Memoirs of Emma Courtney Part 21

He pointed to his cloaths;--'a pocket book'--said he, in accents still fainter.

'Enough!--I swear, in this awful moment, never to forsake him.'

He raised my hand to his lips--a tender smile illumined his countenance --'Surely,' said he, 'I have sufficiently fulfilled the dictates of a rigid honour!--In these last moments--when every earthly tie is dissolving--when human inst.i.tutions fade before my sight--I may, without a crime, tell you--_that I have loved you_.--Your tenderness early penetrated my heart--aware of its weakness--I sought to shun you--I imposed on myself those severe laws of which you causelessly complained.--Had my conduct been less rigid, I had been lost--I had been unjust to the bonds which I had voluntarily contracted; and which, therefore, had on me indispensible claims. I acted from good motives, but no doubt, was guilty of some errors--yet, my conflicts were, even, more cruel than yours--I had not only to contend against my own sensibility, but against yours also.--The fire which is pent up burns the fiercest!'--

He ceased to speak--a transient glow, which had lighted up his countenance, faded--exhausted, by the strong effort he had made, he sunk back--his eyes grew dim--they closed--_their last light beamed on me_!--I caught him in my arms--and--_he awoke no more_. The spirits, that had hitherto supported me, suddenly subsided. I uttered a piercing shriek, and sunk upon the body.

CHAPTER XXII

Many weeks pa.s.sed of which I have no remembrance, they were a blank in my life--a long life of sorrow! When restored to recollection, I found myself in my own chamber, my husband attending me. It was a long time before I could clearly retrace the images of the past. I learned--

'That I had been seized with a nervous fever, in consequence of having exerted myself beyond my strength; that my head had been disordered; that Mr Montague on his return, finding me in this situation, of which Mr Lucas had explained the causes, had been absorbed in deep affliction; that, inattentive to every other concern, he had scarcely quitted my apartment; that my child had been sent out to nurse; and that my recovery had been despaired of.'

My const.i.tution was impaired by these repeated shocks. I continued several months in a low and debilitated state.--With returning reason, I recalled to my remembrance the charge which Augustus had consigned to me in his last moments. I enquired earnestly for the pocket-book he had mentioned, and was informed, that, after his decease, it had been found, and its contents examined, which were a bank note of fifty pounds, some letters, and memorandums. Among the letters was one from his brother, by which means they had learned his address, and had been enabled to transmit to him an account of the melancholy catastrophe, and to request his orders respecting the disposal of the body. On the receipt of this intelligence, the younger Mr Harley had come immediately into ----s.h.i.+re, had received his brother's effects, and had his remains decently and respectfully interred in the town where the fatal accident had taken place, through which he was pa.s.sing in his way to visit a friend.

As soon as I had strength to hold a pen, I wrote to this gentleman, mentioning the tender office which had been consigned to me; and requesting that the child, or children, of Mr Augustus Harley, might be consigned to my care. To this letter I received an answer, in a few days, hinting--

'That the marriage of my deceased friend had not been more imprudent than unfortunate; that he had struggled with great difficulties and many sorrows; that his wife had been dead near a twelve-month; that he had lost two of his children, about the same period, with the small-pox, one only surviving, the younger, a son, a year and a half old; that it was, at present, at nurse, under his (his brother's) protection; that his respect for me, and knowledge of my friends.h.i.+p for their family, added to his wish of complying with every request of his deceased brother, prevented him from hesitating a moment respecting the propriety of yielding the child to my care; that it should be delivered to any person whom I should commission for the purpose; and that I might draw upon him for the necessary charges towards the support and education of his nephew.'

I mentioned to Mr Montague these particulars, with a desire of availing myself of his counsel and a.s.sistance on the occasion.

'You are free, madam,' he replied, with a cold and distant air, 'to act as you shall think proper; but you must excuse me from making myself responsible in this affair.'

I sighed deeply. I perceived, but too plainly, that _a mortal blow was given to my tranquillity_; but I determined to persevere in what I considered to be my duty. On the retrospect of my conduct, my heart acquitted me; and I endeavoured to submit, without repining, to my fate.

I was, at this period, informed by a faithful servant, who attended me during my illness, of what I had before but too truly conjectured--That in my delirium I had incessantly called upon the name of Augustus Harley, and repeated, at intervals, in broken language, the circ.u.mstances of our last tender and fatal interview: this, with some particulars related by Mr Lucas to Mr Montague on his return, had, it seems, at the time, inflamed the irascible pa.s.sions of my husband, almost to madness. His transports had subsided, by degrees, into gloomy reserve: he had watched me, till my recovery, with unremitting attention; since which his confidence and affection became, every day, more visibly alienated.

