He was therefore summoned to their lodgings by a note from Emmeline, who on his arrival introduced him to Mrs. Stafford, and left them together; when, with as much tenderness as possible, and mingling with the mortifying detail many representations of the necessity there was for his conquering his resentment, she at length concluded it; watching anxiously the changes in Godolphin’s countenance, which sometimes expressed only pity and affection for his sister, sometimes rage and indignation against Fitz-Edward.
Both the brothers of Lady Adelina had been accustomed to consider her with peculiar fondness. The unfortunate circumstance of her losing her mother immediately after her birth, seemed to have given her a melancholy title to their tenderness; and the resemblance she bore to that dear mother, whom they both remembered, and on whose memory their father dwelt with undiminished regret, endeared her to them still more. To these united claims on the heart and the protection of William Godolphin, another was added equally forcible, in a letter written by his father with the trembling hand of anxious solicitude, when he felt himself dying, and when, looking back with lingering affection on the children of her whom he hoped soon to rejoin, he saw with anguish his youngest daughter liable from her situation to deviate into indiscretion, and surrounded by the numberless dangers which attend on a young and beautiful woman, whose husband has neither talents to attach her affections or judgment to direct her actions. Lord Westhaven, conscious of her hazardous circumstances, and feeling in his last moments the keenest anguish, in knowing that his mistaken care had exposed her to them, hoped, by interesting both her brothers to watch over her, that he should obviate the dangers he apprehended. He had therefore, in all their conversations, recommended her to his eldest son; and as he was not happy enough to embrace the younger before he died, had addressed to him a last letter on the same subject.
Such were the powerful ties that bound Mr. Godolphin to love and defend Lady Adelina with more than a brother’s fondness. Hastening therefore to obey the dying injunctions of his father, and in the hope of rendering the life of this beloved sister, if not happy, at least honourable and contented, he had heard, that she had clandestinely absented herself from her family, and after a long search had found her abandoned to remorse and despair; her reputation blasted; her health ruined; her intellects disordered; and all by the perfidy of a man, in whom he, from long friendship, and his sister, from family connection, had placed unbounded confidence.
Tho’ Godolphin had one of the best tempers in the world — a temper which the roughness of those among whom he lived had only served to soften and humanize, and which was immovable by the usual accidents that ruffle others, yet he had also in a great excess all those keen feelings, which fill a heart of extreme sensibility; added to a courage, that in the hour of danger had been proved to be as cool as it was undaunted. Of him might be said what was the glorious praise of immortal Bayard — that he was ‘sans peur et sans reproche;’ and educated with a high sense of honour himself, as well as possessing a heart calculated to enjoy, and a hand to defend, the unblemished dignity of his family, all his passions were roused and awakened by the injury it had sustained from Fitz-Edward, and he beheld him as a monster whom it was infamy to forgive. Hardly therefore had Mrs. Stafford concluded her distressing recital, than, as if commanding himself by a violent effort, he thanked her warmly yet incoherently for her unexampled goodness to his sister, recommended her still to her generous care, and the friendship of Miss Mowbray, and without any threat against Fitz-Edward, or even a comment on what he had heard, arose to depart. But Mrs. Stafford, more alarmed by this determined tho’ quiet resentment and by the expression of his countenance than if he had burst into exclamations and menaces, perceived that the crisis was now come when he must either be persuaded to conquer his just resentment, or by giving it way destroy, while he attempted to revenge, the fame of his sister.
She besought him therefore to sit down a moment; and when he had done so, she told him, that if he really thought himself under any obligations to Miss Mowbray or to her for the services they had been so fortunate as to render Lady Adelina, his making all they had been doing ineffectual, would be a most mortifying return; and such must be the case, if he rashly flew to seek vengeance on Fitz-Edward: ‘for that you have such a design,’ continued she, ‘I have no doubt; allow me, however, to suppose that I have, by doing your sister some good offices, acquired a right to speak of her affairs.’
‘Surely,’ answered Mr. Godolphin, ‘you have; and surely I must hear with respect and attention, tho’ possibly not with conviction, every opinion with which you may honour me.’
