'Why call woman, miserable, oppressed, and impotent,

woman--_crushed, and then insulted_--why call her to

_independence_--which not nature, but the barbarous and

accursed laws of society, have denied her? _This is

mockery!_ Even you, wise and benevolent as you are, can mock

the child of slavery and sorrow! "Excluded, as it were, by

the pride, luxury, and caprice, of the world, from expanding

my sensations, and wedding my soul to society, I was

constrained to bestow the strong affections, that glowed

consciously within me, upon a few."[18] Love, in minds of

any elevation, cannot be generated but upon a real, or

fancied, foundation of excellence. But what would be a

miracle in architecture, is true in morals--the fabric can

exist when the foundation has mouldered away. _Habit_ daily

produces this wonderful effect upon every feeling, and every

principle. Is not this the theory which you have taught me?

[Footnote 18: Godwin's Caleb Williams.]

'Am I not sufficiently ingenuous?--I will give you a

new proof of my frankness (though not the proof you

require).--From the miserable consequences of wretched moral

distinctions, from chastity having been considered as a

sexual virtue, all these calamities have flowed. Men are

thus rendered sordid and dissolute in their pleasures; their

affections vitiated, and their feelings petrified; the

simplicity of modest tenderness loses its charm; they become

incapable of satisfying the heart of a woman of sensibility

and virtue.--Half the sex, then, are the wretched, degraded,

victims of brutal instinct: the remainder, if they sink not

into mere frivolity and insipidity, are sublimed into a

sort of--[what shall I call them?]--refined, romantic,

factitious, unfortunate, beings; who, for the sake of the

present moment, dare not expose themselves to complicated,

inevitable, evils; evils, that will infallibly overwhelm

them with misery and regret! Woe be, more especially, to

those who, possessing the dangerous gifts of fancy and

feeling, find it as difficult to discover a substitute for

the object as for the sentiment! You, who are a philosopher,

will you still controvert the principles founded in truth

and nature? "Gross as is my folly," (and I do not deny it)

"you may perceive I was not wholly wandering in darkness.

But while the wintry sun of hope illumined the fairy

frost-work with a single, slanting ray--dazzled by the

transient brightness, I dreaded the meridian fervors

that should dissolve the glittering charm." Yes! it was

madness--but it was the pleasurable madness which none but

madmen know.

'I cannot answer your question--Pain me not by its

repetition; neither seek to ensnare me to the disclosure.

Unkindly, severely, as I have been treated, I will not

risque, even, the possibility of injuring the man, whom I

have so tenderly loved, in the esteem of any one. Were I to

name him, you know him not; you could not judge of his

qualities. He is not "a model of excellence." I perceive it,

with pain--and if obliged to retract my judgment on some

parts of his character--I retract it with agonizing

reluctance! But I could trace the sources of his errors, and

candour and self-abasement imperiously compel me to a mild

judgment, to stifle the petulant suggestions of a wounded

spirit.

'Ought not our principles, my friend, to soften the asperity

of our censures?--Could I have won him to my arms, I thought

I could soften, and even elevate, his mind--a mind, in which

I still perceive a great proportion of good. I weep for him,

as well as for myself. He will, one day, know my value,

and feel my loss. Still, I am sensible, that, by my

extravagance, I have given a great deal of vexation

(possibly some degradation), to a being, whom I had no right

to persecute, or to compel to chuse happiness through a

medium of my creation. I cannot exactly tell the extent of

the injury I may have done him. A long train of consequences

succeed, even, our most indifferent actions.--Strong

energies, though they answer not the end proposed, must yet

produce correspondent effects. Morals and mechanics are here

analogous. No longer, then, distress me by the repetition of

a question I ought not to answer. I am content to be the

victim--Oh! may I be the only victim--of my folly!

'One more observation allow me to make, before I conclude.

That we can "admire, esteem, and love," an individual--(for

love in the abstract, loving mankind collectively, conveys

to me no idea)--which must be, in fact, depending upon that

individual for a large share of our felicity, and not lament

his loss, in proportion to our apprehension of his worth,

appears to me a proposition, involving in itself an

absurdity; therefore demonstrably false.

'Let me, my friend, see you ere long--your remonstrance has

affected me--save me from myself!'

TO THE SAME.

[In continuation.]

'My letter having been delayed a few days, through a

mistake--I resume my pen; for, running my eye over what I

had written, I perceive (confounded by the force of your

expressions) I have granted you too much. My conduct was

not, altogether, so insane as I have been willing to allow.

It is certain, that could I have attained the end proposed,

my happiness had been encreased. "It is necessary for me to

love and admire, or I sink into sadness." The behaviour

of the man, whom I sought to move, appeared to me too

inconsistent to be the result of _indifference_. To be

roused and stimulated by obstacles--obstacles admitting

hope, because obscurely seen--is no mark of weakness.

Could I have subdued, what I, _then_, conceived to be the

_prejudices_ of a worthy man, I could have increased

both his happiness and my own. I deeply reasoned, and

philosophized, upon the subject. Perseverance, with little

ability, has effected wonders;--with perseverance, I felt,

that, I had the power of uniting ability--confiding in that

power, I was the dupe of my own reason. No other man,

perhaps, could have acted the part which this man has

acted:--how, then, was I to take such a part into my

calculations?

'Do not misconceive me--it is no miracle that I did not

inspire affection. On this subject, the mortification I have

suffered has humbled me, it may be, even, unduly in my own

eyes--but to the emotions of my pride, I would disdain to

give words. Whatever may have been my feelings, I am too

proud to express the rage of slighted love!--Yet, I am

sensible to all the powers of those charming lines of

Pope--

"Unequal talk, a passion to resign,

For hearts so touch'd, so pierc'd, so lost, as mine!

Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state,

How often must it love, how often hate;

How often hope, despair, resent, regret,

Conceal, disdain, _do all things but forget_!"

'But to return. I pursued, comparatively, (as I thought) a

certain good; and when, at times, discouraged, I have

repeated to myself--What! after all these pains, shall I

relinquish my efforts, when, perhaps, on the very verge of

success?--To say nothing of the difficulty of forcing an

active mind out of its trains--if I desisted, what was to be

the result? The sensations I now feel--apathy, stagnation,

abhorred vacuity!

'You cannot resist the force of my reasoning--you, who are

acquainted with, who know how to paint, in colours true to

nature, the human heart--you, who admire, as a proof of

power, the destructive courage of an Alexander, even the

fanatic fury of a Ravaillac--you, who honour the pernicious

ambition of an Augustus Cæsar, as bespeaking the potent,

energetic, mind!--why should _you_ affect to be intolerant

to a passion, though differing in nature, generated on the

same principles, and by a parallel process. The capacity of

perception, or of receiving sensation, is (or generates) the

power; into what channel that power shall be directed,

depends not on ourselves. Are we not the creatures of

outward impressions? Without such impressions, should we be

any thing? Are not passions and powers synonimous--or can

the latter be produced without the lively interest that

constitutes the former? Do you dream of annihilating the

one--and will not the other be extinguished? With the

apostle, Paul, permit me to say--"I am not mad, but speak

the words of truth and soberness."

'To what purpose did you read my confessions, but to trace

in them a character formed, like every other human

character, by the result of unavoidable impressions, and the

chain of necessary events. I feel, that my arguments are

incontrovertible:--I suspect that, by affecting to deny

their force, you will endeavour to deceive either me or

yourself.--I have acquired the power of reasoning on this

subject at a dear rate--at the expence of inconceivable

suffering. Attempt not to deny me the miserable, expensive,

victory. I am ready to say--(ungrateful that I am)--Why did

you put me upon calling forth my strong reason?

'I perceive there is no cure for me--(apathy is, not the

restoration to health, but, the morbid lethargy of the soul)

but by a new train of impressions, of whatever nature,

equally forcible with the past.--You will tell me, It

remains with myself whether I will predetermine to resist

such impressions. Is this true? Is it philosophical? Ask

yourself. What!--can _even you_ shrink from the consequences

of your own principles?

'One word more--You accuse me of brooding in silence over my

sensations--of considering them as a "sacred deposit."

Concealment is particularly repugnant to my disposition--yet

a thousand delicacies--a thousand nameless solicitudes, and

apprehensions, sealed my lips!--He who inspired them was,

alone, the depositary of my most secret thoughts!--my heart

was unreservedly open before him--I covered my paper with

its emotions, and transmitted it to him--like him who

whispered his secret into the earth, to relieve the burden

of uncommunicated thought. My secret was equally safe, and

received in equal silence! Alas! he was not then ignorant of

the effects it was likely to produce!

'EMMA.'

Mr Francis continued his humane and friendly attentions; and, while he

opposed my sentiments, as conceiving them destructive of my tranquillity,

mingled with his opposition a gentle and delicate consideration for my

feelings, that sensibly affected me, and excited my grateful attachment.

He judged right, that, by stimulating my mind into action, the sensations,

which so heavily oppressed it, might be, in some measure, mitigated--by

diverting the course of my ideas into different channels, and by that

means abating their force. His kindness soothed and flattered me, and

communications relieved my thoughts.

CHAPTER XIII

The period which succeeded these events, though tedious in wearing away,

marked by no vicissitude, has left little impression behind. The tenor

of my days resembled the still surface of a stagnant lake, embosomed

in a deep cavern, over which the refreshing breezes never sweep. Sad,

vacant, inactive--the faculties both of mind and body seemed almost

suspended. I became weak, languid, enervated--my disorder was a lethargy

of soul. This was gradually succeeded by disease of body:--an inactivity,

so contrary to all the habits of my past life, generated morbid humours,

and brought on a slow, remitting, fever. I recovered, by degrees,

from this attack, but remained for some time in a debilitated, though

convalescent, state. A few weeks after my disorder returned, lasted

longer, and left me still more weakened and depressed. A third time it

assailed me, at a shorter interval; and, though less violent, was more

protracted, and more exhausting.

Mrs Denbeigh, alarmed by my situation, wrote to Mrs Harley, expressing

the apprehensions which she entertained. From this dear friend, who was

herself in a declining state of health, I received a pressing invitation

to visit, once more, the village of F----; and to seek, from change of

air, change of scene, and the cordial endearments of friendship, a

restoration for my debilitated frame, and a balm for my wounded mind.

My relation, at this period, had letters from her husband, informing

her, that the term of his residence in India was prolonged; pressing her

to join him there, and to come over in the next ship. To this request

she joyfully acceded; and, hearing that a packet was about to sail for

Bengal, secured her passage, and began immediately to make preparations

for her departure. I no longer hesitated to comply with the entreaties

of my friend; besides the tie of strong affection, which drew me to her,

I had, at present, little other resource.

After affectionately embracing Mrs Denbeigh, wishing a happy issue to

her voyage, thanking her for all her kindness, and leaving a letter of

grateful acknowledgement for Mr Francis, I quitted the metropolis, with

an aching heart, and a wasted frame. My cousin accompanied me to the

inn, from whence the vehicle set out that was to convey me to Mrs

Harley. We parted in silence--a crowd of retrospective ideas of the

past, and solicitudes respecting the future, occupied our thoughts--our

sensations were too affecting for words.

The carriage quitted London at the close of the evening, and travelled

all night:--it was towards the end of the year. At midnight we passed

over Hounslow and Bagshot heaths. 'The moon,' to adopt the language of

Ossian, 'looked through broken clouds, and brightened their dark-brown

sides.' A loud November blast howled over the heath, and whistled

through the fern.--There was a melancholy desolation in the scene, that

was in unison with my feelings, and which overwhelmed my spirits with a

tide of tender recollections. I recalled to my imagination a thousand

interesting images--I indulged in all the wild enthusiasm of my character.

