“Oh! whence is the stream of years, and whither
Doth it roll along, when it carries with it
All our joys?”
A few days more brought a letter from Edmund, addressed to Mrs.
Montgomery; now it was hoped all would be explained; Mrs. Montgomery
broke the seal, laid the letter open on her knee, took out her
spectacles, wiped them, and put them on. But soon tears dimmed the
glasses, and the old lady’s head shook a little, as on occasions of deep
emotion. “What can he mean?” she said, as she gave the letter to Julia,
desiring her to read it aloud. Julia, on receiving it, turned extremely
pale. As soon as her eyes ran over the first few lines, she trembled
visibly, and cast a beseeching look at her sister.
Frances took the letter from her, saying, that she could read Edmund’s
hand particularly well. She began, like the rest, by looking over the
letter to herself. Soon tears were seen stealing over her cheeks, as she
read on, while from time to time she exclaimed, “What can he mean? What
can have happened?”
“Read aloud, my dear! Do pray read aloud!” said Mrs. Montgomery. And
Frances, endeavouring to keep down the choking sensation that arose in
her throat, commenced as follows:—
“I must, for a time at least, bid farewell to all; yes, even to her,
who sheltered my infant head; who protected my infant years; who was my
friend when I was friendless; who gave me bread when I was destitute.
But I cannot—no—I cannot see Lodore again! Lodore, that home of happy
childhood!
“At such a crisis of my fate, there is much I ought to say to one so
dear—one so generously interested in the wretched Edmund; but, at
present, I am incapable of a rational recital.
“At a future time, perhaps—but I wander—you have doubtless seen all,
ere this, in the public prints. Yet, surely they were not the proper
medium—Pardon me; I know not what I write—the blow has indeed been severe!
“Perhaps I deserve it all; to have hoped was madness! treachery! Yet,
I did hope! Yes—or why my present despair? Yet was it a hope so
mingled with fear and with remorse, that it was torture! Yet it was
hope!—Heavens! must I believe it? Was it all a dream! a delirium! Was
there nothing real? Or is friendship, then, so like love? No! within my
own breast, how wide the wild distinction!
“Why then was I deceived? Oh, farewell! I go, I know not where.—But I
leave England—perhaps, for ever! Yet, think me not ungrateful! Think not,
that the fondest affections of my blighted heart, withered and worthless
though they be, shall not for ever cling to the remembrance of the dear,
dear friends, the ever to be beloved, respected, and revered benefactress
of my infant years. Your unhappy Edmund.”
The letter bore no further signature; as was habitual with our hero,
from a painful consciousness that his second name was but borrowed.
The exclamations and interruptions had, of course, been many. The subject
was now discussed by Mrs. Montgomery and Frances. Also by Mr. Jackson;
for he generally came in soon after the post hour. Julia did not venture
a word. Lady Susan’s marriage was agreed upon by all as, of course, the
principal cause of Edmund’s “ridiculously violent despair,” as Frances
pettishly called it.
Mr. Jackson, with evident mortification, was obliged to confess that he
had certainly expected more sense from Edmund. He hoped, however, he
added, that feelings of such boyish violence would exhaust themselves
in a proportionately short time, and leave his young friend a more
reasonable man for the rest of his life. There might, however, Mr.
Jackson suggested, be some unpleasant circumstances respecting this
business which had made so much noise in the papers, in which Edmund,
even without fault of his own, might find himself involved. His feelings,
his name, might be painfully implicated. There might be particulars,
which delicacy towards his friend rendered it difficult to explain
to the public. He thought it impossible that Edmund could talk of
leaving England for ever, merely on account of his disappointment about
Lady Susan; that would be too irrational: though from his despairing
expressions on the subject of love, it was evidently the one on which he
felt most bitterly just at present.
The result of the conversation was, a determination on the part of Mr.
Jackson, to go up to town immediately. His assistance, or at least his
advice, might be useful to his young friend.
“And give me my desk,” said Mrs. Montgomery, “I will write to him. He
shall come to me, foolish boy, before he takes any rash step.”
