… “Oh! I will
Never sleep again! My waking mis’ry
Were peace to this—and yet it was not sleep.”
Our hero, on his pillow, instead of seeking rest from the hopes and
fears, the distracting anxieties of the day, commenced again, in fancy,
the busy scene. The undisguised admiration of the Marquis for Julia
had awakened new terrors; his addresses would be approved of by all
her friends. Edmund shuddered to think of the consequences to which
such approval might ultimately lead; yet imagination would go forward,
devising new tortures, till he leaped from his bed, threw open his
window, and strove to force his thoughts into some other channel.
The remembrance of the mysterious understanding which seemed to exist
between Julia and Henry, next arose like a spectre, and laid its icy
grasp on every warm fibre of his heart. The pang, however, was but
momentary; this subject had not yet fastened on each faculty, with the
withering, lasting hold it was one day destined to possess. It was
reserved for time and absence to weaken the blissful, internal evidence,
derived from look, voice, manner; and to strengthen into certainty and
misery every vague suspicion to which any untoward coincidence had ever
given birth. At present, the very circumstances necessarily connected
with such suspicions, led, by the association of ideas, to a vivid
recollection of some of the latest, and strongest proofs of tenderness,
he had himself ever received from Julia. He now dwelt on these, till he
yielded again to the delightful hope, that she really loved him, although
she had thought it necessary to check his mad declaration of a passion,
which could never meet with the sanction of her father. If then she
loved him, surely she would not marry another! No, she would reject this
Marquis of H⸺? And, as to Henry, she must have rejected him already!
The emotion she had shown when conversing apart with him, must have
been occasioned by regret at being obliged to give pain. He therefore
returned to his pillow, and busied himself in recalling every look, every
word, on which his hopes of being secretly beloved were founded. Fear
and doubt vanished, and fancy, for a few blissful moments, pictured the
realization of all his hopes.
But hope, on such a subject, was not consistent with honour, with
duty—how then could a virtuous mind cling to it with unalloyed felicity.
Conscience spoke, and demanded a sacrifice!—a sacrifice which the heart
knew not how to yield! His secret wishes now seemed his accusers; and
dear as they had long been, he next strove to deny, even to himself,
their actual existence. But the compromise was not accepted; still
conscience repeated, that it was his duty to fly a temptation, which he
evidently had not strength to resist. Should the discovery of his birth
never be made; or, when made, should it not prove such as to give him
pretensions to Julia’s hand; was it consistent with honour and right
feeling, that he should, during the period of uncertainty, endeavour to
gain her affections—perhaps succeed in so doing! But this thought again
bewildered, again left him incapable of a rational reflection, or a right
resolve.
Such is the mental warfare, such the wild rebellion of will, which lays
waste the peace of him, who suffers the voice of passion to mingle in the
counsels of conscience.
Edmund slept; still undecided, and in his dreams endured once more a
recapitulation of each anxious feeling, and unfinished conflict.