“This is too much for human sufferance,
Despair, rapidly, to an early tomb
Is carrying thy youth!”
Meanwhile, our heroine and Fitz-Ullin, accompanied many others into a
refreshment room, where they lingered a little, after the rest of the
couples returned to the ball room.
The delay had been more on the part of Julia than of her companion; for
there was an extraordinary formality and coldness about his manner, he
appeared, as it were, to wait her commands. His eyes were cast down, he
was silent; not even a catch of the breath was audible, though more than
once a movement of the chest might have indicated, to a close observer,
that a rising sigh had been suppressed. “How unlike what Edmund used to
be!” thought Julia. He had told her, in answer to some one of the obvious
questions she had attempted during the dancing, that one of his names was
still Edmund.
“A strange time this he has chosen,” she thought, “to become cold and
unfriendly to his oldest friends.” Yet she tried to congratulate him on
the unexpected change in his fortunes, with much of real kindness, and an
effort, at least, at playfulness of manner; for, thought Julia, “I must
not pretend to understand this absurd grief about Lady Susan.”
“It is a species of mockery, Julia,” he said, “to congratulate me on
advantages which, however ardently desired at one period, can now but
aggravate the bitterness of disappointment.”
“Oh, Edmund,” said Julia, thrown off her guard by his look and voice
of wretchedness, “why will you be miserable? Did not the real regard
and friendship of all your early friends, long, long suffice for your
happiness, and why will you suffer the disappointment of one, now you
see, you—must see—never—well founded hope, to render valueless every
real good.” But suddenly recollecting that her kindness was no longer
generosity to the poor friendless Edmund, she checked herself, coloured,
and became silent. Fitz-Ullin seemed to struggle for some time for
composure, or for voice to reply.
“That one hope, Julia,” he at length articulated with peculiar bitterness
of tone, “however ill founded you assure me it has ever been——”
“I assure you!” exclaimed Julia, with some surprise.
“That one hope,” he continued, speaking with effort, and from his visibly
increasing agitation, without noticing the interruption, “that one hope,
was all that gave life value in my eyes.”
“Indeed!” said Julia, assuming in her turn an air of coldness; and, for
her, almost disdain.
“Friendship,” he proceeded, “all I have ever loved, all I have ever
known, all I have ever been, are too intimately associated with that one
hope, to be remembered without agony, when separated from it: all must
be resigned together! Would to heaven!” he added, with energy, “I could
first replace him, whom, most unwillingly, I have destined to become a
wanderer from his long-accustomed home, and deprived of a rank, without
which, he loathes existence, and which is valueless to me! But, poor
fellow, he would not retain, for one hour, what he called my rights. Of
his rash attempt at suicide, you are aware.” Julia bowed her assent. “The
shocking occurrence,” he went on, “took place, as you also know, just as
I was on the point of setting out for Lodore——.” That, thought Julia, I
did not know before; but she felt not very well able to interrupt him;
nor did she deem the circumstance of any importance.
“After which,” continued Fitz-Ullin, “the imperious necessity of soothing
and guarding my unfortunate friend, lest he should repeat the attempt
on his life, obliged me to have recourse to writing. You know the rest,
Julia.” His look and manner here, expressed something of wildness,
although, in the arrangement of his words, there was a forced composure.
“I only know,” she replied, with difficulty suppressing her tears, “that
that letter made me——,” she was going to have said, very miserable; but
she changed her intention, and said, “gave me great uneasiness.”
“I am sorry I should have caused you pain” he replied coldly, “but I felt
that such an explanation was due. And now, let me say, farewell for ever!
Without this interview, when thousand of miles apart—perhaps—I should
have—I should not have.”
Here he broke off abruptly, and seemed to struggle with an emotion,
difficult to be suppressed. Of his last speech, Julia had heard, or at
least had comprehended, but the words, “Farewell for ever!” “I go,” he
recommenced, with a voice so hoarse from emotion, that it literally
could not have been recognized for his; “I go to-morrow to Lodore, to
take a long farewell of my dearest, most honoured friend, your revered
grandmother: after that, to sea; to end, I hope, my miserable career, by
dying honourably in the service of my country.”
Ere he concluded, Julia, whose power of acting composure was totally
gone, had covered her eyes with both her hands, and hid her face on the
arm of the little sofa on which she was seated; for every thing had
begun to swim before her sight, and she dreaded exposing her feelings,
by, perhaps, fainting. A sense of coldness passed over her cheeks, and
there was a rushing sound in her ears, and a confusion in her ideas,
which lasted for some time, and made her uncertain, when she did begin
to revive, how long she had remained in that painful state. Yet she
had, she found, preserved her sitting posture. She was even beginning
to congratulate herself upon this circumstance, when she felt an arm
which had hitherto, she now found, been the means of supporting her,
somewhat hastily withdrawn. Nearly at the same moment, she heard an
approaching step, and a moment after, one of her hands was taken, but not
with Edmund’s usual gentleness, and pressed to the lips of one, who now
assumed a kneeling posture, and drew her other hand from before her eyes.
She looked round, and to her inexpressible surprise and horror, beheld
Henry at her feet, while the figure of our hero was hastily passing out
of the door-way.
When Julia believed it was Edmund, who, with a manner at which her
feelings revolted she knew not why, had kissed her hand, she fancied
she was shocked at his want of delicacy; but the bitterness of her
disappointment, when she saw it was Henry, who had done so, showed how
easily Edmund would have been forgiven.
Fitz-Ullin did not appear again during the remainder of the evening.
Julia’s indignation against Henry, aroused her more effectually, than,
perhaps, any thing else could have done. He answered her warmly-expressed
displeasure, by assuring her, with a diabolical laugh, that she should
not have to complain of his tenderness much longer.
A second set of quadrilles having by this time concluded, the
refreshment-room was again crowded, and Lady Julia L. shortly led back to
the dance, attended by a host of distinguished admirers.