‘She cannot walk,’ cried Fitz-Edward, ‘yet will not let me support her. Will you, Miss Mowbray, accept my arm; perhaps it may enable you to guide better the faultering steps of your friend.’
Emmeline thought that at all events it was better to get her into the house; and therefore taking, in silence, the arm that Fitz-Edward offered her, she proceeded across the lawn. Lady Adelina appeared to exert herself. She quickened her pace a little; and they were soon at a small gate, which opened in a wire fence near the house to keep the cattle immediately from the windows. Here Emmeline determined to make another effort on Fitz-Edward to persuade him to leave them.
‘Now,’ said she, ‘we shall do very well. Had you not better quit us?’
He seemed disposed to obey; when Mrs. Barret, who had seen them from the door, where she had been watching the return of her lady, advanced hastily towards them, and said to Emmeline— ‘Dear Ma’am, I am so glad you and my lady are come in! The Captain is quite frightened at your being out so late.’
‘The Captain!’ exclaimed Emmeline.
‘Yes, Ma’am, the Captain has been come in about two minutes; he is but just seeing Master Godolphin, and then was coming out to meet you.’
‘Take hold of your lady, Barret,’ cried Emmeline. Barret ran forward. But Lady Adelina (whom the terror of her brother’s return at such a moment had again entirely overcome), was already lifeless in the arms of Fitz-Edward; and Emmeline, whose first idea was to go in and prevent Godolphin from coming out to meet them, could get no farther than the door; where, breathless and almost senseless, she was only prevented from falling by leaning against one of the pillars.
‘Your lady is in a fainting fit, Mrs. Barret,’ said Fitz-Edward; ‘pray assist her.’
The woman at once knew his voice, and saw the situation of her lady; and terrified both by the one and the other, screamed aloud. Godolphin, caressing his nephew in the parlour, heard not the shriek; but a footman who was crossing the hall ran out; and flying by Emmeline, ran to the group beyond her; where, as Mrs. Barret still wildly called for help for Lady Adelina, he proposed to Fitz-Edward to carry her ladyship into the house, which they together immediately did.
This was what Emmeline most dreaded. But there was no time for remonstrance. As they passed her at the door, she put her hand upon Fitz-Edward’s arm, and cried— ‘Oh! stop! for God’s sake stop!’
‘Why stop?’ said he. ‘No! nothing shall now detain me; I am determined, and must go on!’ She saw, indeed, that Godolphin’s being in the house only made him more obstinately bent to enter it.
The door of the parlour now opened; and Godolphin saw, with astonishment inexpressible, his sister, to all appearance dead, in the arms of Fitz-Edward; and Emmeline, as pale and almost as lifeless, following her; who silently, and with fixed eyes, sat down near the door.
‘What can be the meaning of this?’ exclaimed Godolphin. ‘Miss Mowbray! — my Emmeline! — my Adelina!’
The child, with whom Godolphin had been at play, reached out his little arms to Lady Adelina, whom they had placed on a sopha. Godolphin sat him down upon it; and not knowing where to fix his own attention, he looked wildly, first at his sister, and then at Emmeline; while Fitz-Edward, totally regardless of him, knelt by the side of Lady Adelina, and surveyed her and the little boy with an expression impossible to be described.
‘For mercy’s sake tell me,’ Godolphin, as he took the cold and trembling hands of Emmeline in his— ‘for mercy’s sake tell me what all this means? Is my sister, my poor Adelina dead?’
‘I hope not!’
‘You are yourself almost terrified to death. Your hands tremble. Tell me, I conjure you tell me, what you have met with, and to what is owing the extraordinary appearance of Mr. Fitz-Edward here?’
‘That, or any farther enquiry Mr. Godolphin has to make, which may relate to me,’ said Fitz-Edward sternly, ‘I shall be ready at any other time to answer; but now it appears more necessary to attend to this dear injured creature!’
‘Injured, Sir!’ cried Godolphin, turning angrily towards him— ‘Do you come hither to tell me your crimes, or to triumph in their consequence?’
‘Oh! for the love of heaven!’ said Emmeline, with all the strength she could collect, ‘let this proceed no farther. Consider,’ added she, lowering her voice, ‘the servants are in the room. Reflect on the consequence of what you say.’