My fellow-travellers slept tranquilly, while my soul was awake to

agonizing sorrow. I adopted the language of the tender Eloisa--'Why,'

said I, 'am I indebted for life to his care, whose cruelty has rendered

it insupportable? Inhuman, as he is, let him fly from me for ever,

and deny himself the savage pleasure of being an eye-witness to my

sorrows!--But why do I rave thus?--He is not to be blamed--_I, alone,

am guilty_--I, alone, am the author of my own misfortunes, and should,

therefore, be the only object of anger and resentment.'[19]

[Footnote 19: Rousseau.]

Weakened by my late indisposition, fatigued by the rough motion of the

carriage, and exhausted by strong emotion, when arrived at the end of my

journey, I was obliged to be lifted from the coach, and carried into the

cottage of my friend. The servant led the way to the library--the door

opened--Mrs Harley advanced, to receive me, with tottering steps. The

ravages of grief, and the traces of sickness, were visible in her dear,

affectionate, countenance. I clasped my hands, and, lifting up my

eyes, beheld the portrait of Augustus--beheld again the resemblance

of those features so deeply engraven on my heart! My imagination was

raised--methought the lively colours of the complexion had faded, the

benignant smile had vanished, and an expression of perplexity and

sternness usurped its place. I uttered a faint shriek, and fell lifeless

into the arms of my friend. It was some time before I returned to sense

and recollection, when I found myself on the bed, in the little chamber

which had formerly been appropriated to my use. My friend sat beside me,

holding my hand in her's, which she bathed with her tears. 'Thank God!'

she exclaimed, in a rapturous accent, (as, with a deep sigh, I raised my

languid eyes, and turned them mournfully towards her)--'she lives!--My

Emma!--child of my affections!'--sobs suppressed her utterance. I drew

the hand, which held mine, towards me--I pressed it to my bosom--'_My

mother!_'--I would have said; but the tender appellation died away upon

my lips, in inarticulate murmurs.

These severe struggles were followed by a return of my disorder. Mrs

Harley would scarcely be persuaded to quit my chamber for a moment--her

tenderness seemed to afford her new strength;--but these exertions

accelerated the progress of an internal malady, which had for some time

past been gaining ground, and gradually undermining her health.

Youth, and a good constitution, aided by the kind solicitudes of

friendship, restored me, in a few weeks, to a state of convalescence.

I observed the declining strength of my friend with terror--I accused

myself of having, though involuntarily, added to these alarming symptoms,

by the new fatigues and anxieties which I had occasioned her. Affection

inspired me with those energies, that reason had vainly dictated. I

struggled to subdue myself--I stifled the impetuous suggestions of my

feelings, in exerting myself to fulfil the duties of humanity. My mind

assumed a firmer tone--I became, once more, the cheerful companion, the

tender consoler, the attentive nurse, of this excellent woman, to whose

kindness I was so much indebted--and, if I stole a few moments in the

day, while my friend reposed, to gaze on the resemblance of Augustus,

to weep over the testimonies of his former respect and friendship,

I quickly chased from my bosom, and my countenance, every trace of

sadness, when summoned to attend my friend.

CHAPTER XIV

The winter came on severe and cold. Mrs Harley was forbidden to expose

herself to the frosty air, which seemed to invigorate my languid frame.

I was constituted her almoner, to distribute to the neighbouring poor

the scanty portion, which she was enabled, by a rigid oeconomy, to spare

from her little income: yet the value of this distribution had been

more than redoubled, by the gentler charities of kind accents, tender

sympathy, and wholesome counsels. To these indigent, but industrious,

cottagers, I studied to be the worthy representative of their amiable

benefactress, and found my reward in their grateful attachment, and the

approving smiles of my friend.

By degrees, she ventured to converse with me on the subject nearest her

heart--the situation of her son. He had been obliged to yield to the

proofs produced of his marriage, which he had, at first, seemed desirous

of evading. He had written, with reserve, upon the subject to his

mother; but, from the enquiries of a common friend, she had reason to

apprehend, that his engagement had been of an imprudent nature. Two

children, were, already the fruits of it: the mother, with a feminine

helplessness of character, had a feeble constitution. The small fortune,

which Augustus had originally shared with his family, was greatly

reduced. His education and habits had unfitted him for those exertions

which the support of an encreasing family necessarily required:--his

spirits (her friend had informed her) seemed broken, and his temper

soured. Some efforts had been made to serve him, which his lofty spirit

had repelled with disdain.

This narration deeply affected my heart--I had resigned myself to his

loss--but the idea of his suffering, I felt, was an evil infinitely

severer. It was this conviction that preyed incessantly on the peace

and health of his mother. My fortitude failed, when I would have tried

to sustain her; and I could only afford the melancholy satisfaction of

mingling my sorrows with her's.

The disorder of my friend rapidly increased--her mind became weakened,

and her feelings wayward and irritable. I watched her incessantly--I

strove, by every alleviating care, to soften her pains. Towards the

approach of spring the symptoms grew more threatening; and it was judged,

by her physician, necessary to apprize her family of her immediate

danger. What a trial for my exhausted heart! I traced, with a trembling

hand, a line to this melancholy purpose--addressed it to Mr Harley, and

through him to his younger brothers and sisters.

In a few days they arrived in the village--sending from the inn a

servant, to prepare their mother for their approach. I gently intimated

to her the visitants we might expect. The previous evening, a change had

taken place, which indicated approaching dissolution; and her mind (not

uncommon in similar cases) seemed, almost instantaneously, to have

recovered a portion of its original strength. She sighed deeply, while

her eyes, which were fixed wistfully on my face, were lighted with a

bright, but transient, lustre.

'My dear Emma,' said she, 'this is a trying moment for us both. I shall

soon close my eyes, for ever, upon all worldly cares.--Still cherish, in

your pure and ingenuous mind, a friendship for my Augustus--the darling

of my soul! He may, in future, stand in need of consolation. I had

formed hopes--vain hopes!--in which you and he were equally concerned.

In the happiness of this partially-favoured child--this idol of my

affections--all mine was concentrated. He has disappointed me, and I

have lost the desire of living--Yet, he has noble qualities!--Who, alas!

is perfect? Summon your fortitude, collect your powers, my child, for

this interview!'

She sunk on her pillow--I answered her only with my tears. A servant

entered--but spoke not--her look announced her tidings--It caught the

eye of Mrs Harley--

'Let them enter,' said she; and she raised herself, to receive them, and

assumed an aspect of composure.

I covered my face with my handkerchief--I heard the sound of footsteps

approaching the bed--I heard the murmurs of filial sorrow--The voice

of Augustus, in low and interrupted accents, struck upon my ear--it

thrilled through my nerves--I shuddered, involuntarily--What a moment!

My friend spoke a few words, in a faint tone.

'My children,' she added, 'repay to this dear girl,' laying her hand

upon mine, 'the debt of kindness I owe her--she has smoothed the pillow

of death--she is an orphan--she is tender and unfortunate.'

I ventured to remove for a moment the handkerchief from my eyes--they

met those of Augustus--he was kneeling by the bed-side--his countenance

was wan, and every feature sunk in dejection; a shivering crept through

my veins, and chilled my heart with a sensation of icy coldness--he

removed his eyes, fixing them on his dying mother.

'My son,' she resumed, in still fainter accents, 'behold in Emma,

your sister--_your friend!_--confide in her--she is worthy of your

confidence!'--'Will you not love him, my child,'--(gazing upon

me,)--'with a sisterly affection?'

I hid my face upon the pillow of my friend--I threw my arms around

her--'Your request is superfluous, my friend, my more than parent, _ah,

how superfluous_!'

'Forgive me, I know the tenderness of your nature--yielding, in these

parting moments, to the predominant affection of my heart--I fear, I

have wounded that tender nature.' 'Farewell, my children! Love and

assist each other--Augustus, where is your hand?--my sight fails me--God

bless you and your little ones--_God bless you all_!--My last sigh--my

last prayer--is yours.'

Exhausted by these efforts, she fainted--Augustus uttered a deep groan,

and raised her in his arms--but life was fled.

At the remembrance of these scenes, even at this period, my heart is

melted within me.

What is there of mournful magic in the emotions of virtuous sorrow, that

in retracing, in dwelling upon them, mingles with our tears a sad and

sublime rapture? Nature, that has infused so much misery into the cup of

human life, has kindly mixed this strange and mysterious ingredient to

qualify the bitter draught.

CHAPTER XV

After the performance of the last melancholy duties, this afflicted

family prepared to separate. I received from them, individually,

friendly offers of service, and expressions of acknowledgment, for my

tender attentions to their deceased parent. I declined, for the present,

their invitations, and profferred kindness, though uncertain how to

dispose of myself, or which way to direct my course. Augustus behaved

towards me with distant, cold, respect. I observed in his features,

under a constrained appearance of composure, marks of deep and strong

emotion. I recalled to my mind the injunctions of my deceased friend--I

yearned to pour into his bosom the balm of sympathy, but, with an aspect

bordering on severity, he repressed the expression of those ingenuous

feelings which formed my character, and shunned the confidence I so

earnestly sought. Unfortunate love had, in my subdued and softened mind,

laid the foundation of a fervent and durable friendship--But my love, my

friendship, were equally contemned! I relinquished my efforts--I shut

myself in my chamber--and, in secret, indulged my sorrows.

The house of my deceased friend was sold, and the effects disposed of.

On the day previous to their removal, and the departure of the family

for London, I stole into the library, at the close of the evening, to

view, for _the last time_, the scene of so many delightful, so many

afflicting emotions. A mysterious and sacred enchantment is spread over

every circumstance, even every inanimate object, connected with the

affections. To those who are strangers to these delicate, yet powerful

sympathies, this may appear ridiculous--but the sensations are not the

less genuine, nor the less in nature. I will not attempt to analyse

them, it is a subject upon which the language of philosophy would

appear frigid, and on which I feel myself every moment on the verge of

fanaticism. Yet, affections like these are not so much weakness, as

strength perhaps badly exerted. Rousseau was, right, when he asserted,

that, 'Common men know nothing of violent sorrows, nor do great passions

ever break out in weak minds. Energy of sentiment is the characteristic

of a noble soul.'

I gazed from the windows on the shrubbery, where I had so often wandered

with my friends--where I had fondly cherished so many flattering, so

many visionary, prospects. Every spot, every tree, was associated with

some past pleasure, some tender recollection. The last rays of the

setting sun, struggling from beneath a louring cloud, streamed through

its dark bosom, illumined its edges, played on the window in which I was

standing, and gilding the opposite side of the wainscot, against which

the picture of Augustus still hung, shed a soft and mellow lustre over

the features. I turned almost unconsciously, and contemplated it with a

long and deep regard. It seemed to smile benignly--it wore no traces of

the cold austerity, the gloomy and inflexible reserve, which now clouded

the aspect of the original. I called to my remembrance a thousand

interesting conversations--when

'Tuned to happy unison of soul, a fairer world of which the

vulgar never had a glimpse, displayed, its charms.'

Absorbed in thought, the crimson reflection from the western clouds

gradually faded, while the deep shades of the evening, thickened by the

appearance of a gathering tempest, involved in obscurity the object on

which, without distinctly perceiving it, I still continued to gaze.

