have discharged the office you undertook with so much unaffected and generous benevolence. I am in your debt, sir, not only for my recovery, for which I can never repay you, but literally for money expended. I shall forbear thanks, for I have none that are adequate; but suffer me to rid myself of petty obligations.'

'I understand, sir, that you are rich, and I am not. I therefore inform you, without hesitation, I left twenty pounds with the physician.'

'You may well suppose that I returned, after my recovery, to enquire for my preserver. I was then informed of your whole proceedings; and of the anxiety with which, after your journey, you came to complete the charitable office you had begun. And I own, sir, that I was so desirous of seeing a person who, in the very fervour of youth, could act and feel as you have done that, one excepted, you are the man on earth I am most happy to meet.'

'Mr. Hilary tells me that we are to be travelling companions.'

'Most willingly. I have long been a wanderer, and am lately returned to end my days in my native land. During my absence, the elder branches of my family are all deceased. I brought back with me more than sufficient for my own wants: but their property has descended to me, and I now very unexpectedly find myself wealthy.'

'And have you no descendants, sir?'

'None. I am at present in search of a distant relation: whom if I should find, and find him such as my present hopes and past knowledge have pictured him, I shall be one of the happiest of men. To make this and another enquiry is the purpose of the journey I now mean to take.

When I left England, I had no intention ever to return: I therefore resolved to hold no correspondence with the persons whom I have left; that I might not revive the memory of scenes and events which had been full of anguish. By accident, about eighteen months ago, being then at Grand Cairo I was informed that a person of my family had long been dead. This determined me to settle my concerns abroad, and revisit my native country. As however my informer spoke only from report, I am desirous, before I make myself known, to verify this fact. I have my reasons; which, from what I have said, you may suspect to be those of resentment. But not so; they are only what I conceive to be necessary precautions. Acrimony and anger have long since died away; and I have but too much cause to condemn those actions of my life in which they were indulged. The relation, whom I hope to find, I may unfortunately discover to be more likely to misuse the wealth, that has devolved to me by the death of the elder branches of my family, than to make it a blessing to himself and others. It is true he is not my heir at law. I have no heir: what I possess is at my own disposal. But he was once my greatest favourite: and I would avoid any action that should excite hopes which it might be weakness and vice in me to gratify.'

This short narrative was not merely delivered with a serious air; but it was accompanied with somewhat of a plaintive tone, that rendered the venerable stranger unusually interesting. It likewise excited various wild yet not impossible conjectures in my mind, which made me very eager to pursue the discourse. Mr. Hilary, whose mind had been full of conjectures mingled with doubt, had not informed him of my name.

'Is the person,' said I, 'in search of whom you mean to take this journey young, or old?'