With sorrow and repentance true,
Father, I trembling come to you.
_Song_.
I arrived at the town where poor Eugenia had breathed her last, and
near to which was the cemetery in which her remains were deposited.
I went to the inn, whence, after having dismissed my post-boy and
ordered my luggage to be taken up to my room, I proceeded on foot
towards the spot. I was informed that the path lay between the church
and the bishop's palace. I soon reached it; and, inquiring for the
sexton, who lived in a cottage hard by, requested he would lead me to
a certain grave, which I indicated by tokens too easily known.
"Oh, you mean the sweet young lady, as died of grief for the loss of
her little boy. There it is," continued he, pointing with his finger;
"the white peacock is now sitting on the headstone of the grave, and
the little boy is buried beside it."
I approached, while the humble sexton kindly withdrew, that I might,
without witnesses, indulge that grief which he saw was the burthen of
my aching heart. The bird remained, but without dressing its plumage,
without the usual air of surprise and vigilance evinced by domestic
fowls, when disturbed in their haunts. This poor creature was
moulting; its feathers were rumpled and disordered; its tail ragged.
There was no beauty in the animal, which was probably only kept as a
variety of the species; and it appeared to me as if it had been placed
there as a lesson to myself. In its modest attire, in its melancholy
and pensive attitude, it seemed, with its gaudy plumage, to have
dismissed the world and its vanities, while in mournful silence it
surveyed the crowded mementoes of eternity.
"This is my office, not thine," said I, apostrophising the bird,
which, alarmed at my near approach, quitted its position, and
disappeared among the surrounding tombs. I sat down, and fixing my
eyes on the name which the tablet bore, ran over, in a hurried manner,
all that part of my career which had been more immediately connected
with the history of Eugenia. I remembered her many virtues; her
self-devotion for my honour and happiness; her concealing herself
from me, that I might not blast my prospects in life by continuing
an intimacy which she saw would end in my ruin; her firmness of
character, her disinterested generosity, and the refinement of
attachment which made her prefer misery and solitude to her own
gratification in the society of the man she loved. She had, alas! but
one fault, and that fault was loving me. I could not drive from my
thoughts, that it was through my unfortunate and illicit connection
with her that I had lost all that made life dear to me.
At this moment (and not once since the morning I awoke from it) my
singular dream recurred to my mind. The thoughts which never had once
during my eventful voyage from the Bahamas to the Cape, and thence to
England, presented themselves in my waking hours, must certainly
have possessed my brain during sleep. Why else should it never have
occurred to my rational mind that the connection with Eugenia would
certainly endanger that intended with Emily? It was Eugenia that
placed Emily in mourning, out of my reach, and, as it were, on the top
of the Nine-Pin Rock.
Here, then, my dream was explained; and I now felt all the horrors of
that reality which I thought at the time was no more than the effect
of a disordered imagination. Yet I could not blame Eugenia; the poor
girl had fallen a victim to that deplorable and sensual education
which I had received in the cockpit of a man-of-war. I, I alone was
the culprit. She was friendless, and without a parent to guide her
youthful steps; she fell a victim to my ungoverned passions. Maddened
with anguish of head and heart, I threw myself violently on the grave:
I beat my miserable head against the tombstones; I called with frantic
exclamation on the name of Eugenia; and at length sank on the turf,
between the two graves, in a state of stupor and exhaustion, from
which a copious flood of tears in some measure relieved me.
I was aroused by the sound of wheels and the trampling of horses;
and, looking up, I perceived the bishop's carriage and four, with
out-riders, pass by. The livery and colour of the carriage were
certainly what is denominated quiet; but there was an appearance of
state which indicated that the owner had not entirely "renounced the
pomps and vanities of this wicked world," and my spleen was excited.
"Ay, sweep along," I bitterly muttered, "worthy type indeed of the
apostles! I like the pride that apes humility. Is that the way
you teach your flock to 'leave all, and follow me'?" I started up
suddenly, saying to myself, "I will seek this man in his palace, and
see whether I shall be kindly received and consoled, or be repulsed by
a menial."
The thought was sudden, and, being conceived almost in a state of
frenzy, was instantly executed. "Let me try," said I, "whether a
bishop can 'administer to the mind diseased' as well as a country
curate?"
I moved on with rapidity to the palace, more in a fit of desperation
than with a view of seeking peace of mind. I rang loudly and
vehemently at the gate, and asked whether the bishop was at home. An
elderly domestic, who seemed to regard me with astonishment, answered
in the affirmative, and desired me to walk into an ante-room, while he
announced me to his master.
I now began to recall my scattered senses, which had been wandering,
and to perceive the absurdity of my conduct; I was therefore about to
quit the palace, into which I had so rudely intruded, without waiting
for my audience, when the servant opened the door and requested me to
follow him.