I was roused from this reverie by the sudden opening of the door. Some

person, whom the uncertain light prevented me from distinguishing,

walked across the room, with a slow and solemn pace, and, after taking

several turns backwards and forwards, reclined on the sopha, remaining

for some time perfectly still. A tremor shook my nerves--unable either

to speak, or to move, I continued silent and trembling--my heart felt

oppressed, almost to suffocation--at length, a deep, convulsive sigh,

forced its way.

'My God!' exclaimed the person, whose meditations I had interrupted,

'what is that?'

It was the voice of Mr Harley, he spoke in a stern tone, though with

some degree of trepidation, and advanced hastily towards the window

against which I leaned.

The clouds had for some hours been gathering dark and gloomy. Just as

Augustus had reached the place where I stood, a flash of lightning,

pale, yet vivid, glanced suddenly across my startled sight, and

discovered to him the object which had alarmed him.

'Emma,' said he, in a softened accent, taking my trembling and almost

lifeless hand, 'how came you here, which way did you enter?'

I answered not--Another flash of lightning, still brighter, blue and

sulphurous, illuminated the room, succeeded by a loud and long peal of

thunder. Again the heavens seemed to rend asunder and discover a sheet

of livid flame--a crash of thunder, sudden, loud, short, immediately

followed, bespeaking the tempest near. I started with a kind of

convulsive terror. Augustus led me from the window, and endeavoured, in

vain, to find the door of the library--the temporary flashes, and total

darkness by which they were succeeded, dazzled and confounded the sight.

I stumbled over some furniture, which stood in the middle of the room,

and unable to recover my feet, which refused any longer to sustain me,

sunk into the arms of Augustus, suffering him to lift me to the sopha.

He seated himself beside me, the storm continued; the clouds, every

moment parting with a horrible noise, discovered an abyss of fire, while

the rain descended in a deluge. We silently contemplated this sublime

and terrible scene. Augustus supported me with one arm, while my

trembling hand remained in his. The tempest soon exhausted itself by its

violence--the lightning became less fierce, gleaming at intervals--the

thunder rolled off to a distance--its protracted sound, lengthened by

the echoes, faintly died away; while the rain continued to fall in a

still, though copious, shower.

My spirits grew calmer, I gently withdrew my hand from that of Mr

Harley. He once more enquired, but in a tone of greater reserve, how I

had entered the room without his knowledge? I explained, briefly and

frankly, my situation, and the tender motives by which I had been

influenced.

'It was not possible,' added I, 'to take leave of this house _for ever_,

without recalling a variety of affecting and melancholy ideas--I feel,

that I have lost _my only friend_.'

'This world,' said he, 'may not unaptly be compared to the rapids on the

American rivers--We are hurried, in a frail bark, down the stream--It is

in vain to resist its course--happy are those whose voyage is ended!'

'My friend,' replied I in a faultering voice, 'I could teach my heart

to bear your loss--though, God knows, the lesson has been sufficiently

severe--but I know not how, with fortitude, to see you suffer.'

'Suffering is the common lot of humanity--but, pardon me, when I say,

your conduct has not tended to lessen my vexations!'

'My errors have been the errors of _affection_--Do they deserve this

rigor?'

'Their source is not important, their consequences have been the

same--you make not the allowances you claim.'

'Dear, and severe, friend!--Be not unjust--the confidence which I

sought, and merited, would have been obviated'--

'I know what you would alledge--that confidence, you had reason to

judge, was of a painful nature--it ought not to have been extorted.'

'If I have been wrong, my faults have been severely expiated--if

the error has been _only mine_, surely my sufferings have been in

proportion; seduced by the fervor of my feelings; ignorant of your

situation, if I wildly sought to oblige you to chuse happiness through a

medium of my creation--yet, to have assured _yours_, was I not willing

to risque all my own? I perceive my extravagance, my views were equally

false and romantic--dare I to say--they were the ardent excesses of a

generous mind? Yes! my wildest mistakes had in them a dignified mixture

of virtue. While the institutions of society war against nature and

happiness, the mind of energy, struggling to emancipate itself, will

entangle itself in error'--

'Permit me to ask you,' interrupted Augustus, 'whether, absorbed in your

own sensations, you allowed yourself to remember, and to respect, the

feelings of others?'

I could no longer restrain my tears, I wept for some moments in

silence--Augustus breathed a half-suppressed sigh, and turned from me

his face.

'The pangs which have rent my heart,' resumed I, in low and broken

accents, 'have, I confess, been but too poignant! That lacerated

heart still bleeds--we have neither of us been guiltless--_Alas!

who is?_ Yet in my bosom, severe feelings are not more painful than

transient--already have I lost sight of your unkindness, (God knows how

little I merited it!) in stronger sympathy for your sorrows--whatever

be their nature! We have both erred--why should we not exchange mutual

forgiveness? Why should we afflict each other? Friendship, like charity,

should suffer all things and be kind!'

'My mind,' replied he coldly, 'is differently constituted.'

'_Unpitying man!_ It would be hard for us, if we were all to be judged

at so severe a tribunal--you have been a _lover_,' added I, in a softer

tone, 'and can you not forgive the faults of _love_?'

He arose, visibly agitated--I also stood up--my bosom deeply wounded,

and, unknowing what I did, took his hand, and pressed it to my lips.

'You have rudely thrown from you a heart of exquisite sensibility--you

have contemned my love, and you disdain my friendship--is it brave, is

it manly,' added I wildly--almost unconscious of what I said--forgetting

at the moment his situation and my own--'thus to triumph over a spirit,

subdued by its affections into unresisting meekness?'

He broke from me, and precipitately quitted the room.

I threw myself upon the floor, and, resting my head on the seat which

Augustus had so lately occupied, passed the night in cruel conflict--a

tempest more terrible than that which had recently spent its force,

shook my soul! The morning dawned, ere I had power to remove myself

from the fatal spot, where the measure of my afflictions seemed filled

up.--Virtue may conquer weakness, but who can bear to be despised

by those they love. The sun darted its beams full upon me, but its

splendour appeared mockery--hope and joy were for ever excluded from my

benighted spirit. The contempt of the world, the scoffs of ignorance,

the contumely of the proud, I could have borne without shrinking--but to

find myself rejected, contemned, scorned, by him with whom, of all

mankind, my heart claimed kindred; by him for whom my youth, my health,

my powers, were consuming in silent anguish--who, instead of pouring

balm into the wound he had inflicted, administered only corrosives!--_It

was too painful!_ I felt, that I had been a lavish prodigal--that I had

become a wretched bankrupt; that there was but _one way_ to make me

happy and _a thousand_ to make me miserable! Enfeebled and exhausted, I

crawled to my apartment, and, throwing myself on the bed, gave a loose

to the agony of my soul.

CHAPTER XVI

Under pretence of indisposition, I refused to meet the family. I heard

them depart. Too proud to accept of obligation, I had not confided to

them my plans, if plans they could be called, where no distinct end was

in view.

A few hours after their departure, I once more seated myself in a stage

coach, in which I had previously secured a place, and took the road to

London. I perceived, on entering the carriage, only one passenger, who

had placed himself in the opposite corner, and in whom, to my great

surprize, I immediately recognized Mr Montague. We had not met since the

visit he had paid me at Mrs Harley's, the result of which I have already

related: since that period, it had been reported in the village, that he

addressed Sarah Morton, and that they were about to be united. Montague

manifested equal surprize at our meeting: the intelligence of my

friend's death (at which he expressed real concern) had not reached him,

neither was he acquainted with my being in that part of the country. He

had not lately been at Mr Morton's, he informed me, but had just left

his father's, and was going to London to complete his medical studies.

After these explanations, absorbed in painful contemplation, I for some

time made little other return to his repeated civilities, than by cold

monosyllables: till at length, his cordial sympathy, his gentle accents,

and humane attentions, awakened me from my reverie. Ever accessible

to the soothings of kindness, I endeavoured to exert myself, to prove

the sense I felt of his humanity. Gratified by having succeeded in

attracting my attention, he redoubled his efforts to cheer and amuse

me. My dejected and languid appearance had touched his feelings, and,

towards the end of our journey, his unaffected zeal to alleviate the

anxiety under which I evidently appeared to labour, soothed my mind and

inspired me with confidence.

He respectfully requested to know in what part of the town I resided,

and hoped to be permitted to pay his respects to me, and to enquire

after my welfare? This question awakened in my bosom so many complicated

and painful sensations, that, after remaining silent for a few minutes,

I burst into a flood of tears.

'I have no home;' said I, in a voice choaked with sobs--'I am an alien

in the world--and alone in the universe.'

His eyes glistened, his countenance expressed the most lively, and

tender, commiseration, while, in a timid and respectful voice, he made

me offers of service, and entreated me to permit him to be useful to me.

'I then mentioned, in brief, my present unprotected situation, and

hinted, that as my fortune was small, I could wish to procure a humble,

but decent, apartment in a reputable family, till I had consulted one

friend, who, I yet flattered myself, was interested in my concerns, or

till I could fix on a more eligible method of providing for myself.'

He informed me--'That he had a distant relation in town, a decent,

careful, woman, who kept a boarding house, and whose terms were very

reasonable. He was assured, would I permit him to introduce me to her,

she would be happy, should her accommodation suit me, to pay me every

attention in her power.'

In my forlorn situation, I confided, without hesitation, in his

recommendation, and gratefully acceded to the proposal.

Mr Montague introduced me to this lady in the most flattering terms, she

received me with civility, but, I fancied, not without a slight mixture

of distrust. I agreed with her for a neat chamber, with a sitting room

adjoining, on the second floor, and settled for the terms of my board,

more than the whole amount of the interest of my little fortune.

CHAPTER XVII

I took an early opportunity of addressing a few lines to Mr Francis,

informing him of my situation, and entreating his counsel. I waited a

week, impatiently, for his reply, but in vain: well acquainted with his

punctuality, and alarmed by this silence, I mentioned the step I had

taken, and my apprehensions, to Montague, who immediately repaired,

himself, to the house of Mr Francis; and, finding it shut up, was

informed by the neighbours, that Mr Francis had quitted England, a

short time before, in company with a friend, intending to make a

continental tour.

This intelligence was a new shock to me. I called on some of my former

acquaintance, mentioning to them my wish of procuring pupils, or of

engaging in any other occupation fitted to my talents. I was received by

some with civility, by others with coldness, but every one appeared too

much engrossed by his own affairs to give himself the trouble of making

any great exertion for others.

I returned dispirited--I walked through the crowded city, and observed

the anxious and busy faces of all around me. In the midst of my fellow

beings, occupied in various pursuits, I seemed, as if in an immense

desart, a solitary outcast from society. Active, industrious, willing

to employ my faculties in any way, by which I might procure an honest

independence, I beheld no path open to me, but that to which my spirit

could not submit--the degradation of servitude. Hapless woman!--crushed

by the iron hand of barbarous despotism, pampered into weakness, and

trained the slave of meretricious folly!--what wonder, that, shrinking

from the chill blasts of penury (which the pernicious habits of thy

education have little fitted thy tender frame to encounter) thou

listenest to the honied accents of the spoiler; and, to escape the

galling chain of servile dependence, rushest into the career of infamy,

from whence the false and cruel morality of the world forbids thy

return, and perpetuates thy disgrace and misery! When will mankind

be aware of the uniformity, of the importance, of truth? When will

they cease to confound, by sexual, by political, by theological,

distinctions, those immutable principles, which form the true basis of

virtue and happiness? The paltry expedients of combating error with

error, and prejudice with prejudice, in one invariable and melancholy

circle, have already been sufficiently tried, have already been

demonstrated futile:--they have armed man against man, and filled the

world with crimes, and with blood.--How has the benign and gentle nature

of Reform been mistated! 'One false idea,' justly says an acute and

philosophic writer,[20] 'united with others, produces such as are

necessarily false; which, combining again with all those the memory

retains, give to all a tinge of falsehood. One error, alone, is

sufficient to infect the whole mass of the mind, and produce an infinity

of capricious, monstrous, notions.--Every vice is the error of the

understanding; crimes and prejudices are brothers; truth and virtue

sisters. These things, known to the wise, are hid from fools!'

