Complete Poetical Works of Charlotte Smith

by Charlotte Smith

  Mrs. Stafford had her two little boys at her feet; and when Delamere appeared, she desired him to take a chair quietly, and not disturb so sober a party. But he had not been seated five minutes, before the children, who were extremely fond of him, crept to him, and he began to play with them and to make such a noise, that Mrs. Stafford laughingly threatened to send all the riotous boys into the nursery together — when at that moment Millefleur, who had some time before come down to attend his master, entered the room with a letter which he said came express from Berkley-Square.

  Delamere saw that his father’s hand had almost illegibly directed it. He opened it in fearful haste, and read these words —

  ‘Before this meets you, your mother will probably be no more. A paragraph in the newspaper, in which you are said to have been killed in a duel, threw her into convulsions. I satisfied myself of your safety by seeing the man with whom you fought, but your mother is incapable of hearing it. Unhappy boy! if you would see her alive, come away instantly.

  Montreville.’

  Berkley-Square, Feb. 29.

  It is impossible to say whether the consternation of Emmeline or that of Delamere was the greatest. By the dreadful idea of having occasioned his mother’s death, every other was for a moment absorbed. He flew without speaking down stairs, and into the stable where he had left his horse; but the groom had carried the horse to his own stables, supposing his master would stay ‘till night. Without recollecting that he might take one of Mr. Stafford’s, he ran back into the room where Emmeline was weeping in the arms of her friend, and clasping her wildly to his bosom, he exclaimed— ‘Farewell, Emmeline! Farewell, perhaps, for ever! If I lose my mother I shall never forgive myself; and shall be a wretch unworthy of you. Dearest Mrs. Stafford! take care I beseech you of her, whatever becomes of me.’

  Having said this, he ran away again without his hat, and darted across the lawn towards his own house, meaning to go thither on foot; but Fitz-Edward, with more presence of mind, was directing two of Mr. Stafford’s horses to be saddled, with which he soon overtook Delamere; and proceeding together to the town, they got into a post-chaise, and went as expeditiously as four horses could take them, towards London.

  Equally impetuous in all his feelings, his grief at the supposed misfortune was as violent as it could have been had he been sure that the worst had already happened. He now remembered, with infinite self-reproach, how much uneasiness and distress he had occasioned to Lady Montreville since he left her in November at Audley-Hall without taking leave — and recollecting all her tenderness and affection for him from the earliest dawn of his memory; her solicitude in his sickness, when she had attended him herself and given up her rest and health to contribute to his; her partial fondness, which saw merit even in his errors; her perpetual and ardent anxiety for what she believed would secure his happiness — he set in opposition to it his own neglect, impatience, and disobedience; and called himself an unnatural and ungrateful monster.

  Fitz-Edward could hardly restrain his extravagant ravings during the journey; which having performed as expeditiously as possible, they arrived in Berkley-Square; where, when the porter opened the door to them, Delamere had not courage to ask how his mother did; but on Fitz-Edward’s enquiry, the porter told them she was alive, and not worse.

  Relieved by this account, Delamere sent to his father to know if he might wait upon him.

  His Lordship answered— “That he would only see Colonel Fitz-Edward; but that Delamere might come in, to wait ‘till his mother’s physicians arrived.’

  Lord Montreville was indeed so irritated against Delamere by all the trouble and anxiety he had suffered on his account, that he determined to shew his resentment; and in this resolution he was encouraged by Sir Richard Crofts, who represented to him that his mother’s danger, and his father’s displeasure, might together work upon his mind, and induce him to renounce an attachment which occasioned to them both so much unhappiness.

  It was in this hope that his Lordship refused to see his son; and while Fitz-Edward went to him, Delamere was shewn into another room, where his youngest sister immediately came to him.