She then represented to him, with all the force of reason, how little he could remedy the evil by hazarding his own life or by taking that of Fitz-Edward.
‘At present,’ continued she, ‘the secret is known only to me, Miss Mowbray, and Lady Adelina’s woman; if it is farther exposed, the heirs of Mr. Trelawny, who are so deeply interested, will undoubtedly take measures to prove that the infant has no just claim to the estate they so eagerly expect. Mr. Trelawny’s sister has already entertained suspicions, which the least additional information would give her grounds to pursue, and the whole affair must then inevitably become public. Surely this consideration alone should determine you — why then need I urge others equally evident and equally forcible.’
Godolphin acknowledged that there was much of truth in the arguments she used; but denied that any consideration should influence him to forgive the man who had thus basely and ungenerously betrayed the confidence of his family.
‘However,’ added he again, checking the heat into which he feared a longer conversation on this subject might betray him— ‘I have not yet, Madam, absolutely formed the resolution of which you seem so apprehensive; and am indeed too cruelly hurt to be able to talk longer on the subject. Suffer me therefore once more to bid you a good day!’
But the encreasing gloom of his countenance, and forced calm of his manner, appeared to be symptoms so unfavourable, that Mrs. Stafford thought there was no hope of being able to prevent an immediate and fatal meeting between him and Fitz-Edward but by engaging him in a promise at least to delay it; this she attempted by the most earnest arguments, and the most pressing persuasions; but all she could obtain was an assurance that he would remain at Bath ‘till the next day, and see her again in the evening.
In the mean time the delirium of Lady Adelina, (which had recurred at intervals ever since the transient sight she had of her brother) more frequently, and with more alarming symptoms, returned; and the fever which had at first threatened the loss of her life, now seemed to be fixing on her brain, and to menace, by a total deprivation of reason, reducing her to a condition to which death itself must be preferable. She still, even in her wildest wanderings, knew Emmeline, and still caressed her little boy; but much of her time passed in incoherent and rambling discourse; in which she talked of Fitz-Edward and her brother William, and held with them both imaginary dialogues. Sometimes she deprecated the wrath of her elder brother: and then her disordered fancy ran to the younger; to him from whom she had, in her early life, found pity and protection in all her little sorrows.
Mrs. Stafford thought it too hazardous to let her again see her brother, while her intellects were thus disarranged; as she trembled lest she should start into actual madness. But it was absolutely necessary to do something; not only because Mr. Godolphin’s impatience made every delay dangerous, but because it was hardly possible to keep the secret from the physicians and attendants, who had already heard much more than they ought to have known.
She determined, therefore, after consulting with Emmeline, to introduce Godolphin into the room adjoining to that where Lady Adelina now sat some hours every day in an easy chair. The affecting insanity of his unhappy sister, and the mournful and pathetic entreaties she frequently used, were likely, in the opinion of the fair friends, to effectuate more than their most earnest persuasions; and prevail on him to drop all thoughts of that resentment,
which could not cure but might encrease her calamities.
Mrs. Stafford had heard from him, that he gained information as to the place of his sister’s residence from the mother of Lady Adelina’s woman; who being the reduced widow of a clergyman, resided in the Bishop’s alms-houses at Bromley, where her daughter frequently sent her such assistance as her own œconomy, or the bounty of her lady, enabled her to supply. A few weeks before, she had sent her a note for ten pounds; and not apprehending that an enquiry would be made of her, had desired her to acknowledge the receipt of it, and direct to her at Bath, where she said her lady was with a Miss Mowbray.
Lady Clancarryl, among many expedients to recover traces of her sister, had at length recollected this widow, and had desired Mr. Godolphin to make immediate enquiry of her.
He had hastened therefore to Bromley, and easily found the poor woman, who was paralytic and almost childish. Her letters were read for her by one of her neighbours; a person, who, being present at the arrival of Mr. Godolphin, immediately found that something was to be got; and busily put into his hands the very letter which had enclosed the note, and which contained the direction.