[Footnote 20: Helvetius.]

Without a sufficiently interesting pursuit, a fatal torpor stole over my

spirits--my blood circulated languidly through my veins. Montague, in

the intervals from business and amusement, continued to visit me. He

brought me books, read to me, chatted with me, pressed me to accompany

him to places of public entertainment, which (determined to incur no

pecuniary obligation) I invariably refused.

I received his civilities with the less scruple, from the information

I had received of his engagement with Miss Morton; which, with his

knowledge of my unhappy attachment, I thought, precluded every idea

of a renewal of those sentiments he had formerly professed for me.

In return for his friendship, I tried to smile, and exerted my spirits,

to prove my grateful sensibility of his kindness: but, while he appeared

to take a lively interest in my sorrows, he carefully avoided a

repetition of the language in which he had once addressed me; yet, at

times, his tender concern seemed sliding into a sentiment still softer,

which obliged me to practise more reserve: he was not insensible of

this, and was frequently betrayed into transient bursts of passion and

resentment, which, on my repelling with firmness, he would struggle to

repress, and afterwards absent himself for a time.

Unable to devise any method of increasing my income, and experiencing

the pressure of some daily wants and inconveniencies, I determined, at

length, on selling the sum invested, in my name, in the funds, and

purchasing a life annuity.

Recollecting the name of a banker, with whom my uncle, the friend of my

infancy, had formerly kept cash, I learned his residence, and, waiting

upon him, made myself known as the niece of an old and worthy friend;

at the same time acquainting him with my intentions.--He offered to

transact the affair for me immediately, the funds being, then, in a

very favourable position; and to preserve the money in his hands till

an opportunity should offer of laying it out to advantage. I gave him

proper credentials for the accomplishing of this business, and returned

to my apartment with a heart somewhat lightened. This scheme had

never before occurred to me. The banker, who was a man of commercial

reputation, had assured me, that my fortune might now be sold out with

little loss; and that, by purchasing an annuity, on proper security, at

seven or eight per cent, I might, with oeconomy, be enabled to support

myself decently, with comfort and independence.

CHAPTER XVIII

Some weeks elapsed, and I heard no more from my banker. A slight

indisposition confined me to the house. One evening, Mr Montague, coming

to my apartment to enquire after my health, brought with him a newspaper

(as was his frequent custom), and, finding me unwell, and dispirited,

began to read some parts from it aloud, in the hope of amusing me. Among

the articles of home intelligence, a paragraph stated--'The failure of

a considerable mercantile house, which had created an alarm upon the

Exchange, as, it was apprehended, some important consequences would

follow in the commercial world. A great banking-house, it was hinted,

not many miles from ----, was likely to be affected, by some rumours, in

connection with this business, which had occasioned a considerable run

upon it for the last two or three days.'

My attention was roused--I eagerly held out my hand for the paper, and

perused this alarming paragraph again and again, without observing the

surprize expressed in the countenance of Montague, who was at a loss to

conceive why this intelligence should be affecting to me.--I sat, for some

minutes, involved in thought, till a question from my companion, several

times repeated, occasioned me to start. I immediately recollected myself,

and tried to reason away my fears, as vague and groundless. I was about

to explain the nature of them to my friend--secretly accusing myself for

not having done so sooner, and availed myself of his advice, when a

servant, entering, put a letter into his hand.

Looking upon the seal and superscription, he changed colour, and opened

it hastily. Strong emotion was painted in his features while he perused

it. I regarded him with anxiety. He rose from his seat, walked up and

down the room with a disordered pace--opened the door, as if with an

intention of going out--shut it--returned back again--threw himself

into a chair--covered his face with his handkerchief--appeared in great

agitation--and burst into tears. I arose, went to him, and took his

hand--'_My friend!_' said I--I would have added something more--but,

unable to proceed, I sunk into a seat beside him, and wept in sympathy.

He pressed my hand to his lips--folded me wildly in his arms, and

attempted to speak--but his voice was lost in convulsive sobs. I gently

withdrew myself, and waited, in silence, till the violence of his

emotions should subside. He held out to me the letter he had received. I

perused it. It contained an account of the sudden death of his father,

and a summons for his immediate return to the country, to settle the

affairs, and to take upon him his father's professional employment.

'You leave me, then!' said I--'I lose my only remaining friend!'

'_Never!_'--he replied, emphatically.

I blushed for having uttered so improper, so selfish, a remark;

and endeavoured to atone for it by forgetting the perils of my own

situation, in attention to that of this ardent, but affectionate, young

man.--His sufferings were acute and violent for some days, during which

he quitted me only at the hours of repose--I devoted myself to sooth and

console him. I felt, that I had been greatly indebted to his friendship

and kindness, and I endeavoured to repay the obligation. He appeared

fully sensible of my cares, and, mingled with his acknowledgments

expressions of a tenderness, so lively, and unequivocal, as obliged me,

once more, to be more guarded in my behaviour.

In consideration for the situation of Mr Montague--I had forgotten

the paragraph in the paper, till an accidental intelligence of the

bankruptcy of the house, in which my little fortune was entrusted,

confirmed to me the certainty of this terrible blow. Montague was

sitting with me when I received the unwelcome news.

'Gracious God!' I exclaimed, clasping my hands, and raising my eyes to

heaven--'What is to become of me now?--The measure of my sorrows is

filled up!'

It was some time before I had power to explain the circumstances to my

companion.

'Do not distress yourself, my lovely Emma,' said he; 'I will be your

friend--your guardian--' (and he added, in a low, yet fervent, accent)

--'_your husband_!'

'No--no--no!' answered I, shaking my head, 'that must not, cannot, be!

I would perish, rather than take advantage of a generosity like yours. I

will go to service--I will work for my bread--and, if I cannot procure

a wretched sustenance--_I can but die_! Life, to me, has long been

worthless!'

My countenance, my voice, my manner, but too forcibly expressed the

keen anguish of my soul. I seemed to be marked out for the victim of a

merciless destiny--_for the child of sorrow_! The susceptible temper of

Montague, softened by his own affliction, was moved by my distress. He

repeated, and enforced, his proposal, with all the ardour of a youthful,

a warm, an uncorrupted, mind.

'You add to my distress,' replied I. 'I have not a heart to bestow--I

lavished mine upon one, who scorned and contemned it. Its sensibility is

now exhausted. Shall I reward a faithful and generous tenderness, like

yours, with a cold, a worthless, an alienated, mind? No, no!--Seek an

object more worthy of you, and leave me to my fate.'

At that moment, I had forgotten the report of his engagement with

Miss Morton; but, on his persisting, vehemently, to urge his suit, I

recollected, and immediately mentioned, it, to him. He confessed--

'That, stung by my rejection, and preference of Mr Harley, he had, at

one period, entertained a thought of that nature; but that he had fallen

out with the family, in adjusting the settlements. Mrs Morton had

persuaded her husband to make, what he conceived to be, ungenerous

requisitions. Miss Morton had discovered much artifice, but little

sensibility, on the occasion. Disgusted with the apathy of the father,

the insolence of the mother and the low cunning of the daughter, he had

abruptly quitted them, and broken off all intercourse with the family.'

It is not necessary to enlarge on this part of my narrative. Suffice it

to say, that, after a long contest, my desolate situation, added to the

persevering affection of this enthusiastic young man, prevailed over my

objections. His happiness, he told me, entirely depended on my decision.

I would not deceive him:--I related to him, with simplicity and truth,

all the circumstances of my past conduct towards Mr Harley. He listened

to me with evident emotion--interrupted me, at times, with execrations;

and, once or twice, vowing vengeance on Augustus, appeared on the verge

of outrage. But I at length reasoned him into greater moderation, and

obliged him to do justice to the merit and honour of Mr Harley. He

acquiesced reluctantly, and with an ill grace, yet, with a lover-like

partiality, attributed his conduct to causes, of which I had discerned

no traces. He assured himself that the affections of a heart, tender as

mine, would be secured by kindness and assiduity--and I at last yielded

to his importunity. We were united in a short time, and I accompanied my

husband to the town of ----, in the county of ----, the residence of his

late father.

CHAPTER XIX

Mr Montague presented me to his relations and friends, by whom I was

received with a flattering distinction. My wearied spirits began now

to find repose. My husband was much occupied in the duties of his

profession. We had a respectable circle of acquaintance: In the

intervals of social engagement, and domestic employment, ever thirsting

after knowledge, I occasionally applied myself to the study of physic,

anatomy, and surgery, with the various branches of science connected

with them; by which means I frequently rendered myself essentially

serviceable to my friend; and, by exercising my understanding and

humanity, strengthened my mind, and stilled the importunate suggestions

of a heart too exquisitely sensible.

The manners of Mr Montague were kind and affectionate, though subject,

at times, to inequalities and starts of passion; he confided in me,

as his best and truest friend--and I deserved his confidence:--yet, I

frequently observed the restlessness and impetuosity of his disposition

with apprehension.

I felt for my husband a rational esteem, and a grateful affection:--but

those romantic, high-wrought, frenzied, emotions, that had rent my heart

during its first attachment--that enthusiasm, that fanaticism, to which

opposition had given force, the bare recollection of which still shook

my soul with anguish, no longer existed. Montague was but too sensible

of this difference, which naturally resulted from the change of

circumstances, and was unreasonable enough to complain of what secured

our tranquillity. If a cloud, sometimes, hung over my brow--if I

relapsed, for a short period, into a too habitual melancholy, he would

grow captious, and complain.

'You esteem me, Emma: I confide in your principles, and I glory in your

friendship--but, you have never _loved_ me!'

'Why will you be so unjust, both to me, and to yourself?'

'Tell me, then, sincerely--I know you will not deceive me--Have you ever

felt for me those sentiments with which Augustus Harley inspired you?'

'Certainly not--I do not pretend to it--neither ought you to wish it.

My first attachment was the morbid excess of a distempered imagination.

Liberty, reason, virtue, usefulness, were the offerings I carried to

its shrine. It preyed incessantly upon my heart, I drank up its vital

spirit, it became a vice from its excess--it was a pernicious, though a

sublime, enthusiasm--its ravages are scarcely to be remembered without

shuddering--all the strength, the dignity, the powers, of my mind, melted

before it! Do you wish again to see me the slave of my passions--do you

regret, that I am restored to reason? To you I owe every thing--life,

and its comforts, rational enjoyments, and the opportunity of usefulness.

I feel for you all the affection that a reasonable and a virtuous mind

ought to feel--that affection which is compatible with the fulfilling

of other duties. We are guilty of vice and selfishness when we yield

ourselves up to unbounded desires, and suffer our hearts to be wholly

absorbed by one object, however meritorious that object may be.'

'Ah! how calmly you reason,--while I listen to you I cannot help loving

and admiring you, but I must ever hate that accursed Harley--No! _I am

not satisfied_--and I sometimes regret that I ever beheld you.'

Many months glided away with but little interruptions to our

tranquillity.--A remembrance of the past would at times obtrude itself,

like the broken recollections of a feverish vision. To banish these

painful retrospections, I hastened to employ myself; every hour was

devoted to active usefulness, or to social and rational recreation.

