Memoirs of Emma Courtney Part 9

'A deserted outcast from society--a desolate orphan--what was to become of me--to whom could I fly?'

'Unjust girl! have I then forfeited all your confidence--have you not a mother and a friend, who love you--' he stopped--paused--and added 'with maternal, with _fraternal_, tenderness? to whom would you go?--remain with us, your society will cheer my mother's declining years'--again he hesitated,--'I am about to return to town, a.s.sure me, that you will continue with Mrs Harley--it will soften the pain of separation.'

I struggled for more fort.i.tude--hinted at the narrowness of my fortune--at my wish to exert my talents in some way, that should procure me a less dependent situation--spoke of my active spirit--of my abhorrence of a life of indolence and vacuity.

He insisted on my waving these subjects for the present. 'There would be time enough, in future, for their consideration. In the mean while, I might go on improving myself, and whether present or absent, might depend upon him, for every a.s.sistance in his power.'

His soothing kindness, aided by the affectionate attentions of my friend, gradually, lulled my mind into tranquillity. My bosom was agitated, only, by a slight and sweet emotion--like the gentle undulations of the ocean, when the winds, that swept over its ruffled surface, are hushed into repose.

CHAPTER XXIV

Another month pa.s.sed away--every hour, I imbibed, in large draughts, the deceitful poison of hope. A few days before that appointed for the departure of Augustus, I received a visit from Mr Montague, of whose situation, during his confinement, I had made many enquiries, and it was with unaffected pleasure that I beheld him perfectly restored to health. I introduced him to my friends, who congratulated him upon his recovery, and treated him with that polite and cordial hospitality which characterized them. He was on his way to Morton Park, and was particular in his enquiries respecting the late conduct of the lady of the mansion, of which he had heard some confused reports. I could not conceal from him our final separation, but, aware of his inflammable temper, I endeavoured to soften my recital as far as was consistent with truth and justice. It was with difficulty, that our united persuasions induced him to restrain his fiery spirit, which broke out into menaces and execrations. I represented to him--

'That every thing had been already explained; that the affair had now subsided; that a reconciliation was neither probable nor desirable; that any interference, on his part, would only tend to mutual exasperation, from which I must eventually be the sufferer.'

I extorted from him a promise--that, as he was necessitated to meet Mr Morton on business, he would make no allusions to the past--I should be mortified, (I added) by having it supposed, that I stood in need of a _champion_.--Mr Morton had no doubts of the rect.i.tude of my conduct, and it would be barbarous to involve him in a perpetual domestic warfare.

Mr Montague, at the request of Augustus, spent that day, and the next, with us. I thought, I perceived, that he regarded Mr Harley with a scrutinizing eye, and observed my respect for, and attention to, him, with jealous apprehension. Before his departure, he requested half an hour's conversation with me alone, with which request I immediately complied, and withdrew with him into an adjoining compartment. He informed me--

'That he was going to London to pursue his medical studies--that, on his return, his father had proposed to establish him in his profession--that his prospects were very favourable, and that he should esteem himself completely happy if he might, yet, hope to soften my heart in his favour, and to place me in a more a.s.sured and tranquil position.'

I breathed a heavy sigh, and sunk into a melancholy reverie.

'Speak to me, Emma,' said he, with impatience, 'and relieve the anxiety I suffer.'

'Alas! What can I say?'

'Say, that you will try to love me, that you will reward my faith and perseverance.'

'Would to G.o.d, I could'--I hesitated--my eyes filled with tears--'Go to London,' resumed I; 'a thousand new objects will there quickly obliterate from your remembrance a romantic and ill-fated attachment, to which retirement, and the want of other impression, has given birth, and which owes its strength merely to opposition.'

'As that opposition,' retorted he, 'is the offspring of pride and insensibility--'

I looked at him with a mournful air--'Do not reproach me, Montague, my situation is far more pitiable than yours. _I am, indeed, unhappy_,'

--added I, after a pause; 'I, like you, am the victim of a raised, of, I fear, a distempered imagination.'

He eagerly entreated me to explain myself.

'I will not attempt to deceive you--I should accuse myself, were I to preserve any sentiment, however delicate its nature, that might tend to remove your present illusion. It is, I confess, with extreme reluctance--with real pain'--I trembled--my voice faultered, and I felt my colour vary--'that I constrain myself to acknowledge a hopeless, an extravagant'--I stopped, unable to proceed.

Fire flashed from his eyes, he started from his seat, and took two or three hasty strides across the room.

