Waverley; Or, 'Tis Sixty Years Since

by Walter Scott

  CHAPTER LV

  A BRAVE MAN IN SORROW

  If my fair readers should be of opinion that my hero's levity in loveis altogether unpardonable, I must remind them that all his griefs anddifficulties did not arise from that sentimental source. Even the lyricpoet, who complains so feelingly of the pains of love, could not forget,that, at the same time, he was 'in debt and in drink,' which, doubtless,were great aggravations of his distress. There were indeed whole days inwhich Waverley thought neither of Flora nor Rose Bradwardine, but whichwere spent in melancholy conjectures on the probable state of matters atWaverley-Honour, and the dubious issue of the civil contest in which hewas pledged. Colonel Talbot often engaged him in discussions uponthe justice of the cause he had espoused. 'Not,' he said, 'that it ispossible for you to quit it at this present moment, for, come what will,you must stand by your rash engagement. But I with you to be awarethat the right is not with you; that you are fighting against the realinterests of your country; and that you ought, as an Englishman and apatriot, to take the first opportunity to leave this unhappy expeditionbefore the snowball melts.'

  In such political disputes, Waverley usually opposed the commonarguments of his party, with which it is unnecessary to trouble thereader. But he had little to say when the Colonel urged him to comparethe strength by which they had undertaken to overthrow the Government,with that which was now assembling very rapidly for its support. To thisstatement Waverley had but one answer: 'If the cause I have undertakenbe perilous, there would be the greater disgrace in abandoning it.'And in his turn he generally silenced Colonel Talbot, and succeeded inchanging the subject.

  One night, when, after a long dispute of this nature, the friendshad separated, and our hero had retired to bed, he was awakened aboutmidnight by a suppressed groan. He started up and listened; it came fromthe apartment of Colonel Talbot, which was divided from his own by awainscoted partition, with a door of communication. Waverley approachedthis door, and distinctly heard one or two deep-drawn sighs. What couldbe the matter? The Colonel had parted from him, apparently, in hisusual state of spirits. He must have been taken suddenly ill. Underthis impression, he opened the door of communication very gently, andperceived the Colonel, in his nightgown, seated by a table, on whichlay a letter and a picture. He raised his head hastily, as Edward stooduncertain whether to advance or retire, and Waverley perceived that hischeeks were stained with tears.

  As if ashamed at being found giving way to such emotion, Colonel Talbotrose with apparent displeasure, and said, with some sternness, 'I think,Mr. Waverley, my own apartment, and the hour, might have secured even aprisoner against'--

  'Do not say INTRUSION, Colonel Talbot; I heard you breathe hard, andfeared you were ill; that alone could have induced me to break in uponyou.'

  'I am well,' said the Colonel, 'perfectly well.'

  'But you are distressed,' said Edward: 'is there anything can be done?'

  'Nothing, Mr. Waverley: I was only thinking of home, and of someunpleasant occurrences there.'

  'Good God, my uncle!' exclaimed Waverley.

  'No,--it is a grief entirely my own. I am ashamed you should have seenit disarm me so much; but it must have its course at times, that it maybe at others more decently supported. I would have kept it secret fromyou; for I think it will grieve you, and yet you can administer noconsolation. But you have surprised me,--I see you are surprisedyourself,--and I hate mystery. Read that letter.

  The letter was from Colonel Talbot's sister, and in these words:

  'I received yours, my dearest brother, by Hodges. Sir E. W. and Mr. R.are still at large, but are not permitted to leave London. I wish toHeaven I could give you as good an account of matters in the square.But the news of the unhappy affair at Preston came upon us, with thedreadful addition that you were among the fallen. You know Lady Emily'sstate of health, when your friendship for Sir E. induced you to leaveher. She was much harassed with the sad accounts from Scotland of therebellion having broken out; but kept up her spirits as, she said, itbecame your wife, and for the sake of the future heir, so long hopedfor in vain. Alas, my dear brother, these hopes are now ended!Notwithstanding all my watchful care, this unhappy rumour reached herwithout preparation. She was taken ill immediately; and the poor infantscarce survived its birth. Would to God this were all! But althoughthe contradiction of the horrible report by your own letter has greatlyrevived her spirits, yet Dr--apprehends, I grieve to say, serious,and even dangerous, consequences to her health, especially fromthe uncertainty in which she must necessarily remain for some time,aggravated by the ideas she has formed of the ferocity of those withwhom you are a prisoner.

  Do therefore, my dear brother, as soon as this reaches you, endeavour togain your release, by parole, by ransom, or any way that is practicable.I do not exaggerate Lady Emily's state of health; but I must not--darenot--suppress the truth.--Ever, my dear Philip, your most affectionatesister, 'LUCY TALBOT.'

  Edward stood motionless when he had perused this letter; for theconclusion was inevitable, that by the Colonel's journey in quest ofhim, he had incurred this heavy calamity. It was severe enough, even inits irremediable part; for Colonel Talbot and Lady Emily, long without afamily, had fondly exulted in the hopes which were now blasted. But thisdisappointment was nothing to the extent of the threatened evil; andEdward, with horror, regarded himself as the original cause of both.

  Ere he could collect himself sufficiently to speak, Colonel Talbot hadrecovered his usual composure of manner, though his troubled eye denotedhis mental agony.

  'She is a woman, my young friend, who may justify even a soldier'stears.' He reached him the miniature, exhibiting features which fullyjustified the eulogium; 'and yet, God knows, what you see of her thereis the least of the charms she possesses--possessed, I should perhapssay--but God's will be done!'

  'You must fly--you must fly instantly to her relief. It is not--it shallnot be too late.'

  'Fly!--how is it possible? I am a prisoner--upon parole.'

  'I am your keeper--I restore your parole-I am to answer for you.'

  'You cannot do so consistently with your duty; nor can I accept adischarge from you with due regard to my own honour--you would be maderesponsible.'

  'I will answer it with my head, if necessary,' said Waverley,impetuously. 'I have been the unhappy cause of the loss of yourchild--make me not the murderer of your wife.'

  'No, my dear Edward,' said Talbot, taking him kindly by the hand, 'youare in no respect to blame; and if I concealed this domestic distressfor two days, it was lest your sensibility should view it in that light.You could not think of me, hardly knew of my existence, when Ileft England in quest of you. It is a responsibility, Heaven knows,sufficiently heavy for mortality, that we must answer for the foreseenand direct result of our actions,--for their indirect and consequentialoperation, the great and good Being, who alone can foresee thedependence of human events on each other, hath not pronounced his frailcreatures liable.'

  But that you should have left Lady Emily,' said Waverley, with muchemotion, 'in the situation of all others the most interesting to ahusband, to seek a--'

  'I only did my duty,' answered Colonel Talbot, calmly, 'and I do not,ought not to regret it. If the path of gratitude and honour were alwayssmooth and easy, there would be little merit in following it; but itmoves often in contradiction to our interest and passions, and sometimesto our better affections. These are the trials of life, and this, thoughnot the least bitter' (the tears came unbidden to his eyes), 'is not thefirst which it has been my fate to encounter. But we will talk of thisto-morrow,' he said, wringing Waverley's hands. 'Good night; strive toforget it for a few hours. It will dawn, I think, by six, and it is nowpast two. Good-night.'

  Edward retired, without trusting his voice with a reply.