I became a mother; in performing the duties of a nurse, my affections

were awakened to new and sweet emotions.--The father of my child

appeared more respectable in my eyes, became more dear to me: the

engaging smiles of my little Emma repayed me for every pain and every

anxiety. While I beheld my husband caress his infant, I tasted a pure, a

chaste, an ineffable pleasure.

CHAPTER XX

About six weeks after my recovery from childbed, some affairs of

importance called Mr Montague to London. Three days after he had quitted

me, as, bending over the cradle of my babe, I contemplated in silence

its tranquil slumbers, I was alarmed by an uncommon confusion in the

lower part of the house. Hastening down stairs, to enquire into the

cause, I was informed--that a gentleman, in passing through the town,

had been thrown from his horse, that he was taken up senseless, and, as

was customary in cases of accident, had been brought into our house,

that he might receive assistance.

Mr Montague was from home, a young gentleman who resided with us, and

assisted my husband in his profession, was also absent, visiting a

patient. Having myself acquired some knowledge of surgery, I went

immediately into the hall to give the necessary directions on the

occasion. The gentleman was lying on the floor, without any signs of

life. I desired the people to withdraw, who, crowding round with

sincere, but useless sympathy, obstructed the circulation of air.

Approaching the unfortunate man, I instantly recognised the well-known

features, though much altered, wan and sunk, of _Augustus Harley_.

Staggering a few paces backward--a death-like sickness overspread my

heart--a crowd of confused and terrible emotions rushed through my

mind.--But a momentary reflection recalled my scattered thoughts. Once

before, I had saved from death an object so fatal to my repose. I

exerted all my powers, his hair was clotted, and his face disfigured

with blood; I ordered the servants to raise and carry him to an

adjoining apartment, wherein was a large, low sopha, on which they laid

him. Carefully washing the blood from the wound, I found he had received

a dangerous contusion in his head, but that the scull, as I had at first

apprehended, was not fractured. I cut the hair from the wounded part,

and applied a proper bandage. I did more--no other assistance being at

hand, I ventured to open a vein: the blood presently flowed freely, and

he began to revive. I bathed his temples, and sprinkled the room with

vinegar, opened the windows to let the air pass freely through, raised

his head with the pillows of the sopha, and sprinkled his face and

breast with cold water. I held his hand in mine--I felt the languid and

wavering pulse quicken--I fixed my eyes upon his face--at that moment

every thing else was forgotten, and my nerves seemed firmly braced by my

exertions.

He at length opened his eyes, gazed upon me with a vacant look, and

vainly attempted, for some time, to speak. At last, he uttered a few

incoherent words, but I perceived his senses were wandering, and I

conjectured, too truly, that his brain had received a concussion. He

made an effort to rise, but sunk down again.

'Where am I,' said he, 'every object appears to me double.'

He shut his eyes, and remained silent. I mixed for him a cordial and

composing medicine, and entreating him to take it, he once more raised

himself, and looked up.--Our eyes met, his were wild and unsettled.

'That voice,'--said he, in a low tone, 'that countenance--Oh God! where

am I?'

A strong, but transient, emotion passed over his features. With a

trembling hand he seized and swallowed the medicine I had offered, and

again relapsed into a kind of lethargic stupor. I then gave orders for a

bed to be prepared, into which I had him conveyed. I darkened the room,

and desired, that he might be kept perfectly quiet.

I retired to my apartment, my confinement was yet but recent, and I had

not perfectly recovered my strength. Exhausted by the strong efforts I

had made, and the stronger agitation of my mind, I sunk into a fainting

fit, (to which I was by no means subject) and remained for some time

in a state of perfect insensibility. On my recovery, I learnt that Mr

Lucas, the assistant of my husband, had returned, and was in the chamber

of the stranger; I sent for him on his quitting the apartment, and

eagerly interrogated him respecting the state of the patient. He shook

his head--I related to him the methods I had taken, and enquired whether

I had erred? He smiled--

'You are an excellent surgeon,' said he, 'you acted very properly, but,'

observing my pallid looks, 'I wish your little nursery may not suffer

from your humanity'--

'I lay no claim,' replied I with emotion--'to extraordinary humanity--I

would have done the same for the poorest of my fellow creatures--but

this gentleman is an old acquaintance, _a friend_, whom, in the early

periods of my life, I greatly respected.'

'I am sorry for it, for I dare not conceal from you, that I think him in

a dangerous condition.'

I changed countenance--'There is no fracture, no bones are broken.'--

'No, but the brain has received an alarming concussion--he is also,

otherwise, much bruised, and, I fear, has suffered some internal

injury.'

'You distress and terrify me,' said I, gasping for breath--'What is to

be done--shall we call in further advice?'

'I think so; in the mean time, if you are acquainted with his friends,

you would do well to apprize them of what has happened.'

'I know little of them, I know not where to address them--Oh! save him,'

continued I, clasping my hands with encreased emotion, unconscious of

what I did, 'for God's sake save him, if you would preserve me from

dis--'

A look penetrating and curious from Lucas, recalled me to reason.

Commending his patient to my care, he quitted me, and rode to the next

town to procure the aid of a skilful and experienced Physician. I walked

up and down the room for some time in a state of distraction.

'He will die'--exclaimed I--'die in my house--fatal accident! Oh,

Augustus! _too tenderly beloved_, thou wert fated to be the ruin of my

peace! But, whatever may be the consequences, I will perform, for thee,

the last tender offices.--I will not desert my duty!'

The nurse brought to me my infant, it smiled in my face--I pressed it to

my bosom--I wept over it.--How could I, from that agitated bosom, give

it a pernicious sustenance?

CHAPTER XXI

In the evening, I repaired to the chamber of Mr Harley, I sat by his

bed-side, I gazed mournfully on his flushed, but vacant countenance--I

took his hand--it was dry and burning--the pulse beat rapidly, but

irregularly, beneath my trembling fingers. His lips moved, he seemed to

speak, though inarticulately--but sometimes raising his voice, I could

distinguish a few incoherent sentences. In casting my eyes round the

room, I observed the scattered articles of his dress, his cloaths were

black, and in his hat, which lay on the ground, I discovered a crape

hatband. I continued to hold his burning hand in mine.

'She died,'--said he--'and my unkindness killed her--unhappy Emma--thy

heart was too tender!'--I shuddered--'No, no,'--continued he, after a

few minutes pause, 'she is not married--she dared not give her hand

without her heart, _and that heart was only mine_!' he added something

more, in a lower tone, which I was unable to distinguish.

Overcome by a variety of sensations, I sunk into a chair, and, throwing

my handkerchief over my face, indulged my tears.

Sometimes he mentioned his wife, sometimes his mother.--At length,

speaking rapidly, in a raised voice--'My son,'--said he, 'thou hast no

mother--but Emma will be a mother to thee--she will love thee--_she

loved thy father_--her heart was the residence of gentle

affections--yet, I pierced that heart!'

I suspected, that a confused recollection of having seen me on

recovering from the state of insensibility, in which he had been

brought, after the accident, into our house, had probably recalled the

associations formerly connected with this idea. The scene became too

affecting: I rushed from the apartment. All the past impressions seemed

to revive in my mind--my thoughts, with fatal mechanism, ran back into

their old and accustomed channels.--For a moment, conjugal, maternal,

duties, every consideration _but for one object_ faded from before me!

In a few hours, Mr Lucas returned with the physician;--I attended

them to the chamber, heedfully watching their looks. The fever still

continued very high, accompanied with a labouring, unsteady pulse, a

difficult respiration, and strong palpitations of the heart. The doctor

said little, but I discovered his apprehensions in his countenance. The

patient appeared particularly restless and uneasy, and the delirium

still continued. On quitting the apartment, I earnestly conjured the

gentlemen to tell me their opinion of the case. They both expressed an

apprehension of internal injury.

'But a short time,' they added, 'would determine it; in the mean while

he must be kept perfectly still.'

I turned from them, and walked to the window--I raised my eyes to

heaven--I breathed an involuntary ejaculation--I felt that the crisis

of my fate was approaching, and I endeavoured to steel my nerves--to

prepare my mind for the arduous duties which awaited me.

Mr Lucas approached me, the physician having quitted the room. '_Mrs

Montague_,' said he, in an emphatic tone--'in your sympathy for a

_stranger_, do not forget other relations.'

'I do not need, sir, to be reminded by you of my duties; were not the

sufferings of a fellow being a sufficient claim upon our humanity, this

gentleman has _more affecting claims_--I am neither a stranger to him,

nor to his virtues.'

'So I perceive, madam,' said he, with an air a little sarcastic, 'I

wish, Mr Montague were here to participate your cares.'

'I wish he were, sir, his generous nature would not disallow them.' I

spoke haughtily, and abruptly left him.

I took a turn in the garden, endeavouring to compose my spirits, and,

after visiting the nursery, returned to the chamber of Mr Harley. I

there found Mr Lucas, and in a steady tone, declared my intention of

watching his patient through the night.

'As you please, madam,' said he coldly.

I seated myself in an easy chair, reclining my head on my hand. The bed

curtains were undrawn on the side next me. Augustus frequently started,

as from broken slumbers; his respiration grew, every moment, more

difficult and laborious, and, sometimes, he groaned heavily, as if in

great pain. Once he suddenly raised himself in the bed, and, gazing

wildly round the room, exclaimed in a distinct, but hurried tone--

'Why dost thou persecute me with thy ill-fated tenderness? A fathomless

gulf separates us!--Emma!' added he, in a plaintive voice, '_dost thou,

indeed, still love me?_' and, heaving a convulsive sigh, sunk again on

his pillow.

Mr Lucas, who stood at the feet of the bed, turned his eye on me. I

met his glance with the steady aspect of conscious rectitude. About

midnight, our patient grew worse, and, after strong agonies, was seized

with a vomiting of blood. The fears of the physician were but too well

verified, he had again ruptured the blood-vessel, once before broken.

Mr Lucas had but just retired, I ordered him to be instantly recalled,

and, stifling every feeling, that might incapacitate me for active

exertion, I rendered him all the assistance in my power--I neither

trembled, nor shed a tear--I banished the _woman_ from my heart--I

acquitted myself with a firmness that would not have disgraced the most

experienced, and veteran surgeon. My services were materially useful,

my solicitude vanquished every shrinking sensibility, _affection had

converted me into a heroine_! The hæmorrhage continued, at intervals,

all the next day: I passed once or twice from the chamber to the

nursery, and immediately returned. We called in a consultation, but

little hope was afforded.

The next night, Mr Lucas and myself continued to watch--towards morning

our exhausted patient sunk into an apparently tranquil slumber. Mr Lucas

intreated me to retire, and take some repose, on my refusal, he availed

himself of the opportunity, and went to his apartment, desiring to be

called if any change should take place. The nurse slept soundly in her

chair, I alone remained watching--I felt neither fatigue nor languor--my

strength seemed preserved as by a miracle, so omnipotent is the

operation of moral causes!

Silence reigned throughout the house; I hung over the object of my

tender cares--his features were serene--but his cheeks and lips were

pale and bloodless. From time to time I took his lifeless hand--a low,

fluttering, pulse, sometimes seeming to stop, and then to vibrate with a

tremulous motion, but too plainly justified my fears--his breath, though

less laborious, was quick and short--a cold dew hung upon his temples--I

gently wiped them with my handkerchief, and pressed my lips to his

forehead. Yet, at that moment, that solemn moment--while I beheld the

object of my virgin affections--whom I had loved with a tenderness,

'passing the love of woman'--expiring before my eyes--I forgot not that

I was a wife and a mother.--The purity of my feelings sanctified their

enthusiasm!

