“Is this soft hand thy answer? or that look,
Which, though so soon withdrawn, too gentle seem’d
For harsh denial’s herald; or that blush
Which now, o’er thy snowy beauty spreading,
Heightens all thy loveliness!”
“And when those gentle eyes, thus rais’d to mine,
Melt in my ardent gaze; yet willing not
With haste ungracious to reprove my love,
A moment tremble ere they fall again;
Oh, ’tis a feeling not of earth! ’tis one
Which man’s experience hath not taught him how
To shape in words.”
She had opened the letter, was reading, and had become so much
absorbed, that she had not only ceased to hear what Gotterimo said,
but was no longer conscious even of his presence. He began to perceive
this, and with instinctive politeness, though with a feeling of much
disappointment, first became silent, and then, fearing he might be
troublesome, after fidgeting a little, and coughing once or twice, left
the room.
Julia, without perceiving his departure, continued reading till she had
twice begun and twice finished the letter. Then, laying it open on her
bosom, and crossing her hands upon it, she raised her streaming eyes to
heaven. The door from the library opened: she withdrew her eyes from
their upward gaze, and they rested on Fitz-Ullin. “Oh, Edmund!” she
exclaimed, and hastily presenting the letter to him, she covered her face
with both her hands, and leaned on the table. Fitz-Ullin glanced at the
open letter, and found it to be one which he himself had written to our
heroine above a year before.
“Why, Julia,” he said, “should this letter, which you have replied to so
fully, so decidedly, and so long since, now seem to surprise or agitate
you?”
“I never replied to it! I never received it! I never saw it till this
moment!” said Julia.
“What, Julia!” exclaimed Fitz-Ullin, sinking on one knee beside her, and
drawing both her hands, from before her face, “do you indeed tell me
that you have not, in reply to that letter, rejected the heart and hand
it offers?—rejected them, too, on the plea of a prior and long cherished
attachment to another, that other—the unfortunate Henry St. Aubin?”
“Oh, never! never!” exclaimed Julia, with a fervour of manner, tone of
voice, and expression of countenance, which carried at once conviction
and happiness to the heart of Edmund. That look, that manner, not only
said, “I have not rejected,” they also said, “I will accept!” Fitz-Ullin
gazed upon her for some moments in the silence of powerful emotion.
“Julia,” he said, at length, in a voice scarcely audible, “what a load of
misery you have removed from my heart!”
She returned the pressure of his hand without affectation of reserve; but
without the power to speak. “Heavens,” he continued, after a short pause,
“that horrible certainty in which every sense has been spell-bound for
the last twelve months of wretchedness, was then but a dream! Oh, Julia,
how gladly do I awake from it!” Their eyes met as he spoke; nor were hers
immediately withdrawn, though their lids trembled beneath the ardour of
his gaze. The Julia and Edmund of former days seemed suddenly restored to
each other after a long, long separation: each seemed to read the heart
of the other, each wondered that they could have doubted the truth of
the other. Both had been silent for some time. “Julia,” said Fitz-Ullin,
at length, in a low, entreating voice, recollecting, though it must be
confessed, without much alarm, that Julia, though she had denied having
rejected him, had not yet said one word about accepting him, “how can
I trust to the presumptuous hopes with which my heart now throbs—how
can I dare to be thus happy till you have pronounced my fate, till you
have actually said that you will be mine!” Julia replied only by a look.
“I may then,” said Fitz-Ullin, in a low whisper, “speak to Lord L⸺, as
authorised by you?”
Julia breathed a very inaudible sort of a yes; and Fitz-Ullin, who, to
hear the important monosyllable, had been obliged to venture his face
into a very dangerous neighbourhood, expressed his delighted gratitude by
as many demonstrations of the feelings that said little word of mighty
consequences had inspired, as he dare well evince; but, as to what
exactly he said or did on the occasion, it is by no means necessary to
the development of our narrative to record.
Julia no longer venturing to look up, her eyes rested, as a sort of
excuse for looking down, on the open letter, which, having escaped from
Fitz-Ullin’s hand, now lay on her knee. As she dwelt on the expressions
it contained of passionate tenderness dictated by the pure enthusiasm
of a First Love, the harrowing descriptions of poor Edmund’s struggles
with his own heart, while he had believed himself an obscure and nameless
being altogether unworthy of her, her tears flowed silently, except that
such was the stillness of all else, that the fall of each on the paper
might be distinctly heard. Fitz-Ullin watched her with inexpressible
delight, fearing to breathe, lest he should interrupt her. At length,
tempted by the tear, or the smile, or both, to see what parts of his
letter so much affected her, he approached his face nearer the paper,
(for he was still kneeling,) and read with her, adding emphasis to each
tender expression by a gentle pressure of one, or both the hands he still
held.
“When did you write this letter, Edmund?” she at length asked.
“On the very day,” he replied, “on which I became acquainted with my
birth, when poor Ormond’s rash attempt to put an end to his existence
prevented my setting out instantly for Lodore, which I was, indeed, as
the letter mentions, in the very act of doing when the alarm was given;
for I had long enough vainly struggled with my feelings, while duty and
honour forbade me to declare them; another moment of suspense, therefore,
when those obstacles were removed, seemed not to be endured!”