Henry had left Lodore some days since, or he would doubtless have
favoured the family party with some good natured observations. He had,
however, to confirm opinions of still more consequence to his plans, in
another quarter—a quarter, which he had lately, by no very honourable
means, discovered to have become more dangerous than ever. Had he been
present, he could have resolved every mystery, and shewn all to be simple
that seemed extraordinary: not that he would have done so.
Julia and Frances had been just going to take a walk, when the letter
was brought in; they now pursued their original intention, with an
additional motive; the wish to converse together uninterruptedly. As they
went out, Frances pressed her sister’s hand without speaking.
They happened to turn their steps towards the fall of Lodore. The spot
is curiously sequestered, and the space on which the water precipitates
itself, from an immense perpendicular height, does not appear larger,
than the dimensions of a small room. The steep and rugged rock rises
on three sides till roofed by the sky; the central side of the hollow
square, is that over which, broken at various elevations by black
projections of flinty stone, the torrent rushes; from both the other
sides, mountain ash and various sort of trees, rooted in every crevice,
stretch their branches across, between the eye of the spectator, and the
white sheet of descending foam. The fourth side, or ground facing the
fall, is a steep sloping bank, thickly covered with large trees, beneath
the shade of which, a narrow path leads down to the edge of the water.
Here a seat is placed, on which two persons may find accommodation; and
if disposed to tell each other very profound secrets, feel quite secure
from the danger of being overheard; for the fall, which is exactly
opposite, plunges at their very feet, with a din so tremendous, that the
most attentive listener, standing at but a few yards distance, though
he should see their lips in motion, could distinguish no sound of their
voices, and would be tempted to fancy, they conversed but in dumb show.
Julia and Frances descended this path, and took possession of this seat.
Julia instantly turned, and throwing her arms round her sister’s neck,
murmured in a slow whisper, “Oh! Frances, why did you say it was me he
loved?”
It is a curious fact, that, in this situation, persons quite close to
each other, can hear whispers more distinctly than they could the voice
in its natural key. It would seem that the open tones were more prone to
assimilate with the loud sounds abroad, and so become confounded with
them.
“I thought so, Julia,” answered Frances, who also whispered, “and I
should think so still, even by the very wording of that letter; but
that I know, you have not said or done any thing of late, to change, so
suddenly, any hopes he may ever have ventured to entertain, into all this
mighty despair! Yet, who else has shown him a friendship that could be
mistaken for love? as he seems to infer. With whom else has he had time
or opportunity to indulge in this ‘dream, this delirium of unreal bliss;’
of which he talks so wildly?”
Julia thought of her late parting with Edmund, and paused a few seconds:
then sighed, and said,
“No! no! there has nothing passed of late to change whatever may have
been the usual tenor of his feelings towards me. It must be Lady Susan
he means. The expressions you speak of, Frances, must allude to the time
spent in her society, both here, and at Arandale. You know, whatever
intimacy there was, commenced the very first evening he danced with
her; and very soon afterwards, you know, she herself told you, that he
wanted her to marry him; and that she intended to do so, if Lord and Lady
Arandale would give their consent. Now, it is evident, that they have
not consented, and that it is Lady Susan’s having married the Marquis
after all, that Edmund thinks such a dreadful disappointment, such a
blow, as he calls it.”
“It must be so,” said her sister.
“Yet, Frances,” recommenced Julia, “I had, some how, lost sight of the
possibility of his preferring one, still, as I thought, a comparative
stranger. I had contrived to persuade myself, that the whole business
about Lady Susan, was either some mistake, as you once suggested, or a
momentary fancy; perhaps, a feeling of gratitude for her preference; and
I had dwelt with delight on the praises bestowed on him by all the world,
and Mr. Jackson in particular, who is so sensible. I had thought, that
I too might highly esteem—might—might—regard—with even—a great share
of—affection, one, whom every one seemed to admire, and whom, I knew,
that you and grandmamma loved so much. And, oh, Frances! when, in the
midst of the congratulations of his friends, and the high compliments
paid him by every one, I have seen an expression of melancholy mix
itself with his smile; and then thought, (I don’t know why, but I did
think so,) that it was in my power to make him quite happy—with what
feelings have I said—he shall be happy! Frances, in such moments, I have
resolved to—to—be his, (that is, some time or other. And now—I, who did
so resolve, am as nothing in his eyes! My friendship for that at least
he knew he possessed,) is cast away, because the love of a stranger is
denied. Nay, my very existence seems to be forgotten! He is going away,
he says, perhaps, for ever, and he makes not the slightest mention of
being sorry to part, either from you, or me.”