The day had far advanced, though the house still remained quiet, when

Augustus, after a deep drawn sigh, opened his eyes. The loss of blood

had calmed the delirium, and though he regarded me attentively, and with

evident surprize, the wildness of his eyes and countenance had given

place to their accustomed steady expression. He spoke in a faint voice.

'Where am I, how came I here?'

I drew nearer to him--'An unfortunate accident has thrown you into the

care of kind friends--you have been very ill--it is not proper that you

should exert yourself--rely on those to whom your safety is precious.'

He looked at me as I spoke--his eyes glistened--he breathed a half

smothered sigh, but attempted not to reply. He continued to doze at

intervals throughout the day, but evidently grew weaker every hour--I

quitted him not for a moment, even my nursery was forgotten. I sat, or

knelt, at the bed's head, and, between his short and broken slumbers,

administered cordial medicines. He seemed to take them with pleasure

from my hand, and a mournful tenderness at times beamed in his eyes. I

neither spake nor wept--my strength appeared equal to every trial.

In the evening, starting from a troubled sleep, he fell into

convulsions--I kept my station--our efforts were successful--he again

revived. I supported the pillows on which his head reclined, sprinkled

the bed cloaths, and bathed his temples, with hungary water, while I

wiped from them the damps of death. A few tears at length forced their

way, they fell upon his hand, which rested on the pillow--he kissed them

off, and raised to mine his languid eyes, in which death was already

painted.

The blood forsaking the extremities, rushed wildly to my heart, a strong

palpitation seized it, my fortitude had well nigh forsaken me. But I

had been habituated to subdue my feelings, and should I suffer them

to disturb the last moments of him, _who had taught me this painful

lesson_? He made a sign for a cordial, an attendant offering one--he

waved his hand and turned from her his face--I took it--held it to

his lips, and he instantly drank it. Another strong emotion shook my

nerves--once more I struggled and gained the victory. He spoke in feeble

and interrupted periods--kneeling down, scarce daring to breathe, I

listened.

'I have a son,' said he,--'I am dying--he will have no longer a

parent--transfer to him a portion of--'

'I comprehend you--say no more--_he is mine_--I adopt him--where shall I

find--?'

He pointed to his cloaths;--'a pocket book'--said he, in accents still

fainter.

'Enough!--I swear, in this awful moment, never to forsake him.'

He raised my hand to his lips--a tender smile illumined his countenance

--'Surely,' said he, 'I have sufficiently fulfilled the dictates of

a rigid honour!--In these last moments--when every earthly tie is

dissolving--when human institutions fade before my sight--I may,

without a crime, tell you--_that I have loved you_.--Your tenderness

early penetrated my heart--aware of its weakness--I sought to shun

you--I imposed on myself those severe laws of which you causelessly

complained.--Had my conduct been less rigid, I had been lost--I had been

unjust to the bonds which I had voluntarily contracted; and which,

therefore, had on me indispensible claims. I acted from good motives,

but no doubt, was guilty of some errors--yet, my conflicts were,

even, more cruel than yours--I had not only to contend against my own

sensibility, but against yours also.--The fire which is pent up burns

the fiercest!'--

He ceased to speak--a transient glow, which had lighted up his

countenance, faded--exhausted, by the strong effort he had made, he sunk

back--his eyes grew dim--they closed--_their last light beamed on

me_!--I caught him in my arms--and--_he awoke no more_. The spirits,

that had hitherto supported me, suddenly subsided. I uttered a piercing

shriek, and sunk upon the body.

CHAPTER XXII

Many weeks passed of which I have no remembrance, they were a blank in

my life--a long life of sorrow! When restored to recollection, I found

myself in my own chamber, my husband attending me. It was a long time

before I could clearly retrace the images of the past. I learned--

'That I had been seized with a nervous fever, in consequence of having

exerted myself beyond my strength; that my head had been disordered;

that Mr Montague on his return, finding me in this situation, of which

Mr Lucas had explained the causes, had been absorbed in deep affliction;

that, inattentive to every other concern, he had scarcely quitted my

apartment; that my child had been sent out to nurse; and that my

recovery had been despaired of.'

My constitution was impaired by these repeated shocks. I continued

several months in a low and debilitated state.--With returning reason,

I recalled to my remembrance the charge which Augustus had consigned to

me in his last moments. I enquired earnestly for the pocket-book he had

mentioned, and was informed, that, after his decease, it had been found,

and its contents examined, which were a bank note of fifty pounds, some

letters, and memorandums. Among the letters was one from his brother,

by which means they had learned his address, and had been enabled to

transmit to him an account of the melancholy catastrophe, and to request

his orders respecting the disposal of the body. On the receipt of this

intelligence, the younger Mr Harley had come immediately into ----shire,

had received his brother's effects, and had his remains decently and

respectfully interred in the town where the fatal accident had taken

place, through which he was passing in his way to visit a friend.

As soon as I had strength to hold a pen, I wrote to this gentleman,

mentioning the tender office which had been consigned to me; and

requesting that the child, or children, of Mr Augustus Harley, might be

consigned to my care. To this letter I received an answer, in a few

days, hinting--

'That the marriage of my deceased friend had not been more imprudent

than unfortunate; that he had struggled with great difficulties and many

sorrows; that his wife had been dead near a twelve-month; that he had

lost two of his children, about the same period, with the small-pox, one

only surviving, the younger, a son, a year and a half old; that it was,

at present, at nurse, under his (his brother's) protection; that his

respect for me, and knowledge of my friendship for their family, added

to his wish of complying with every request of his deceased brother,

prevented him from hesitating a moment respecting the propriety of

yielding the child to my care; that it should be delivered to any person

whom I should commission for the purpose; and that I might draw upon him

for the necessary charges towards the support and education of his

nephew.'

I mentioned to Mr Montague these particulars, with a desire of availing

myself of his counsel and assistance on the occasion.

'You are free, madam,' he replied, with a cold and distant air, 'to act

as you shall think proper; but you must excuse me from making myself

responsible in this affair.'

I sighed deeply. I perceived, but too plainly, that _a mortal blow was

given to my tranquillity_; but I determined to persevere in what I

considered to be my duty. On the retrospect of my conduct, my heart

acquitted me; and I endeavoured to submit, without repining, to my fate.

I was, at this period, informed by a faithful servant, who attended me

during my illness, of what I had before but too truly conjectured--That

in my delirium I had incessantly called upon the name of Augustus Harley,

and repeated, at intervals, in broken language, the circumstances of our

last tender and fatal interview: this, with some particulars related

by Mr Lucas to Mr Montague on his return, had, it seems, at the time,

inflamed the irascible passions of my husband, almost to madness. His

transports had subsided, by degrees, into gloomy reserve: he had watched

me, till my recovery, with unremitting attention; since which his

confidence and affection became, every day, more visibly alienated.

Self-respect suppressed my complaints--conscious of deserving, even more

than ever, his esteem, I bore his caprice with patience, trusting that

time, and my conduct, would restore him to reason, and awaken in his

heart a sense of justice.

I sent for my babe from the house of the nurse, to whose care it had

been confided during my illness, and placed the little Augustus in its

stead. 'It is unnecessary, my friend, to say, that you were that lovely

and interesting child.--Oh! with what emotion did I receive, and press,

you to my care-worn bosom; retracing in your smiling countenance the

features of your unfortunate father! Adopting you for my own, I divided

my affection between you and my Emma. Scarce a day passed that I did

not visit the cottage of your nurse. I taught you to call me by the

endearing name of _mother_! I delighted to see you caress my infant with

fraternal tenderness--I endeavoured to cherish this growing affection,

and found a sweet relief from my sorrows in these tender, maternal,

cares.'

CHAPTER XXIII

My health being considerably injured, I had taken a young woman into my

house, to assist me in the nursery, and in other domestic offices. She

was in her eighteenth year--simple, modest, and innocent. This girl had

resided with me for some months. I had been kind to her, and she

seemed attached to me. One morning, going suddenly into Mr Montague's

dressing-room, I surprised Rachel sitting on a sopha with her master:--he

held her hand in his, while his arm was thrown round her waist; and they

appeared to be engaged in earnest conversation. They both started, on my

entrance:--Unwilling to encrease their confusion, I quitted the room.

Montague, on our meeting at dinner, affected an air of unconcern; but

there was an apparent constraint in his behaviour. I preserved towards

him my accustomed manner, till the servants had withdrawn. I then mildly

expostulated with him on the impropriety of his behaviour. His replies

were not more unkind than ungenerous--they pierced my heart.

'It is well, sir, I am inured to suffering; but it is not of _myself_

that I would speak. I have not deserved to lose your confidence--this

is my consolation;--yet, I submit to it:--but I cannot see you act in a

manner, that will probably involve you in vexation, and intail upon you

remorse, without warning you of your danger. Should you corrupt the

innocence of this girl, she is emphatically _ruined_. It is the strong

mind only, that, firmly resting on its own powers, can sustain and

recover itself amidst the world's scorn and injustice. The morality of

an uncultivated understanding, is that of _custom_, not of reason: break

down the feeble barrier, and there is nothing to supply its place--you

open the flood-gates of infamy and wretchedness. Who can say where the

evil may stop?'

'You are at liberty to discharge your servant, when you please, madam.'

'I think it my duty to do so, Mr Montague--not on my own, but on _her_,

account. If I have no claim upon your affection and principles, I would

disdain to watch your conduct. But I feel myself attached to this young

woman, and would wish to preserve her from destruction!'

'You are very generous, but as you thought fit to bestow on me your

_hand_, when your _heart_ was devoted to another--'

'It is enough, sir!--To your justice, only, in your cooler moments,

would I appeal!'

I procured for Rachel a reputable place, in a distant part of the

county.--Before she quitted me, I seriously, and affectionately,

remonstrated with her on the consequences of her behaviour. She answered

me only with tears and blushes.

In vain I tried to rectify the principles, and subdue the cruel

prejudices, of my husband. I endeavoured to shew him every mark of

affection and confidence. I frequently expostulated with him, upon

his conduct, with tears--urged him to respect himself and me--strove

to convince him of the false principles upon which he acted--of the

senseless and barbarous manner in which he was sacrificing my peace, and

his own, to a romantic chimera. Sometimes he would appear, for a moment,

melted with my tender and fervent entreaties.

'Would to God!' he would say, with emotion, 'the last six months of my

life could be obliterated for ever from my remembrance!'

He was no longer active, and chearful: he would sit, for hours, involved

in deep and gloomy silence. When I brought the little Emma, to soften,

by her engaging caresses, the anxieties by which his spirits appeared

to be overwhelmed, he would gaze wildly upon her--snatch her to his

breast--and then, suddenly throwing her from him, rush out of the house;

and, inattentive to the duties of his profession, absent himself for

days and nights together:--his temper grew, every hour, more furious and

unequal.

He by accident, one evening, met the little Augustus, as his nurse was

carrying him from my apartment; and, breaking rudely into the room,

overwhelmed me with a torrent of abuse and reproaches. I submitted

to his injustice with silent grief--my spirits were utterly broken.