  She received him with rapture mingled with tears; and related to him the nature of his mother’s illness, which had seized her two days before, on her unfortunately taking up a newspaper from the breakfast-table, where it was very confidently said that he was mortally wounded in a duel with a person named Elkerton, of Portland-Place. That Lord Montreville had luckily had a letter from Fitz-Edward the day before, (whom he had forgiven the part he took in regard to Emmeline on no other condition than that he should go down to him, and give his Lordship an account of his conduct) and that therefore he was less alarmed, tho’ very much hurried by the paragraph.

  He had, however, gone to Elkerton’s house, where he found him very composedly receiving the enquiries of his friends, and where he insisted on hearing exactly what had happened.

  His Lordship immediately returned to his wife; but the convulsions had arisen to so alarming an height, that she was no longer capable of hearing him; and she had ever since continued to have, at very short intervals, such dreadful fits, as had entirely contracted her left side, and left very little hope of her recovery.

  Delamere was extremely shocked at this account; and after waiting some time, Fitz-Edward came to him, and told him that his father was extremely angry, and absolutely refused to see him or hear his apology, unless he would first give his honour that if Lady Montreville should survive the illness his indiscreet rashness had brought upon her, he would, as soon as she was out of danger, go abroad, and remain there till he should obtain forgiveness for his past errors and leave to return.

  The heart of Delamere was accessible only by the avenues of affection and kindness; compulsion and threats only made him more resolutely persist in any favourite project. Sir Richard Crofts therefore, who had advised this measure, shewed but little knowledge of his temper, and never was more mistaken in his politics.

  Delamere no sooner heard the message, than he knew with whom it originated; and full of indignation at finding his father governed by a man for whom he felt only aversion and contempt, he answered, with great asperity— ‘That he came thither not to solicit any favour, but to see his mother. That he would not be dictated to by the Crofts; but would remain in town ‘till he knew whether his mother desired to see him; and be ready to wait on his father when he would vouchsafe to treat him as his son.’

  He then shook hands with Fitz-Edward, kissed his sister, and walked out of the house, in spite of their united endeavours to detain him. All they could obtain of him was his consent to go to Fitz-Edward’s lodgings, as he had none of his own ready; from whence he sent constantly every hour to enquire after Lady Montreville.

  CHAPTER X

  Emmeline, in the mean time, remained in great uneasiness at Woodfield. Delamere, on his first arrival in town, wrote a short and confused note; by which she only learned that Lady Montreville was alive. After some days she received the following letter from Augusta Delamere.

  ‘I will now try, my dearest Emmeline, to give you an account of what has passed here since my brother’s arrival.

  ‘My mother is happily better; knows every body, and speaks more distinctly; her fits return less frequently; and upon the whole, the physicians give us hopes of her recovery, but very little that she will ever be restored to the use of the arm which is contracted.

  ‘On Friday, in an interval of her fits, Sir Hugh Cathcart and Dr. Gardner, her physicians, proposed that she should see my brother, of whose being living nothing we could any of us say could convince her. She repeated to Dr. Gardner, who staid with her after the other went, that she was deceived.

  ‘He assured her that she was deceived in nothing but in her sudden and unhappy prepossession; for that Mr. Delamere had never been in the least danger, and was actually in perfect health.

  ‘“He is alive!” cried my mother, mournfully— “I thank God he is alive; but he knows my illn
ess, and I do not see him — Ah! it is too certain I have lost my son!”

  ‘“You have not been able to see him, my dear madam; but he came up as soon as he heard of your situation, and now waits your commands at Colonel Fitz-Edward’s lodgings. — Do you wish to see him?”

  ‘“I do! I do wish to see him! Oh! let him come!”

  ‘The agitation of her mind, however, brought on almost instantly a return of the disorder; and before my brother’s arrival, she was insensible.

  ‘Her distorted features; her hands contracted, her eyes glazed and fixed, her livid complexion, and the agonizing expression of her countenance, were at their height when Delamere was desired to go into the room: my father believed that the sight of his mother in such a situation could not but affect the feelings of her son.