And she stopped, vainly attempting to check the tremor of her lip, while
tears, that it was useless to try to hide, were rolling silently down her
cheeks. After a long pause, she added:—
“Were he happy, Frances, I might strive to forget a folly, which has
existed, it would appear, only in my own thoughts; but while he is
miserable, as he says he is, I know I shall never be able to feel towards
him, as now I see I ought.”
This was not a spot, where warning footsteps could be heard; and Lord L.
stood before his daughters, ere they were aware of his approach. He took
his children in his arms. They had not beheld him since their infancy,
but nature found means to make herself understood without words, ere
Mrs. Montgomery, who had accompanied him, had time to say, “Girls, your
father.”
In the course of the evening, the newspaper account of young Fitz-Ullin
having shot himself, became the topic of conversation. Lord L. treated
the subject with gravity, and some degree of reserve. He said, however,
that he feared there must be some foundation for a report, which was
spoken of so universally, and with so much confidence. “Fitz-Ullin’s
father,” he added, “they were all aware, had been his most particular
friend; he very naturally, therefore, felt interested.”
When Mrs. Montgomery had left the room for the night, which she generally
did a little before the rest of the party; Lord L. said to his daughters,
“I do not wish to alarm your grandmother, unnecessarily, by mentioning
the circumstance before her, as it may not be true; but,” and he lowered
his voice, “it is now reported, in town, that it was not Fitz-Ullin, but
our young friend, Montgomery, who shot himself.”
Frances, fearing for Julia’s presence of mind, interposed quickly,
exclaiming, “Impossible! The account of Lord Fitz-Ullin having shot
himself, has been in the papers this fortnight, and grandmamma has this
very day had a letter from Edmund.”
“I am really glad to hear it,” said Lord L., standing up as he spoke.
“Montgomery bears a very high character; and your grandmother has,
I know, a strong affection for him; for reasons,” he added, with a
suppressed sigh, “which ought to weigh, at least, as much with me.” After
a short pause, he continued, “It is impossible to place any dependance
on reports. On this very subject there are half a dozen differing in
every essential point. One is, as you have heard, that Fitz-Ullin had
shot himself; another says, that he was shot by his friend; and another,
that he had shot his friend; while there is yet a fourth version, as I
have just told you, purporting that Montgomery had shot himself. They
all agree in one thing only, that a lady has been the cause of whatever
mischief has taken place. I was but one day in town myself; but being
very anxious about both young men, in consequence of all those reports,
I called at Fitz-Ullin’s house. On demanding of the servants if Lord
Fitz-Ullin was at home, and, (with an air of doubt, I believe,) how he
was, they answered, as much to my surprise as relief, that he was quite
well; but added, that his Lordship could not see any one at present. I
did not, therefore, send up my name; for, satisfied that he was well,
it was quite time enough for me to see him on my return to town. I
enquired of the servants, however, if they could give me any information
respecting Captain Montgomery; (for I had not even his address, you
know.) They looked at each other, rather strangely, I thought; and an
elderly man, after some little hesitation, came forward and replied,
that he had not yet received orders from his Lordship, to speak on this
subject. This sounded rather strange; and, at first, made me stare at the
fellow: but it immediately occurred to me, that the young men had been
engaged in some foolish affair, which it was the wish of both parties, to
hush up as much as possible. I therefore, as you may suppose, asked no
further questions of servants.”
This was the sum of Lord L.’s information; and after many comments on the
incomprehensibility of the whole affair, the family party separated for
the night.