Self-respect suppressed my complaints--conscious of deserving, even more than ever, his esteem, I bore his caprice with patience, trusting that time, and my conduct, would restore him to reason, and awaken in his heart a sense of justice.

I sent for my babe from the house of the nurse, to whose care it had been confided during my illness, and placed the little Augustus in its stead. 'It is unnecessary, my friend, to say, that you were that lovely and interesting child.--Oh! with what emotion did I receive, and press, you to my care-worn bosom; retracing in your smiling countenance the features of your unfortunate father! Adopting you for my own, I divided my affection between you and my Emma. Scarce a day pa.s.sed that I did not visit the cottage of your nurse. I taught you to call me by the endearing name of _mother_! I delighted to see you caress my infant with fraternal tenderness--I endeavoured to cherish this growing affection, and found a sweet relief from my sorrows in these tender, maternal, cares.'

CHAPTER XXIII

My health being considerably injured, I had taken a young woman into my house, to a.s.sist me in the nursery, and in other domestic offices. She was in her eighteenth year--simple, modest, and innocent. This girl had resided with me for some months. I had been kind to her, and she seemed attached to me. One morning, going suddenly into Mr Montague's dressing-room, I surprised Rachel sitting on a sopha with her master:--he held her hand in his, while his arm was thrown round her waist; and they appeared to be engaged in earnest conversation. They both started, on my entrance:--Unwilling to encrease their confusion, I quitted the room.

Montague, on our meeting at dinner, affected an air of unconcern; but there was an apparent constraint in his behaviour. I preserved towards him my accustomed manner, till the servants had withdrawn. I then mildly expostulated with him on the impropriety of his behaviour. His replies were not more unkind than ungenerous--they pierced my heart.

'It is well, sir, I am inured to suffering; but it is not of _myself_ that I would speak. I have not deserved to lose your confidence--this is my consolation;--yet, I submit to it:--but I cannot see you act in a manner, that will probably involve you in vexation, and intail upon you remorse, without warning you of your danger. Should you corrupt the innocence of this girl, she is emphatically _ruined_. It is the strong mind only, that, firmly resting on its own powers, can sustain and recover itself amidst the world's scorn and injustice. The morality of an uncultivated understanding, is that of _custom_, not of reason: break down the feeble barrier, and there is nothing to supply its place--you open the flood-gates of infamy and wretchedness. Who can say where the evil may stop?'

'You are at liberty to discharge your servant, when you please, madam.'

'I think it my duty to do so, Mr Montague--not on my own, but on _her_, account. If I have no claim upon your affection and principles, I would disdain to watch your conduct. But I feel myself attached to this young woman, and would wish to preserve her from destruction!'

'You are very generous, but as you thought fit to bestow on me your _hand_, when your _heart_ was devoted to another--'

'It is enough, sir!--To your justice, only, in your cooler moments, would I appeal!'

I procured for Rachel a reputable place, in a distant part of the county.--Before she quitted me, I seriously, and affectionately, remonstrated with her on the consequences of her behaviour. She answered me only with tears and blushes.

In vain I tried to rectify the principles, and subdue the cruel prejudices, of my husband. I endeavoured to shew him every mark of affection and confidence. I frequently expostulated with him, upon his conduct, with tears--urged him to respect himself and me--strove to convince him of the false principles upon which he acted--of the senseless and barbarous manner in which he was sacrificing my peace, and his own, to a romantic chimera. Sometimes he would appear, for a moment, melted with my tender and fervent entreaties.

'Would to G.o.d!' he would say, with emotion, 'the last six months of my life could be obliterated for ever from my remembrance!'

He was no longer active, and chearful: he would sit, for hours, involved in deep and gloomy silence. When I brought the little Emma, to soften, by her engaging caresses, the anxieties by which his spirits appeared to be overwhelmed, he would gaze wildly upon her--s.n.a.t.c.h her to his breast--and then, suddenly throwing her from him, rush out of the house; and, inattentive to the duties of his profession, absent himself for days and nights together:--his temper grew, every hour, more furious and unequal.

He by accident, one evening, met the little Augustus, as his nurse was carrying him from my apartment; and, breaking rudely into the room, overwhelmed me with a torrent of abuse and reproaches. I submitted to his injustice with silent grief--my spirits were utterly broken.