‘Let every body but Barret go out,’ said Godolphin aloud.
The child, whose usual hour of going to rest was already past, had crept up to his mother, heedless of the people who surrounded her, and had dropped asleep on her bosom.
‘Should I take Master, Sir?’ enquired the nursery maid of Godolphin.
‘Leave him!’ answered he, fiercely.
Excess of terror now operated to restore, in some measure, to Emmeline the presence of mind it had deprived her of. She found it absolutely necessary to exert herself; and advancing towards Lady Adelina, by whose side Fitz-Edward still knelt, she took one of her hands— ‘I hope,’ said she to Barret, your lady is coming to; she is less pale, and her pulse is returning. Colonel Fitz-Edward, would it not be better for you now to leave us?’
‘I must first speak to Lady Adelina.’
‘Impossible! you cannot speak to her to-night.’
‘Nor can I leave her, Madam, unless she herself dismisses me. — Leave her, thus weak and languid, to meet perhaps on my account reproach and unkindness!’
‘Reproach and unkindness! Mr. Fitz-Edward,’ said Godolphin, in a passionate tone— ‘Reproach and unkindness! Do me the favour to say from whom you apprehend she may receive such treatment?’
‘From the cruel and unrelenting brother, who has persisted in wishing to divide us, even after heaven itself has removed the barrier between us.’
‘Sir,’ replied Godolphin, with a stern calmness— ‘in this house, and in Miss Mowbray’s presence, you may say any thing with impunity, and I may bear this language even from the faithless destroyer of my sister.’
Fitz-Edward now starting from his knees, looked the defiance he was about to utter, when Lady Adelina drew a deep and loud sigh, and Barret exclaimed— ‘For God’s sake, gentlemen, do not go on with these high words. My lady is coming to; but this sort of discourse will throw her again into her fits worse than ever. Pray let me entreat of you both to be pacified.’
‘I insist upon it,’ said Emmeline, ‘that you are calm, or it will not be in my power to stay. I must leave you, indeed I must, Mr. Godolphin! if you would not see me expire with terror, and entirely kill your sister, you must be cool.’ She was indeed again deprived nearly of her breath and recollection by the fear of their instantly flying to extremities.
Lady Adelina now opened her eyes and looked round her. But there was wildness and horror in them; and she seemed rather to see the objects, than to have any idea of who were with her.
The child, however, was always present to her. ‘My dear boy here?’ cried she, faintly; ‘poor fellow, he is asleep!’
‘Shall I take him from you, Ma’am?’ asked her woman.
‘Oh! no! I will put him to bed myself.’ She then again reposed her head as if fatigued, and sighed. ’Twas all,’ said she, ‘long foreseen. But destiny, they say, must be fulfilled, and fate will have it’s way. I wish I had not been the cause of his death, however.’
‘Of whose death, dear Madam?’ said Barret. ‘Nobody is dead; nobody indeed.’
‘Did I not hear him groan, and see him die? did not he tell me, I know not what, of my Lord Westhaven? I shall remember it all distinctly to-morrow!’
She now rested again, profoundly sighing; and Emmeline beckoning to Fitz-Edward and Godolphin, took them to the other end of the room, where the arm of the sopha she reclined on concealed them from her view. ‘Pray,’ said she, addressing herself to them both, ‘pray leave her.’ Then recollecting that she dared not trust them together, she added— ‘No, don’t both go at once. But indeed it is absolutely necessary to have
her kept quite quiet and got to bed as soon as possible.’
‘I believe it is,’ answered Godolphin. ‘Poor Adelina! her dreadful malady is returned.’
‘It is indeed,’ said Emmeline. ‘I have seen it too evidently approaching for some days; and this last shock’ — she stopped, and repented she had said so much.
‘Mr. Fitz-Edward,’ cried Godolphin, ‘will you walk with me into another room?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Oh! no! no!’ exclaimed Emmeline with quickness.
They were going out together; but taking an arm of each, she eagerly repeated ‘oh! no! no! not together!’