  ‘It did indeed affect him! He stood a moment looking at her in silent terror; then, as if suddenly recollecting that he had been the cause of this dreadful alteration, he turned away, clasped his hands together, and burst into tears.

  ‘My mother neither saw him or heard his loud sobs. My sister looked at him reproachfully; and apparently to escape from her, he came to me, and taking my hand, kissed it, and asked how long this melancholy scene would last?

  ‘The physician, who heard the question, said the fit was going off. It did so in a few minutes. She sighed deeply; and seeing the doctor still sitting by her, she asked if he would still perform his promise, and let her see her son?

  ‘At these words, Delamere stepped forward, and threw himself on his knees by the bed side. He wept aloud; and eagerly kissed his mother’s hands, which he bathed in tears.

  ‘She looked at him with an expression to which no description can do justice; but unable to speak, she seemed struggling to explain herself; and the physician, fearful of such agitation, said— “There, madam, is Mr. Delamere; not only alive, but willing, I am persuaded, to give you, in regard to his future conduct, any assurances that you require to tranquillise your mind.”

  ‘“No!” said she, sighing— “that Delamere is living, I thank heaven! — but for the rest — I have no hopes.”

  ‘“For the rest,” resumed the doctor, “he will promise any thing if you will only make yourself easy.”

  ‘At this moment my Lord entered— “You see, Sir,” said he sternly to Delamere, whom he had not seen since his arrival in London— “you see to what extremity your madness has reduced your mother.”

  ‘Delamere, still on his knees, looked sorrowfully up, as if to enquire what reparation he could make?

  ‘My father, appearing to understand the question, said— “If you would not be indeed a parricide, shew Lady Montreville that you have a sense of your errors, and will give her no farther uneasiness.”

  ‘“Do, Frederic,” cried my sister.

  ‘“In what way, Sir?” said my brother, very mournfully.

  ‘“Tell her you will consent to fulfil all her wishes.”

  ‘“Sir,” said Delamere firmly, “if to sacrifice my own life would restore my mother’s, I would not hesitate; but if what your Lordship means relates to Miss Otley, it is absolutely out of my power.”

  ‘“He is already married, I doubt not,” sighed my mother.

  ‘“Upon my soul I am not.”

  ‘“Come, come,” cried Dr. Gardner, “this is going a great deal too far; your Ladyship is but just convinced your son is living, and my Lord here is already talking of other matters. Tell me, madam — what do you wish Mr. Delamere to say?”

  ‘“That he will not marry,” eagerly interrupted my father, “but with his mother’s consent and mine.”

  ‘“I will not, my Lord,” said Delamere, sighing.

  ‘“That as soon as Lady Montreville is well enough to allow you to leave her, you will go abroad for a twelvemonth or longer if I shall judge it expedient.”

  ‘“I will promise that, if your Lordship makes a point of it — if my mother insists upon it. But, my Lord, if at the end of that time Emmeline Mowbray is still single —— my Lord, you do not expect unconditional submission — I shall then in my turn hope that you and my mother will make no farther opposition to my wishes.”

  ‘My father, who expected no concession from Delamere, had at first asked of him more than he intended to insist on, and now appeared eager to close with the first terms he could obtain. Accepting therefore a delay, instead of a renunciation, he said— “Well, Delamere, if at the end of a twelvemonth you still insist on marrying Miss Mowbray, I will not oppose it. Lady Montreville, you hear what your son engages for; do you agree to the terms?”

  ‘My mother said, very faintly— “Yes.”

  ‘The promise was repeated on both sides before the physician and Fitz-Edward, who came in at the latter part of this scene. My mother seemed reluctantly to accede; complained of extreme faintness; and the scene beginning to grow fatiguing to her, my brother offered to retire. She gave him her hand, which he kissed, and at her desire consented to return to the apartments here which he used to occupy. My mother had that evening another attack; tho’ it was much less severe. But as the contraction does not give way to any remedies yet used, the physicians propose sending her to Bath as soon as she is able to bear the journey.