At times, he would seem to be sensible of the impropriety of his

conduct--would execrate himself and entreat my forgiveness;--but

quickly relapsed into his accustomed paroxysms, which, from having

been indulged, were now become habitual, and uncontroulable. These

agitations seemed daily to encrease--all my efforts to regain his

confidence--my patient, unremitted, attentions--were fruitless. He

shunned me--he appeared, even, to regard me with horror. I wept in

silence. The hours which I passed with my children afforded me my only

consolation--they became painfully dear to me. Attending to their little

sports, and innocent gambols, I forgot, for a moment, my griefs.

CHAPTER XXIV

Some months thus passed away, with little variation in my situation.

Returning home one morning, early, from the nurse's, where I had left my

Emma with Augustus (whom I never, now, permitted to be brought to my own

house) as I entered, Mr Montague shot suddenly by me, and rushed up

stairs towards his apartment. I saw him but transiently, as he passed;

but his haggard countenance, and furious gestures, filled me with

dismay. He had been from home the preceding night; but to these absences

I had lately been too much accustomed to regard them as any thing

extraordinary. I hesitated a few moments, whether I should follow him.

I feared, lest I might exasperate him by so doing; yet, the unusual

disorder of his appearance gave me a thousand terrible and nameless

apprehensions. I crept toward the door of his apartment--listened

attentively, and heard him walking up and down the room, with hasty

steps--sometimes he appeared to stop, and groaned heavily:--once I

heard him throw up the sash, and shut it again with violence.

I attempted to open the door, but, finding it locked, my terror

increased.--I knocked gently, but could not attract his attention. At

length I recollected another door, that led to this apartment, through

my own chamber, which was fastened on the outside, and seldom opened.

With trembling steps I hurried round, and, on entering the room,

beheld him sitting at a table, a pen in his hand, and paper before

him. On the table lay his pistols--his hair was dishevelled--his

dress disordered--his features distorted with emotion--while in his

countenance was painted the extreme of horror and despair.

I uttered a faint shriek, and sunk into a chair. He started from his

seat, and, advancing towards me with hurried and tremulous steps,

sternly demanded, Why I intruded on his retirement? I threw myself

at his feet,--I folded my arms round him--I wept--I deprecated his

anger--I entreated to be heard--I said all that humanity, all that the

most tender and lively sympathy could suggest, to inspire him with

confidence--to induce him to relieve, by communication, the burthen

which oppressed his heart.--He struggled to free himself from me--my

apprehensions gave me strength--I held him with a strenuous grasp--he

raved--he stamped--he tore his hair--his passion became frenzy! At

length, forcibly bursting from him, I fell on the floor, and the blood

gushed from my nose and lips. He shuddered convulsively--stood a few

moments, as if irresolute--and, then, throwing himself beside me, raised

me from the ground; and, clasping me to his heart, which throbbed

tumultuously, burst into a flood of tears.

'I will not be thy _murderer_, Emma!' said he, in a voice of agony,

interrupted by heart-rending sobs--'I have had enough of blood!'

I tried to sooth him--I assured him I was not hurt--I besought him to

confide his sorrows to the faithful bosom of his wife! He appeared

softened--his tears flowed without controul.

'Unhappy woman!--you know not what you ask! To be ingenuous, belongs

to purity like yours!--Guilt, black as hell!--conscious, aggravated,

damnable, guilt!--_Your fatal attachment_--my accursed jealousy!--Ah!

Emma! I have injured you--but you are, indeed, revenged!'

Every feature seemed to work--seemed pregnant with dreadful meaning--he

was relapsing into frenzy.

'Be calm, my friend--be not unjust to yourself--you can have committed

no injury that I shall not willingly forgive--you are incapable of

persisting in guilt. The ingenuous mind, that avows, has already made

half the reparation. Suffer me to learn the source of your inquietude! I

may find much to extenuate--I may be able to convince you, that you are

too severe to yourself.'

'Never, never, never!--nothing can extenuate--_the expiation must be

made_!--Excellent, admirable, woman!--Remember, without hating, the

wretch who has been unworthy of you--who could not conceive, who knew

not how to estimate, your virtues!--Oh!--do not--do not'--straining me

to his bosom--'curse my memory!'

He started from the ground, and, in a moment, was out of sight.

I raised myself with difficulty--faint, tottering, gasping for breath, I

attempted to descend the stairs. I had scarcely reached the landing-place,

when a violent knocking at the door shook my whole frame. I stood still,

clinging to the balustrade, unable to proceed. I heard a chaise draw

up--a servant opening the door--a plain-looking countryman alighted, and

desired instantly to speak to the lady of the house--his business was,

he said, of life and death! I advanced towards him, pale and trembling!

'What is the matter, my friend--whence came you?'

'I cannot stop, lady, to explain myself--you must come with me--I will

tell you more as we go along.'

'Do you come,' enquired I, in a voice scarcely articulate, 'from my

husband?'

'No--no--I come from a person who is dying, who has somewhat of

consequence to impart to you--Hasten, lady--there is no time to lose!'

'Lead, then, I follow you.'

He helped me into the chaise, and we drove off with the rapidity of

lightning.

CHAPTER XXV

I asked no more questions on the road, but attempted to fortify my mind

for the scenes which, I foreboded, were approaching. After about an

hour's ride, we stopped at a small, neat, cottage, embosomed in trees,

standing alone, at a considerable distance from the high-road. A

decent-looking, elderly, woman, came to the door, at the sound of the

carriage, and assisted me to alight. In her countenance were evident

marks of perturbation and horror. I asked for a glass of water; and,

having drank it, followed the woman, at her request, up stairs. She

seemed inclined to talk, but I gave her no encouragement--I knew not

what awaited me, nor what exertions might be requisite--I determined not

to exhaust my spirits unnecessarily.

On entering a small chamber, I observed a bed, with the curtains closely

drawn. I advanced towards it, and, unfolding them, beheld the unhappy

Rachel lying in a state of apparent insensibility.

'She is dying,' whispered the woman, 'she has been in strong

convulsions; but she could not die in peace without seeing Madam

Montague, and obtaining her forgiveness.'

I approached the unfortunate girl, and took her lifeless hand.--A

feeble pulse still trembled--I gazed upon her, for some moments, in

silence.--She heaved a deep sigh--her lips moved, inarticulately. She,

at length, opened her eyes, and, fixing them upon me, the blood seemed

to rush through her languid frame--reanimating it. She sprung up in the

bed, and, clasping her hands together, uttered a few incoherent words.

'Be pacified, my dear--I am not angry with you--I feel only pity.'

She looked wildly. 'Ah! my dear lady, I am a wicked girl--but not--Oh,

no!--_not a murderer!_ I did not--indeed, I did not--murder my child!'

A cold tremor seized me--I turned heart-sick--a sensation of horror

thrilled through my veins!

'My dear, my kind mistress,' resumed the wretched girl, 'can you forgive

me?--Oh! that cruel, barbarous, man!--It was _he_ who did it--indeed, it

was _he_ who did it!' Distraction glared in her eyes.

'I do forgive you,' said I, in broken accents. 'I will take care of

you--but you must be calm.'

'I will--I will'--replied she, in a rapid tone of voice--'but do not

send me to prison--_I did not murder it!_--Oh! my child, my child!'

continued she, in a screaming tone of frantic violence, and was again

seized with strong convulsions.

We administered all the assistance in our power. I endeavoured, with

success, to stifle my emotions in the active duties of humanity. Rachel

once more revived. After earnestly commending her to the care of the

good woman of the house, and promising to send medicines and nourishment

proper for her situation, and to reward their attentions--desiring

that she might be kept perfectly still, and not be suffered to talk on

subjects that agitated her--I quitted the place, presaging but too much,

and not having, at that time, the courage to make further enquiries.

CHAPTER XXVI

On entering my own house my heart misgave me. I enquired, with

trepidation, for my husband, and was informed--'That he had returned

soon after my departure, and had shut himself in his apartment; that, on

being followed by Mr Lucas, he had turned fiercely upon him, commanding

him, in an imperious tone, instantly to leave him; adding, he had affairs

of importance to transact; and should any one dare to intrude on him,

it would be at the peril of their lives.' All the family appeared in

consternation, but no one had presumed to disobey the orders of their

master.--They expressed their satisfaction at my return--Alas! I was

impotent to relieve the apprehensions which, I too plainly perceived,

had taken possession of their minds.

I retired to my chamber, and, with a trembling hand, traced, and

addressed to my husband, a few incoherent lines--briefly hinting my

suspicions respecting the late transactions--exhorting him to provide

for his safety, and offering to be the companion of his flight. I

added--'Let us reap wisdom from these tragical consequences of _indulged

passion_! It is not to atone for the past error, by cutting off the

prospect of future usefulness--Repentance for what can never be

recalled, is absurd and vain, but as it affords a lesson for the time

to come--do not let us wilfully forfeit the fruits of our dear-bought

experience! I will never reproach you! Virtuous resolution, and time,

may yet heal these aggravated wounds. Dear Montague, be no longer

the slave of error; inflict not on my tortured mind new, and more

insupportable, terrors! I await your directions--let us fly--let us

summon our fortitude--let us, at length, bravely stem the tide of

passion--let us beware of the criminal pusillanimity of despair!'

With faultering steps, I sought the apartment of my husband. I listened

a moment at the door--and hearing him in motion, while profound sighs

burst every instant from his bosom, I slid my paper under the door,

unfolded, that it might be the more likely to attract his attention.

Presently, I had the satisfaction of hearing him take it up. After some

minutes, a slip of paper was returned, by the same method which I had

adopted, in which was written, in characters blotted, and scarcely

legible, the following words--

'Leave me, one half hour, to my reflections: at the end of that period,

be assured, I will see, or write, to you.'

I knew him to be incapable of falsehood--my heart palpitated with hope.

I went to my chamber, and passed the interval in a thousand cruel

reflections, and vague plans for our sudden departure. Near an hour

had elapsed, when the bell rang. I started, breathless, from my seat.

A servant passed my door, to take his master's orders. He returned

instantly, and, meeting me in the passage, delivered to me a letter.

I heard Montague again lock the door.--Disappointed, I re-entered my

chamber. In my haste to get at the contents of the paper, I almost tore

it in pieces--the words swam before my sight. I held it for some moments

in my hand, incapable of decyphering the fatal characters. I breathed

with difficulty--all the powers of life seemed suspended--when the

report of a pistol roused me to a sense of confused horror.--Rushing

forward, I burst, with preternatural strength, into the apartment of my

husband--What a spectacle!--Assistance was vain!--Montague--the impetuous,

ill-fated, Montague--_was no more--was a mangled corpse_!--Rash,

unfortunate, young, man!

But, why should I harrow up your susceptible mind, by dwelling on

these cruel scenes? _Ah! suffer me to spread a veil over this fearful

catastrophe!_ Some time elapsed ere I had fortitude to examine the paper

addressed to me by my unfortunate husband. Its contents, which were as

follows, affected me with deep and mingled emotions.

TO MRS MONTAGUE.

'Amidst the reflections which press, by turns, upon my

burning brain, an obscure consciousness of the prejudices

upon which my character has been formed, is not the least

torturing--because I feel the _inveterate force of habit_--I

feel, that my convictions come too late!

'I have destroyed myself, and you, dearest, most generous,

and most unfortunate, of women! I am a monster!--I have

seduced innocence, and embrued my hands in blood!--Oh,

God!--Oh, God!--_'Tis there distraction lies!_--I would,

circumstantially, retrace my errors; but my disordered mind,

and quivering hand, refuse the cruel task--yet, it is

necessary that I should attempt a brief sketch.