The imagination of Lady Adelina was now totally disordered. She had risen; and carrying the child in her arms, walked towards her brother, who in traversing the apartment with uneasy steps was by this time near the door; while Fitz-Edward was at the other end of the room, where Emmeline was trying to persuade him to quit the house.
Lady Adelina, supported by her maid, and trembling under the weight of the infant she clasped to her bosom, stepped along as quickly as her weakness would allow; and putting her hand on Godolphin’s arm, she cried, in a slow and tremulous manner— ‘Stay, William! I have something to say to you before you go. Lord Westhaven, you know, is coming; and you have promised that he shall not kill me. I may however die; and I rather believe I shall; for since this last sight I am strangely ill. You and Emmeline will take care of my poor boy, will ye not? Had Fitz-Edward lived — nay do not look so angry, for now he cannot offend you — had poor Fitz-Edward lived, he would perhaps have taken him. But now, I must depend on Emmeline, who has promised to be good to him. They say she will have a great fortune too, and therefore I need not fear that you will find my child burthensome.’
‘Burthensome!’ cried Godolphin. ‘Good God, Adelina!’
‘Well! well! be not offended. Only you know, when people come to have a family of their own, the child of another may be reckoned an incumbrance. I know that now you love my William dearly; but then, you know, it will be another thing.’
‘Gracious heaven!’ exclaimed Godolphin, ‘what can have made her talk in this manner?’
‘Reason in madness!’ said Fitz-Edward, advancing towards her. ‘Her son, however, shall be an incumbrance to nobody.’
Emmeline now grasping his hand, implored him not to speak to her. Lady Adelina neither heard or noticed him: but again addressing herself to her brother, said, with a mournful sigh— ‘And now, since I have told you what was upon my mind, I will go put my little boy to bed. Good night to you, dear William! You and Miss Mowbray will remember! — —’ She then walked out of the room, and calmly took the way to her own, attended by her maid.
Emmeline, not daring to leave together these two ardent spirits irritated against each other, remained, trembling, with them; hoping by her presence to prevent their animosity from blazing forth, and to prevail upon them to part. They both continued for some time to traverse the room in gloomy silence. At length Fitz-Edward stopped, and said— ‘At what hour to-morrow, Sir, may I have the honour of some conversation with you?’
‘At whatever hour you please, Sir — the earlier, however, the more agreeable.’
‘At seven o’clock, Sir, I will be with you.’
‘If you please; at that hour I will be ready to receive your commands.’
Fitz-Edward then took his hat, and bowing to Emmeline, wished her a good night, and left the room. Starting from her chair, she followed him into the hall, and shut the parlour door after her.
‘Fitz-Edward,’ cried she, detaining him, and speaking in an half whisper— ‘Fitz-Edward, hear me! Do you design to kill me?’
‘To kill you?’ replied he. ‘No surely.’
‘Then do not go till you have heard me.’
‘It is unpleasant to me to stay in Godolphin’s house after what has just passed. But as you please.’
She led him into a little breakfast room; and regardless of being without light, shut the door.
‘Tell me,’ said she, ‘before I die with terror — tell me with what intention you come to-morrow?’
‘Simply to have a positive answer from Mr. Godolphin, if he will, together with his brother, allow me, when the usual mourning is over, to address their sister with proposals of marriage; which in fact they have no right to prevent. And if Mr. Godolphin refuses — —’
‘What, if he refuses?’
‘I shall take my son into my own care, and wait till Lady Adelina will herself exert that freedom which is now her’s.’
‘Godolphin doats on the child. Nothing, I am persuaded, will induce him to part with it.’
‘Not part with it? He must, nay he shall!’
‘Pray be calm — pray be quiet. Stay yet a few months — a few weeks.’
‘Not a day! Not an hour!’
‘Good God! what can be done? Mischief will inevitably happen!’
‘I am sorry,’ replied Fitz-Edward, ‘that you are thus made uneasy. But I cannot recede; and my life has not been pleasant enough lately to make me very solicitous about the event of my explanation with Mr. Godolphin. Conscious, however, that he has some reason to complain of me, I do not wish to increase it. I mean to keep my temper, if I can: but if he suffers his to pass the bounds which one gentleman must observe towards another, I shall not consider myself as the aggressor, or as answerable for the consequences.’