  ‘Thus, my dearest Emmeline, I have punctually related all you appear so anxious to know, on which I leave you to reflect. My mother now sees my brother every day; but he has desired that nothing may be said of the past; and their conversations are short and melancholy. Fitz-Edward has left London; and Frederic told me, last night, that as soon as the physicians pronounce my mother entirely out of danger, he shall go down to you. Ah! my lovely friend! what a trial will his be! But I know you will encourage and support him in the task, however painful, of fulfilling the promise he has given; and my father, who praises you incessantly, says he is sure of it.

  Adieu! my dear Miss Mowbray!

  your affectionate and attached,

  Augusta Delamere.’

  Berkley-Square, March 3.

  A few days after the receipt of this letter, Delamere went down to Tylehurst. Dejection was visibly marked in his air and countenance; and all that Emmeline could say to strengthen his resolution, served only to make him feel greater reluctance. To quit her for twelve months, to leave her exposed to the solicitation of rivals who would not fail to surround her, and to hazard losing her for ever, seemed so terrible to his imagination, that the nearer the period of his promised departure grew, the more impossible he thought it to depart.

  His ardent imagination seemed to be employed only in figuring the variety of circumstances which might in that interval arise to separate them for ever; and he magnified these possibilities, till he persuaded himself that nothing but a private marriage could secure her. As he saw how anxious she was that he should strictly adhere to the promises he had given his father, he thought that he might induce her to consent to this expedient, as the only one by which he could reconcile his duty and his love. He therefore took an opportunity, when he had by the bitterness of his complaints softened her into tears, to entreat, to implore her to consent to marry him before he went. He urged, that as Lord and Lady Montreville had both consented to their union at the end of the year, if he remained in the same mind, it made in fact no difference to them; because he was very sure that his inclinations would not change, and no doubt could arise but from herself. If therefore she determined then to be his, she might as well consent to become so immediately as to hazard the difficulties which might arise to their marriage hereafter.

  Emmeline, tho’ extremely affected by his sorrow, had still resolution enough to treat this argument as feeble sophistry, unworthy of him and of herself; and positively to refuse her consent to an engagement which militated against all her assurances to Lord Montreville.

  This decisive rejection of a plan, to which, from the tender pity she testified, he believed he should persuade her to assent, threw him into one of those transports of agonizing passion which he could neither conceal or contend with. He
wept; he raved like a madman. He swore he would return to his father and revoke his promise; and the endeavours of Mrs. Stafford and Emmeline to calm his mind seemed only to encrease the emotions with which it was torn.

  After having exhausted every mode of persuasion in vain, he was obliged to relinquish the hope of a secret marriage, and to attempt to obtain another concession, in which he at length succeeded. He told Emmeline, that if she had no wish to quit him entirely, but really meant to reward his long and ardent affection, she could not object to bind herself to become his wife immediately on his return to England.

  Emmeline made every objection she could to this request. But she only objected; for she saw him so hurt, that she had not the resolution to wound him anew by a positive refusal. Mrs. Stafford too, moved by his grief and despair, no longer supported her in her reserve; and as their steadiness seemed to give way his eagerness and importunity encreased, till they allowed him to draw up a promise in these words— ‘At the end of the term prescribed by Lord Montreville, Emmeline Mowbray hereby promises to become the wife of Frederic Delamere.’

  This, Emmeline signed with a reluctant and trembling hand; for tho’ she had an habitual friendship and affection for Delamere, and preferred him to all the men she had yet seen, she thought this not strictly right; and felt a pain and repugnance to it’s performance, which made her more unhappy the longer she reflected on it.

  On Delamere, however, it had a contrary effect. Tho’ he still continued greatly depressed at the thoughts of their approaching separation, he yet assumed some degree of courage to bear it: and when the day arrived, he bid her adieu without relapsing into those agonies he had suffered before at the mere idea of it.