'After the cruel accident, which destroyed our tranquillity,

I nourished my senseless jealousies (the sources of

which I need not, now, recapitulate), till I persuaded

myself--injurious wretch that I was!--that I had been

perfidiously and ungenerously treated. Stung by false pride,

I tried to harden my heart, and foolishly thirsted for

revenge. Your meekness, and magnanimity, disappointed me.--I

would willingly have seen you, not only suffer the PANGS,

but express the _rage_, of a slighted wife. The simple

victim of my baseness, by the artless affection she

expressed for me, gained an ascendency over my mind; and,

when you removed her from your house, we still contrived, at

times, to meet. The consequences of our intercourse could

not long be concealed. It was, then, that I first began

to open my eyes on my conduct, and to be seized with

remorse!--Rachel, now, wept incessantly. Her father, she

told me, was a stern and severe man; and should he hear of

her misconduct, would, she was certain, be her destruction.

I procured for her an obscure retreat, to which I removed

the unhappy girl [Oh, how degrading is vice!], under false

pretences. I exhorted her to conceal her situation--to

pretend, that her health was in a declining state--and I

visited her, from time to time, as in my profession.

'This poor young creature continued to bewail the disgrace

she anticipated--her lamentations pierced my soul! I

recalled to my remembrance your emphatic caution. I foresaw

that, with the loss of her character, this simple girl's

misfortune and degradation would be irretrievable; and I

could, now, plainly distinguish the morality of _rule_ from

that of _principle_. Pursuing this train of reasoning, I

entangled myself, for my views were not yet sufficiently

clear and comprehensible! Bewildered, amidst contending

principles--distracted by a variety of emotions--in seeking

a remedy for one vice, I plunged (as is but too common),

into others of a more scarlet dye. With shame and horror, I

confess, I repeatedly tried, by medical drugs, to procure

an abortive birth: the strength and vigour of Rachel's

constitution defeated this diabolical purpose. Foiled in

these attempts, I became hardened, desperate, and

barbarous!

'Six weeks before the allotted period, the infant saw the

light--for a moment--to close its eyes on it for ever!

I, only, was with the unhappy mother. I had formed no

deliberate purpose--I had not yet arrived at the acme of

guilt--but, perceiving, from the babe's premature birth, and

the consequences of the pernicious potions which had been

administered to the mother, that the vital flame played

but feebly--that life was but as a quivering, uncertain,

spark--a sudden and terrible thought darted through my mind.

I know not whether my emotion betrayed me to the ear of

Rachel--but, suddenly throwing back the curtain of the bed,

she beheld me grasp--with savage ferocity--_with murderous

hands_!--Springing from the bed, and throwing herself upon

me--her piercing shrieks--

'_I can no more_--of the rest you seem, from whatever means,

but too well informed!

I need not say--protect, if she survive, the miserable

mother!--To you, whose heavenly goodness I have so ill

requited, it would be injurious as unnecessary! I read, too

late, the heart I have insulted!

'I have settled the disposal of my effects--I have commanded

my feelings to give you this last, sad, proof of my

confidence.--_Kneeling_, I entreat your forgiveness for the

sufferings I have caused you! I found your heart wounded--and

into those festering wounds I infused a deadly venom--curse

not my memory--_We meet no more_.

'Farewel! first, and last, and only, beloved of women!--a

long--a long farewel!

'MONTAGUE.'

These are the consequences of confused systems of morals--and thus it

is, that minds of the highest hope, and fairest prospect, are blasted!

CHAPTER XXVII

The unhappy Rachel recovered her health by slow degrees. I had

determined, when my affairs were settled, to leave a spot, that had been

the scene of so many tragical events. I proposed to the poor girl to

take her again into my family, to which she acceded with rapture. She

has never since quitted me, and her faithful services, and humble,

grateful attachment, have repaid my protection an hundred fold.

Mr Montague left ten thousand pounds, the half of which was settled on

his daughter, the remainder left to my disposal. This determined me to

adopt you wholly for my son. I wrote to your uncle to that purport,

taking upon myself the entire charge of your education, and entreating,

that you might never know, unless informed by myself, to whom you

owed your birth. That you should continue to think me _your mother_,

flattered my tenderness, nor was my Emma, herself, more dear to me.

I retired in a few months to my present residence, sharing my heart and

my attentions between my children, who grew up under my fostering care,

lovely and beloved.

'While every day, soft as it roll'd along,

Shew'd some new charm.'

I observed your affection for each other with a flattering presage.

With the features of your father, you inherited his intrepidity, and

manly virtues--even, at times, I thought I perceived the seeds of his

inflexible spirit; but the caresses of my Emma, more fortunate than her

mother--yet, with all her mother's sensibility--could, in an instant,

soften you to tenderness, and melt you into infantine sweetness.

I endeavoured to form your young minds to every active virtue, to every

generous sentiment.--You received, from the same masters, the same

lessons, till you attained your twelfth year; and my Emma emulated, and

sometimes outstripped your progress. I observed, with a mixture of hope

and solicitude, her lively capacity--her enthusiastic affections; while

I laboured to moderate and regulate them.

It now became necessary that your educations should take a somewhat

different direction; I wished to fit you for a commercial line of life;

but the ardor you discovered for science and literature occasioned me

some perplexity, as I feared it might unfit you for application to

trade, in the pursuit of which so many talents are swallowed up, and

powers wasted. Yet, as to the professions my objections were still more

serious.--The study of law, is the study of chicanery.--The church, the

school of hypocrisy and usurpation! You could only enter the universities

by a moral degradation, that must check the freedom, and contaminate the

purity, of the mind, and, entangling it in an inexplicable maze of error

and contradiction, _poison virtue at its source_, and lay the foundation

for a duplicity of character and a perversion of reason, destructive

of every manly principle of integrity. For the science of physic you

expressed a disinclination. A neighbouring gentleman, a surveyor, a man

high in his profession, and of liberal manners, to whose friendship

I was indebted, offered to take you. You were delighted with this

proposal, (to which I had no particular objection) as you had a taste

for drawing and architecture.

Our separation, though you were to reside in the same town, cost us many

tears--I loved you with more than a mother's fondness--and my Emma clung

round the neck of her beloved brother, her Augustus, her playfellow, and

sobbed on his bosom. It was with difficulty that you could disentangle

yourself from our embraces. Every moment of leisure you flew to us--my

Emma learned from you to draw plans, and to study the laws of proportion.

Every little exuberance in your disposition, which, generated by a noble

pride, sometimes wore the features of asperity, was soothed into peace

by her gentleness and affection: while she delighted to emulate your

fortitude, and to rise superior to the feebleness fostered in her sex,

under the specious name of delicacy. Your mutual attachment encreased

with your years, I renewed my existence in my children, and anticipated

their more perfect union.

Ah! my son, need I proceed? Must I continually blot the page with the

tale of sorrow? Can I tear open again, can I cause to bleed afresh, in

your heart and my own, wounds scarcely closed? In her fourteenth year,

in the spring of life, your Emma and mine, lovely and fragile blossom,

was blighted by a killing frost--After a few days illness, she drooped,

faded, languished, and died!

It was now that I felt--'That no agonies were like the agonies of a

mother.' My broken spirits, from these repeated sorrows, sunk into

habitual, hopeless, dejection. Prospects, that I had meditated with

ineffable delight, were for ever veiled in darkness. Every earthly tie

was broken, except that which bound you to my desolated heart with a

still stronger cord of affection. You wept, in my arms, the loss of her

whom you, yet, fondly believed your sister.--I cherished the illusion

lest, by dissolving it, I should weaken your confidence in my maternal

love, weaken that tenderness which was now my only consolation.

TO AUGUSTUS HARLEY.

My Augustus, _my more than son_, around whom my spirit,

longing for dissolution, still continues to flutter! I have

unfolded the errors of my past life--I have traced them to

their source--I have laid bare my mind before you, that the

experiments which have been made upon it may be beneficial

to yours! It has been a painful, and a humiliating

recital--the retrospection has been marked with anguish. As

the enthusiasm--as the passions of my youth--have passed in

review before me, long forgotten emotions have been revived

in my lacerated heart--it has been again torn with _the

pangs of contemned love_--the disappointment of rational

plans of usefulness--the dissolution of the darling hopes of

maternal pride and fondness. The frost of a premature age

sheds its snows upon my temples, the ravages of a sickly

mind shake my tottering frame. The morning dawns, the

evening closes upon me, the seasons revolve, without hope;

the sun shines, the spring returns, but, to me, it is

mockery.

And is this all of human life--this, that passes like a tale

that is told? Alas! it is a tragical tale! Friendship was

the star, whose cheering influence I courted to beam upon my

benighted course. The social affections were necessary to my

existence, but they have been only inlets to sorrow--_yet,

still, I bind them to my heart_!

Hitherto there seems to have been something strangely wrong

in the constitutions of society--a lurking poison that

spreads its contagion far and wide--a canker at the root

of private virtue and private happiness--a principle of

deception, that sanctifies error--a Circean cup that lulls

into a fatal intoxication. But men begin to think and

reason; reformation dawns, though the advance is tardy.

Moral martyrdom may possibly be the fate of those who

press forward, yet, their generous efforts will not be

lost.--Posterity will plant the olive and the laurel, and

consecrate their mingled branches to the memory of such,

who, daring to trace, to their springs, errors the most

hoary, and prejudices the most venerated, emancipate the

human mind from the trammels of superstition, and teach it,

_that its true dignity and virtue, consist in being free_.

Ere I sink into the grave, let me behold the _son of my

affections_, the living image of him, whose destiny involved

mine, who gave an early, but a mortal blow, to all my

worldly expectations--let me behold my Augustus, escaped

from the tyranny of the passions, restored to reason, to

the vigor of his mind, to self controul, to the dignity of

active, intrepid virtue!

The dawn of my life glowed with the promise of a fair and

bright day; before its noon, thick clouds gathered; its

mid-day was gloomy and tempestuous.--It remains with thee,

my friend, to gild with a mild radiance the closing evening;

before the scene shuts, and veils the prospect in

impenetrable darkness.

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE

Punctuation, hyphenation and period spellings have been retained even

where not consistent. The latter includes the name Anne, which also

occurs without the final e.

The changes listed below have been made to the text (corrected version

follows original):

but in this investigatation we must be patient

but in this investigation we must be patient

Arisides the just,

Aristides the just

knowledge and learning, are unsufferably masculine in a women

knowledge and learning, are unsufferably masculine in a woman

Why do we suffer ourselve to be confined

Why do we suffer ourselves to be confined

gratified by his covnersation

gratified by his conversation

at his repeated requst

at his repeated request

the degrading and melancholy intelligence, with fills my soul

the degrading and melancholy intelligence, which fills my soul

the acitivity of a curious and vigorous mind

the activity of a curious and vigorous mind

a temporary reflief

a temporary relief

Would she, inded, accept of my society,

Would she, indeed, accept of my society,

qutting it early in the morning

quitting it early in the morning

any suddent agitation of spirits

any sudden agitation of spirits

the distinction yo have shewn me

the distinction you have shewn me

so sincere, so artless, as mind

so sincere, so artless, as mine

such an attempt would be impertiment;

such an attempt would be impertinent;

their heads were never led astray by thir hearts.

their heads were never led astray by their hearts.

though peace and enjoymment should be for ever fled

though peace and enjoyment should be for ever fled

attended wtih advantages

attended with advantages

Persevervance, with little ability, has effected wonders;

Perseverance, with little ability, has effected wonders;

wtih the various branches of science

with the various branches of science

you have been very will

you have been very ill

the fruits of our dear-bought exerience

the fruits of our dear-bought experience

I would willing have seen you

I would willingly have seen you