'I understand you, but too well--Augustus Harley shall dispute with me a prize'--

'Stop, Sir, be not unjust--make not an ungenerous return to the confidence I have reposed in you. Respect the violence which, on your account, I have done to my own feelings. I own, that I have not been able to defend my heart against the accomplishments and high qualities of Mr Harley--I respected his virtues and attainments, and, by a too easy transition--at length--_loved his person_. But my tenderness is a secret to all the world but yourself--It has not met with'--a burning blush suffused my cheek--'It has little hope of meeting, a return. To your _honor_ I have confided this cherished _secret_--dare you betray my confidence? I know, you dare not!'

He seemed affected--his mind appeared torn by a variety of conflicting emotions, that struggled for victory--he walked towards me, and again to the door, several times. I approached him--I gave him my hand--

'Adieu, Montague,' said I, in a softened accent--'Be a.s.sured of my sympathy--of my esteem--of my best wishes! When you can meet me with calmness, I shall rejoice to see you--_as a friend_. Amidst some excesses, I perceive the seeds of real worth in your character, cultivate them, they may yield a n.o.ble harvest. I shall not be forgetful of the distinction you have shewn me, _when almost a deserted orphan_--Once again--farewel, my friend, and--may G.o.d bless you!'

I precipitately withdrew my hand from his, and rushed out of the room. I retired to my chamber, and it was some hours before my spirits became sufficiently composed to allow me to rejoin my friends. On meeting them, Mrs Harley mentioned, with some surprize, the abrupt departure of Montague, who had quitted the house, without taking leave of its owners, by whom he had been so politely received.

'He is a fine young man,' added she, 'but appears to be very eccentric.'

Augustus was silent, but fixed his penetrating eyes on my face, with an expression that covered me with confusion.

CHAPTER XXV

The day fixed for the departure of Mr Harley, for London, now drew near--I had antic.i.p.ated this period with the most cruel inquietude. I was going to lose, perhaps for ever, my preceptor, my friend! He, from whom my mind had acquired knowledge, and in whose presence my heart had rested satisfied. I had hitherto scarcely formed a wish beyond that of daily beholding, and listening to him--I was now to gaze on that beloved countenance, to listen to those soothing accents, no longer. He was about to mix in the gay world--to lose in the hurry of business, or of pleasure, the remembrance of those tender, rational, tranquil, moments, sacred to virtue and friends.h.i.+p, that had left an indelible impression on my heart. Could I, indeed, flatter myself, that the idea of the timid, affectionate, Emma, would ever recur to his mind in the tumultuous scenes of the crouded metropolis, it would doubtless quickly be effaced, and lost in the multiplicity of engagements and avocations. How should I, buried in solitude and silence, recall it to his recollection, how contrive to mingle it with his thoughts, and entangle it with his a.s.sociations? Ah! did he but know my tenderness--_the desire of being beloved_, of inspiring sympathy, is congenial to the human heart--why should I hesitate to inform him of my affection--why do I blush and tremble at the mere idea? It is a false shame! It is a pernicious system of morals, which teaches us that hypocrisy can be virtue! He is well acquainted with the purity, and with the sincerity, of my heart--he will at least regard me with esteem and tender pity--and how often has 'pity melted the soul to love!' The experiment is, surely, innocent, and little hazardous. What I have to apprehend? Can I distrust, for a moment, those principles of rect.i.tude, of honour, of goodness, which gave birth to my affection? Have I not witnessed his humanity, have I not experienced his delicacy, in a thousand instances? Though he should be obliged to wound, he is incapable of insulting, the heart that loves him; and that, loving him, believed, alas! for a long time, _that it loved only virtue_!

The morning of our separation, at last, arrived. My friend, too much indisposed to attend the breakfast table, took leave of her son in her own apartment. I awaited him, in the library, with a beating heart, and, on his departure, put into his hands a paper.--

'Read it not,' said I, in a low and almost inarticulate tone of voice, 'till arrived at the end of your journey; or, at least, till you are ten miles from hence.'

He received it in silence; but it was a silence more expressive than words.

'Suffer me,' it said, 'for a few moments, to solicit your candour and attention. You are the only man in the world, to whom I could venture to confide sentiments, that to many would be inconceivable; and by those, who are unacquainted with the human mind, and the variety of circ.u.mstances by which characters are variously impressed and formed--who are accustomed to consider mankind in ma.s.ses--who have been used to bend implicitly, to custom and prescription--the deviation of a solitary individual from _rules_ sanctioned by usage, by prejudice, by expediency, would be regarded as romantic. I frankly avow, while my cheeks glow with the blushes of _modesty_, not of shame, that your virtues and accomplishments have excited in my bosom an affection, as pure as the motives which gave it birth, and as animated as it is pure.--This ingenuous avowal may perhaps affect, but will scarcely (I suspect) surprise, you; for, incapable of dissimulation, the emotions of my mind are ever but too apparent in my expressions, and in my conduct, to deceive a less penetrating eye than yours--neither have I been solicitous to disguise them.