At times, he would seem to be sensible of the impropriety of his conduct--would execrate himself and entreat my forgiveness;--but quickly relapsed into his accustomed paroxysms, which, from having been indulged, were now become habitual, and uncontroulable. These agitations seemed daily to encrease--all my efforts to regain his confidence--my patient, unremitted, attentions--were fruitless. He shunned me--he appeared, even, to regard me with horror. I wept in silence. The hours which I pa.s.sed with my children afforded me my only consolation--they became painfully dear to me. Attending to their little sports, and innocent gambols, I forgot, for a moment, my griefs.

CHAPTER XXIV

Some months thus pa.s.sed away, with little variation in my situation.

Returning home one morning, early, from the nurse's, where I had left my Emma with Augustus (whom I never, now, permitted to be brought to my own house) as I entered, Mr Montague shot suddenly by me, and rushed up stairs towards his apartment. I saw him but transiently, as he pa.s.sed; but his haggard countenance, and furious gestures, filled me with dismay. He had been from home the preceding night; but to these absences I had lately been too much accustomed to regard them as any thing extraordinary. I hesitated a few moments, whether I should follow him.

I feared, lest I might exasperate him by so doing; yet, the unusual disorder of his appearance gave me a thousand terrible and nameless apprehensions. I crept toward the door of his apartment--listened attentively, and heard him walking up and down the room, with hasty steps--sometimes he appeared to stop, and groaned heavily:--once I heard him throw up the sash, and shut it again with violence.

I attempted to open the door, but, finding it locked, my terror increased.--I knocked gently, but could not attract his attention. At length I recollected another door, that led to this apartment, through my own chamber, which was fastened on the outside, and seldom opened.

With trembling steps I hurried round, and, on entering the room, beheld him sitting at a table, a pen in his hand, and paper before him. On the table lay his pistols--his hair was dishevelled--his dress disordered--his features distorted with emotion--while in his countenance was painted the extreme of horror and despair.

I uttered a faint shriek, and sunk into a chair. He started from his seat, and, advancing towards me with hurried and tremulous steps, sternly demanded, Why I intruded on his retirement? I threw myself at his feet,--I folded my arms round him--I wept--I deprecated his anger--I entreated to be heard--I said all that humanity, all that the most tender and lively sympathy could suggest, to inspire him with confidence--to induce him to relieve, by communication, the burthen which oppressed his heart.--He struggled to free himself from me--my apprehensions gave me strength--I held him with a strenuous grasp--he raved--he stamped--he tore his hair--his pa.s.sion became frenzy! At length, forcibly bursting from him, I fell on the floor, and the blood gushed from my nose and lips. He shuddered convulsively--stood a few moments, as if irresolute--and, then, throwing himself beside me, raised me from the ground; and, clasping me to his heart, which throbbed tumultuously, burst into a flood of tears.

'I will not be thy _murderer_, Emma!' said he, in a voice of agony, interrupted by heart-rending sobs--'I have had enough of blood!'

I tried to sooth him--I a.s.sured him I was not hurt--I besought him to confide his sorrows to the faithful bosom of his wife! He appeared softened--his tears flowed without controul.

'Unhappy woman!--you know not what you ask! To be ingenuous, belongs to purity like yours!--Guilt, black as h.e.l.l!--conscious, aggravated, d.a.m.nable, guilt!--_Your fatal attachment_--my accursed jealousy!--Ah!

Emma! I have injured you--but you are, indeed, revenged!'

Every feature seemed to work--seemed pregnant with dreadful meaning--he was relapsing into frenzy.

'Be calm, my friend--be not unjust to yourself--you can have committed no injury that I shall not willingly forgive--you are incapable of persisting in guilt. The ingenuous mind, that avows, has already made half the reparation. Suffer me to learn the source of your inquietude! I may find much to extenuate--I may be able to convince you, that you are too severe to yourself.'

'Never, never, never!--nothing can extenuate--_the expiation must be made_!--Excellent, admirable, woman!--Remember, without hating, the wretch who has been unworthy of you--who could not conceive, who knew not how to estimate, your virtues!--Oh!--do not--do not'--straining me to his bosom--'curse my memory!'

He started from the ground, and, in a moment, was out of sight.

I raised myself with difficulty--faint, tottering, gasping for breath, I attempted to descend the stairs. I had scarcely reached the landing-place, when a violent knocking at the door shook my whole frame. I stood still, clinging to the bal.u.s.trade, unable to proceed. I heard a chaise draw up--a servant opening the door--a plain-looking countryman alighted, and desired instantly to speak to the lady of the house--his business was, he said, of life and death! I advanced towards him, pale and trembling!

'What is the matter, my friend--whence came you?'