He eagerly copied the address; and leaving a handsome present for the use of the old widow, he delayed not a moment to set out for Bath, where he soon found the house, and where he had enquired for Lady Adelina Trelawny.
The servant of the house who opened the door assured him no such person was there. He supposed that for some reason or other she was denied; and insisting on being allowed to go up stairs, had entered the room in the abrupt manner which had so greatly alarmed his sister.
In hopes of counteracting the fatal effects of the discovery which had unavoidably followed this interview, Godolphin was, on his return in the afternoon, introduced into the dining-room, which opened into Lady Adelina’s bed-chamber. The door was a-jar; the partition thin; and Mrs. Stafford was pretty well assured that the poor patient would be heard distinctly. Godolphin came in, pale from the conflict of his mind; and all his features expressed anger and sorrow, with which he seemed vainly struggling. He bowed, and sat down in silence.
Mrs. Stafford only was in the room; and as soon as he was seated, said, in a low voice, yet with forced chearfulness —
‘Well, Sir, I hope that Miss Mowbray and myself have prevailed on you to drop at present every other design than the truly generous one of healing the wounded heart of our fair unfortunate friend.’
‘And shall he who has wounded it,’ slowly and sternly replied Godolphin— ‘shall he who has wounded it so basely, escape me?’
At this instant Lady Adelina, who had been some time silent, exclaimed hastily— ‘Oh! spare him! my dear brother! and spare your poor Adelina! who will not trouble — who will not disgrace you long!’
‘Where is she?’ said Godolphin, starting— ‘Good God! what is it I hear?’
‘Your unhappy sister,’ answered Mrs. Stafford; ‘whom the idea of your determined vengeance has already driven to distraction.’
Again Lady Adelina spoke. Her brother listened in breathless anguish.
‘Ah! William! — and are you grown cruel? You, on whom I depended for pity and protection?’
‘Surely,’ said he, ‘surely she knows I am here?’
‘No,’ answered Mrs. Stafford, ‘she knows nothing. But this fear has incessantly pursued her; and since she saw you she dwells more frequently on it, tho’ her erring memory sometimes wanders to other objects.’
‘It is very true, my Lord!’ cried Lady Adelina, with affected calmness, her thoughts wavering again towards Lord Westhaven— ‘It is all very true! I have deserved all your reproaches! I am ready to make all the atonement I can! Then you will both of you, my brothers, be satisfied — for William has told me that if I died he should be content, for then all might be forgotten.’ She ended with a deep sigh; and Godolphin, wildly starting from his seat, said —
‘This is too much! you cannot expect me to bear this! — let me go to her!’
‘Would you go then,’ answered Mrs. Stafford, ‘to confirm her fears and to drive her to deeper desperation? If you see her, it must be to soothe and comfort her; to assure her of your forgiveness, and that you will bury your resentment against — —’
‘Accursed! doubly accursed be the infamous villain who has driven her to this! And must I bear it tamely! Oh! injured memory of my father! — oh! my poor, undone sister!’ He walked about the room; the tears ran from his eyes; and Mrs. Stafford, fearing that his hurried step and deep sobs would be heard by Lady Adelina, determined to bring the scene to a crisis and not to lose the influence she hoped she had gained on his mind. She therefore went into the other room, and shutting the door, advanced with a smile towards the lovely lunatic.
‘What will you say, my dear Adelina, if I bring you the best news you can possibly hear?’
‘News!’ repeated Lady Adelina, looking at her with eyes which too plainly denoted her unsettled mind— ‘News! — Ah! dear Madam! I know very well that all the world is happy but me; and if you are happy, I am very glad; but as to me — Do you indeed think it is reasonable I should part with him?’
‘With whom?’ said Mrs. Stafford.
‘Why, one condition which they insist upon is, that I should give up my poor little one to them, and never ask to see him again. William was the most urgent for this — William, who used to be so good, so gentle, so compassionate to every body! Alas! he is now more cruel and relentless than the rest!’