By what inscrutable means are the designs of Providence brought about!
While I thought I was blindly following the impulse of passion, I was,
in fact, guided by unerring Wisdom. A prey to desperate and irritated
feelings, I anticipated, with malignant pleasure, that I should detect
hypocrisy--that one who ought to set an example, should be weighed
by me, and found wanting; instead of which I stumbled on my own
salvation! Where I expected to meet with pride and scorn, I met with
humility and kindness. When I had looked around on the great circle
bounded by the visible horizon, and could perceive no friendly port in
which I might lay my shattered vessel, behold it was close at hand!
I followed the servant with a kind of stupid indifference, and was
ushered into the presence of a benevolent-looking old man, between
sixty and seventy years of age. His whole external appearance, as well
as his white hairs, commanded respect amounting almost to admiration.
I was not prepared to speak, which he perceived, and kindly began.
"As you are a stranger to me, I fear, from your careworn countenance,
that it is no common occurrence which has brought you here. Sit down:
you seem in distress; and if it is in my power to afford you relief,
you may be assured that I will do so."
There was in his manner and address an affectionate kindness which
overcame me. I could neither speak nor look at him; but, laying my
head on the table, and hiding my face with my hands, I wept bitterly.
The good bishop allowed me reasonable time to recover myself, and,
with extreme good breeding, mildly requested that, if it were
possible, I would confide to him the cause of my affliction.
"Be not afraid or ashamed, my good lad," said he, "to tell me your
sorrows. If we have temporal blessings, we do not forget that we are
but the almoners of the Lord: we endeavour to follow his example; but,
if I may judge from appearance, it is not pecuniary aid you have come
to solicit."
"No, no," replied I; "it is not money that I want:" but, choked with
excess of feeling, I could say no more.
"This is indeed a more important case than one of mere bodily want,"
said the good man. "_That_ we might very soon supply; but there seems
something in your condition which requires our more serious attention.
I thank the Almighty for selecting me to this service; and, with his
blessing, we shall not fail of success."
Then, going to the door, he called to a young lady, who I afterwards
found was his daughter; and, holding the door a-jar as he spoke, that
I might not be seen in my distress, said, "Caroline, my dear, write to
the duke, and beg him to excuse my dining with him to-day. Tell him
that I am kept at home by business of importance; and give orders that
I be not interrupted on any account."
He then turned the key in the door; and, drawing a chair close to
mine, begged me, in the most persuasive manner, to tell him every
thing without reserve, in order that he might apply such a remedy as
the case seemed to demand.
I first asked for a glass of wine, which was instantly brought; he
received it at the door, and gave it to me with his own hand.
Having drank it, I commenced the history of my life in a brief
outline, and ultimately told him all; nearly as much in detail as I
have related it to the reader. He listened to me with an intense and
painful interest, questioning me as to my feelings on many important
occasions; and having at length obtained from me an honest and candid
confession, without any extenuation,
"My young friend," said he, "your life has been one of peculiar
temptation and excess. Much to deplore, much to blame, and much to
repent of; but the state of feeling which induced you to come to me,
is a proof that you now only require that which, with God's help, I
trust I shall be able to supply. It is now late, and we both of us
require some refreshment. I will order in dinner, and you must send to
the inn for your portmanteau."
Perceiving that I was about to answer, "I must take no denial,"
resumed he. "You have placed yourself under my care as your physician,
and you must follow my prescriptions. My duty is as much more
important, compared to the doctor's, as the soul is to the body."
Dinner being served, he dismissed the servants as soon as possible,
and then asked me many questions relative to my family, all of which I
answered without reserve. He once mentioned Miss Somerville; but I was
so overcome, that he perceived my distress, and, filling me a glass of
wine, changed the subject.
If I thought that any words of mine could do justice to the persuasive
discourses of this worthy bishop, I would have benefited the world by
making them public; but I could not do this; and I trust that none of
my readers will have so much need of them as I had myself. I shall,
therefore, briefly state, that I remained in the palace ten days, in
the most perfect seclusion.
Every morning the good bishop dedicated two or three hours to my
instruction and improvement; he put into my hands one or two books
at a time, with marks in them, indicating the pages which I ought to
consult. He would have introduced me to his family; but this I begged,
for a time, to decline, being too much depressed and out of spirits;
and he indulged me in my request of being allowed to continue in the
apartments allotted to me.
On the seventh morning, he came to me, and after a short conversation,
informed me that business would require his absence for two or three
days, and that he would give me a task to employ me during the short
time he should be gone. He then put into my hand a work on the
sacrament. "This," said he, "I am sure you will read with particular
attention, so that on my return I may invite you to the feast." I
trembled as I opened the book. "Fear not, Mr Mildmay," said he; "I
tell you, from what I see of your symptoms, that the cure will be
complete."