'It has been observed, that,' "the strength of an affection is generally in the same proportion, as the character of the species, in the object beloved, is lost in that of the individual,"[5] and, that individuality of character is the only fastener of the affections. It is certain, however singular it may appear, that many months before we became personally acquainted, the report of your worth and high qualities had generated in my mind, an esteem and reverence, which has gradually ripened into a tenderness, that has, at length, mixed itself with all my a.s.sociations, and is become interwoven with every fibre of my heart.

[Footnote 5: Wolstonecraft's Rights of Woman.]

'I have reflected, again and again, on the imprudence of cheris.h.i.+ng an attachment, which a variety of circ.u.mstances combine to render so unpromising, and--What shall I say?--So peculiar is the const.i.tution of my mind, that those very circ.u.mstances have had a tendency directly opposite to what might reasonably have been expected; and have only served to render the sentiment, I have delighted to foster, more affecting and interesting.--Yes! I am aware of the tenure upon which you retain your fortunes--of the cruel and unnatural conditions imposed on you by the capricious testator: neither can I require a sacrifice which I am unable to recompence. But while these melancholy convictions deprive me of hope, they encourage me, by proving the disinterestedness of my attachment, to relieve my heart by communication.--Mine is a whimsical pride, which dreads nothing so much as the imputation of sordid, or sinister motives. Remember, then--should we never meet again--if in future periods you should find, that the friends.h.i.+p of the world is--"a shade that follows wealth and fame;"--if, where you have conferred obligations, you are repaid with ingrat.i.tude--where you have placed confidence, with treachery--and where you have a claim to zeal, with coldness!

Remember, _that you have once been beloved, for yourself alone_, by one, who, in contributing to the comfort of your life, would have found the happiness of her own.

'Is it possible that a mind like yours, neither hardened by prosperity, nor debased by fas.h.i.+onable levity--which vice has not corrupted, nor ignorance brutalized--can be wholly insensible to the balmy sweetness, which natural, unsophisticated, affections, shed through the human heart?

"Shall those by heaven's own influence join'd, By feeling, sympathy, and mind, The sacred voice of truth deny, And mock the mandate of the sky?"

'But I check my pen:--I am no longer--

"The hope-flush'd enterer on the stage of life."

'The dreams of youth, chaced by premature reflection, have given place to soberer, to sadder, conclusions; and while I acknowledge, that it would be inexpressibly soothing to me to believe, that in happier circ.u.mstances, my artless affection might have awakened in your mind a sympathetic tenderness:--this is the extent of my hopes!--I recollect you once told me "It was our duty to make our reason conquer the sensibility of our heart." Yet, why? Is, then, apathy the perfection of our nature--and is not that nature refined and harmonized by the gentle and social affections? The Being who gave to the mind its reason, gave also to the heart its sensibility.

'I make no apologies for, because I feel no consciousness of, weakness. An attachment sanctioned by nature, reason, and virtue, enn.o.ble the mind capable of conceiving and cheris.h.i.+ng it: of such an attachment a corrupt heart is utterly incapable.

'You may tell me, perhaps, "that the portrait on which my fancy has dwelt enamoured, owes all its graces, its glowing colouring--like the ideal beauty of the ancient artists--to the imagination capable of sketching the dangerous picture."--Allowing this, for a moment, _the sentiments it inspires are not the less genuine_; and without some degree of illusion, and enthusiasm, all that refines, exalts, softens, embellishes, life--genius, virtue, love itself, languishes. But, on this subject, my opinions have not been lightly formed:--it is not to the personal graces, though "the body charms, because the mind is seen," but to the virtues and talents of the individual (for without intellect, virtue is an empty name), that my heart does homage; and, were I never again to behold you--were you even the husband of another--my tenderness (a tenderness as innocent as it is lively) would never cease!

'But, methinks, I hear you say,--"Whither does all this tend, and what end does it propose?" Alas! this is a question I scarcely dare to ask myself!--Yet, allow me to request, that you will make me one promise, and resolve me one question:--ah! do not evade this enquiry; for much it imports me to have an explicit reply, lest, in indulging my own feelings, I should, unconsciously, plant a thorn in the bosom of another:--_Is your heart, at present, free?_ Or should you, in future, form a tender engagement, tell me, that I shall receive the first intimation of it from yourself; and, in the a.s.surance of your happiness, I will learn to forget my own.