‘So far from it,’ said Mrs. Stafford, ‘your brother William loves you as much as ever; he will come and tell you so himself if you will only be composed, and talk less strangely.’
‘To see me!’ exclaimed she, as if suddenly recovering her recollection— ‘Oh! when? — where? — how?’
But again it forsook her; and she continued —
‘Ah! he comes perhaps to tell me of the blood he has spilt, and to load me with reproaches for having obliged him to destroy a friend whom he once loved. If that is indeed so, why let him come and plunge another dagger in this poor heart, which has always loved him!’
She was silent a moment, and then languidly went on —
‘I thought some time since that I saw him, and Miss Mowbray was with him; but it was only a dream, for I know he is in Jamaica: and when he does come home, he will harden his heart against me — he will be my judge, and sternly will he judge me — he will forget that he is my brother!’
‘Never! my poor Adelina,’ cried Godolphin, rushing into the room, ‘never can I forget that I am your brother — never can I cease to feel for you compassion and tenderness.’
He would have taken her in his arms; but struck by the dreadful alteration that appeared in her face and figure, he stopt short, and looking at her with silent horror, seemed incapable of uttering what he felt.
She knew him; but could neither speak or shed a tear for some moments. At length, she held out to him her emaciated hand.
‘It is indeed William!’ said she. ‘He seems, too, very sorry for me. My dear brother, do you then pardon and pity the poor Adelina?’
‘Both! both!’ answered Godolphin, sobbing, and seating himself by her. He threw his arms round her, and her pale cheek rested on his bosom, while her eyes were fixed on his face.
‘Stay!’ exclaimed she, after a momentary pause, and disengaging herself suddenly from him— ‘Stay! I have yet another question, if I dared ask it! Do you know all? and have you no blood to answer for, on my account? Will you assure me you will not seek it?’
‘For mercy’s sake!’ said Mrs. Stafford, ‘satisfy her, Mr. Godolphin — satisfy her at once — you see to what is owing this alienation of her reason.’
‘No,’ reassumed the afflicted Adelina, ‘you need not answer me; I see you cannot — will not forgive — —’
‘Name him not, Adelina!’ sternly and quickly answered he— ‘my soul recoils at his idea! I cannot, I will not promise any thing!’
At this period, Emmeline, who was unw
illing to trust the servants in such a moment, entered with the infant of Lady Adelina sleeping in her arms.
‘See,’ said Mrs. Stafford, ‘a little unfortunate creature, whose innocence must surely plead forcibly to you: he comes to join our intreaties to you to spare his mother!’
Emmeline laid the infant in the lap of Lady Adelina, who was yet unable to shed a tear. Godolphin beheld it with mingled horror and pity; but the latter sentiment seemed to predominate; and Emmeline, whose voice was calculated to go to the heart, began to try it’s influence; and imploring him to be calm, and to promise his sister an eternal oblivion of the past, she urged every argument that should convince him of it’s necessity, and every motive that could affect his reason or his compassion.
He gazed on her with reverence and admiration while she spoke, and seemed greatly affected by what she said. Animated by the hope of success, her eyes were lightened up with new brilliancy, and her glowing cheeks and expressive features became more than ever attractive. A convulsive laugh from Lady Adelina interrupted her, and drew the attention of Godolphin entirely to his sister. Emmeline, who saw her reason again forsaking her, took the sleeping baby from her lap. She had hardly done so, before, trying to rise from her chair, she shrieked aloud — for again the image of Fitz-Edward, dying by the hand of her brother, was before her.
‘See!’ cried she, ‘see! there he lies! — he is already expiring! yet William forgives him not! What? would you strike him again? now! while he is dying? — Go! cruel, cruel brother!’ attempting to put Godolphin from her— ‘Go! — Oh! touch me not with those polluted hands, they are stained with human blood!’ A convulsive shudder and a deep sigh seemed to exhaust all her remaining strength, and she fell back in her chair, pale and faint; and with fixed, unmeaning eyes, appeared no longer conscious even of the terrors which pursued her.
Charlotte Smith- Collected Poetical Works Page 62