Having said this, he gave me his blessing, and departed. He returned
exactly at the end of three days, and after a short examination, said
he would allow me to receive the sacrament, and that the holy ceremony
should take place in his own room privately, well knowing how much
affected I should be. He brought in the bread and wine; and having
consecrated and partaken of them himself, agreeably to the forms
prescribed, he made a short extempore prayer in my behalf.
When he had done this, he advanced towards me, and presented the
bread. My blood curdled as I took it in my mouth; and when I had
tasted the wine, the type of the blood of that Saviour, whose wounds
I had so often opened afresh in my guilty career, and yet upon the
merits of which I now relied for pardon, I felt a combined sensation
of love, gratitude and joy--a lightness and buoyancy of spirits, as if
I could have left the earth below me, disburthened of a weight
that had, till then, crushed me to the ground. I felt that I had
faith--that I was a new man--and that my sins were forgiven; and,
dropping my head on the side of the table, I remained some minutes in
grateful and fervent prayer.
The service being ended, I hastened to express my acknowledgments to
my venerable friend.
"I am but the humble instrument, my dear young friend," said the
bishop; "let us both give thanks to the almighty Searcher of hearts.
Let us hope that the work is perfect--for then, you will be the
occasion of 'joy in heaven.' And now," continued he, "let me ask you
one question. Do you feel in that state of mind that you could bear
any affliction which might befall you, without repining?"
"I trust, Sir," answered I, "that I could bear it, not only
cheerfully, but thankfully; and I now acknowledge that it is good for
me that I have been in trouble."
"Then all is right," said he; "and with such feelings I may venture to
give you this letter, which I promised the writer to deliver with my
own hand."
As soon as my eye caught the superscription, "Gracious Heaven!"
exclaimed I; "it is from my Emily."
"Even so," said the bishop.
I tore it open. It contained only six lines, which were as follows:--
"Our mutual kind friend, the bishop, has proved to me how proud and
how foolish I have been. Forgive me, dear Frank, for I too have
suffered much; and come as soon as possible to your ever affectionate
"EMILY."
This, then, was the object of the venerable bishop's absence. Bending
beneath age and infirmity, he had undertaken a journey of three
hundred miles, in order to ensure the temporal as well as eternal
welfare of a perfect stranger--to effect a reconciliation, without
which he saw that my worldly happiness was incomplete. I was
afterwards informed, that notwithstanding the weight of his character
and holy office, he had found Emily more decided in her rejection than
he had anticipated; and it was not until he had sharply rebuked her
for her pride and unforgiving temper, that she could be brought to
listen with patience to his arguments. But having at length convinced
her that the tenure of her own hopes depended on her forgiveness of
others, she relented, acknowledged the truth of his remarks, and her
undiminished affection for me. While she made this confession, she was
in the same position before the bishop, that I was when I received her
letter--on my knees, and in tears.
He gave me his hand, raised me up, "And, now, my young friend,"
said he, "let me give you one caution. I hope and I trust that your
repentance is sincere. If it be not, the guilt must rest on your head;
but I trust in God that all is as it should be. I will not, therefore,
detain you any longer: you must be impatient to be gone. Refreshment
is prepared for you: my horses will take you the first stage. Have you
funds sufficient to carry you through? for it is a long journey, as my
old bones can testify."
I assured him that I was sufficiently provided; and, expressing my
thanks for his kindness, wished that it was in my power to prove my
gratitude. "Put me to the test, my lord," said I, "if you possibly
can."
"Well, then," replied he, "I will: when the day for your union with
Miss Somerville is fixed, allow me to have the pleasure of joining
your hands, should it please God to spare me so long. I have removed
the disease; but I must trust to somebody else to watch and prevent a
relapse. And believe me, my dear friend, however well-inclined a man
may be to keep in the straight path, he gains no little support from
the guidance and example of a lovely and virtuous woman."
I promised readily all he asked; and having finished a slight lunch,
again shook hands with the worthy prelate, jumped into my carriage,
and drove off. I travelled all night; and the next day was in the
society of those I loved, and who had ever loved me, in spite of all
my perverseness and folly.
A few weeks after, Emily and I were united by the venerable bishop,
who, with much emotion, gave us his benediction; and as the prayer of
the righteous man availeth much, I felt that it was recorded in our
favour in Heaven. Mr Somerville gave the bride away. My father, with
Talbot and Clara, were present; and the whole of us, after all my
strange vicissitudes, were deeply affected at this reconciliation and
union.