‘But why, oh! why would you come hither? Wherefore traverse the garden of a night, and suffer appearances to be so much against you, and what is yet worse, against Lady Adelina?’
‘Who told you I have done so — Godolphin?’
‘No. He was, you well know, absent. But I saw you myself; with terror I saw you, and meditated how to speak to you alone, when our unhappy meeting in the wood this evening put an end to all my contrivances.’
‘Yet I had no intention of terrifying you, or of abruptly rushing into the presence of Adelina. It is true, that for some nights past I have walked under the window where she and my child sleep: for I could not sleep; and it was a sort of melancholy enjoyment to me to be near the spot which held all I have dear on earth. As I pass at the ale house where I lodge as a person hiding in this island from the pursuit of creditors, my desire of concealment did not appear extraordinary. I have often lingered among the rocks and copses, and seen Adelina and my child with you. Last night I came out in the dusk, and was approaching, to conceal myself near the house, in hopes, that as you love walking late, and alone, I might have found an opportunity of speaking to you, and of concerting with you the means of introducing myself to her without too great an alarm.’
‘Would to heaven you had! But now, since all this has happened, consent to put off this meeting with Godolphin. Do not meet, at least, to-morrow! I entreat that you will not!’
‘On all subjects but this,’ said he, as he opened the door— ‘on all subjects but this, Miss Mowbray knows she may command me. But this is a point from which I cannot, without infamy, recede; and in which she must forgive me, if all my veneration and esteem for her goodness and tenderness does not induce me to desist.’
He then went into the hall; and by the lamp which burnt there, opened himself the door into the garden, and hastily walked away. While the trembling and harrassed Emmeline, finding him inflexible, went back to Godolphin, with very little hopes that she should, with him, have better success.
CHAPTER XIII
On entering the room, Emmeline sat down without speaking.
‘How is Adelina, my dearest Miss Mowbray?’
‘I know not.’
‘You have not, then, been with her?’
‘No.’
‘Were it not best to enquire after her?’
‘Certainly. I will go immediately.’
‘But come to me again — I have much to say to you.’
Emmeline then went up stairs. She found that the composing medicine, which Barret had been directed to keep always by her, had been liberally administered; and that h
er lady was got into bed, and was already asleep. Barret sat by her. Deep sighs and convulsive catchings marked the extreme agitation of her spirits after she was no longer conscious of it herself. With this account Emmeline returned, in great uneasiness, to Godolphin.
‘I thank Heaven,’ said he, ‘that she is at least for some moments insensible of pain! Now, my Emmeline, for surely I may be allowed to say my Emmeline, sit down and try to compose yourself. I cannot bear to see you thus pale and trembling.’
He led her to a seat, and placed himself by her; gazing with extreme concern on her face, pallid as it was, and expressive only of sorrow and anxiety.
‘Whence is it,’ said she, after a pause of some moments, that I see you here? Did I not come hither on the assurance you gave me that you would long be detained in or near London by the business of your sister?’
‘I certainly did say so. But I could not then foresee what happened on the Sunday after you left London.’
‘Has, then, any thing happened?’
‘The return of Lord and Lady Westhaven, with Lord Delamere.’
‘Are they all well?’
‘Tolerably so. But my brother is very anxious to see Adelina; and expects you with little less solicitude. He could not think of giving Lady Westhaven the trouble of such a journey; nor could he now leave her without being unhappy. I therefore, at his pressing request, came myself to fetch you both to London.’
‘And do you mean that we should begin our journey to-morrow?’
‘I meant it, certainly, till the events of this evening made me doubtful how far my sister herself may be in a situation to bear change of place and variety of objects; or being able, whether she may chuse to leave to me the direction of her actions.’
‘Ah! impute not to Lady Adelina the meeting with Fitz-Edward; it was entirely accidental; it’s suddenness overcame her, and threw her into the way in which you saw her.’
‘And what has a man to answer for, who thus comes to insult his victim, and to rob her of the little tranquillity time may have restored to her?’
Charlotte Smith- Collected Poetical Works Page 87