“And did you say, then, that you received a letter in reply purporting to
be from me?” asked Julia, “and——”
“I did,” answered Fitz-Ullin, “written in your name, and to all
appearance your hand, and even style. I have preserved it, and can shew
it you. It contains a gentle, very kindly worded, but, as I mentioned,
decided rejection of the proposals made in my letter; and states, as
the reason of that rejection, a secret, long cherished attachment, and
engagement to Henry, to whom it declares you betrothed. It then reminds
me, in the most seemingly artless and confiding manner, of many little
circumstances I must myself have observed; and entreats me to keep
inviolable the secret thus entrusted to me, either till you should obtain
Lord L⸺’s consent, or, when of age, have taken some decided step. It
farther requests me, not to make known to any of your family my wishes,
lest they should urge your acceptance of my hand. And, finally, it
commands me on pain of forfeiting your friendship for ever, no more to
renew the subject to yourself, by the slightest allusion to it; even in
any private interview that might occur.
“On receiving this letter, I passed some days in a species of delirium;
I scarcely knew what happened, but that I still continued apparently in
attendance on the sick bed of Ormond; while horrible visions haunted
me of every circumstance which had at any time raised for a moment
suspicions of a secret understanding subsisting between you and your
cousin. These were now received as fatal proofs, which long before
ought to have opened my eyes. The past, with all its blissful, though
presumptuous hopes, was changed in a moment into a wilderness on which I
dared not look back! I know I wrote to Mrs. Montgomery, and endeavoured
to observe your supposed injunction of secrecy; but, of what I said, I
have scarcely an idea. My letter must have been wildly and strangely
worded.”
“That letter,” said Julia, and she smiled archly, though blushingly, “we
all thought was written, in consequence of your disappointment, (as we
believed) about Lady Susan. Her marriage, you know, took place just at
that time. And that unfortunate being, Henry too,” she added, “confirmed
this opinion, by declaring that he was in your confidence; and saying,
that you had also written to him on the subject, quite in despair!”
Fitz-Ullin could not help smiling in his turn, at the idea of his being
in despair about Lady Susan.
“On me too,” he rejoined, “Henry forced, what he termed confidence. He
has even given me to read, on our last voyage, passages, purporting to
be from your correspondence with himself, and containing messages to
me, reiterating your injunctions of secrecy. And once, he showed me a
picture, which he said you had given him, asking if I thought it like.
It was like, really like. Judge with what feelings I must have seen him
approach it to his lips, and replace it in his bosom! A heart-sickening
sensation followed, and my selfish regrets were, for a time, lost
in the certainty that you had cast away the inestimable treasure of
your affections on a man who did not truly love you; for, I felt that
one who did, had been incapable of the indelicate display I had just
witnessed.” Here Fitz-Ullin unconsciously sighed, as though the sense
of present felicity had been overborne by the painful recollections
which pressed upon him, then added: “After this, every circumstance, and
when we met again, Julia, every look and word was misconstrued by me
into confirmations of that fatal belief, which, from the moment it took
possession of me, poisoned my very existence, and benumbed every faculty
but that of suffering! Why, Julia, in that agonizing interview in the
refreshment room at Lord L⸺’s, such was the infatuation of my despair,
that I believed we fully understood each other. You seemed to me to
acknowledge, that you had received my proposals; for you even said that
my letter had given you much pain; I thought of course, you spoke of this
letter.”
“I meant,” interrupted Julia, “the then last one to grandmamma, which
gave us all pain, it was written in so desponding a manner. But,” she
continued, colouring a little, “you spoke, just now, of—of—circumstances,
which had raised momentary suspicions.” This opening led to a
conversation, in which the fears for our hero’s safety which had so long
influenced the conduct of Julia towards her cousin, were confessed; and
the system of terror practised by Henry, developed. A burst of fond and
grateful emotion on the part of Fitz-Ullin followed, by which Julia was
so much affected, that when she tried to speak, her lip trembled, and
she was unable to articulate. She tried to smile, but the struggle was
too much for her: she wept and laughed alternately, till she alarmed
Fitz-Ullin so much, that he would have been almost tempted to have called
for assistance, could he well have withdrawn his own support. Before
Julia had half recovered, Frances entered. She was tripping lightly
towards the bell, to ring for breakfast; when, perceiving her sister
and our hero, she stopped in the middle of the room, the very statue of
surprise! Julia disengaged herself, hastily; discovering, just at this
moment, that the assistance which had hitherto been so indispensable as
to render it quite proper, had now ceased to be necessary. Fitz-Ullin
started up, and, flying towards Frances, seemed to meditate a rather
familiar species of salutation. But she stepped back. She had, by this
time, made a choice of her own, and was not disposed to be embraced, as
formerly, only for her sister’s sake. She extended her hand, however,
which he took and kissed, as with an expression of delight on his
countenance which she had not seen it wear for a long period, and which
looked like the sunshine of the first bright day after a dreary winter,
he exclaimed, “Frances, I am now indeed your brother!”
Frances approached her sister, who threw herself into her arms, and hid
her face in her bosom, whispering: “Oh, Frances, how happy I am. You were
quite right, Edmund never loved any one but me!” Frances smiled archly,
and looking in her sister’s face, whispered, “FIRST LOVE! Julia.”
Lord L⸺ entered the room at this moment; and Fitz-Ullin, seeing the
sisters thus engaged with each other, heroically resolved on the mighty
sacrifice, of tearing himself a moment from Julia’s presence, for the
purpose of confirming his happiness. He hastened forward, therefore,
and meeting Lord L⸺, requested a few minutes private conversation with
him. His lordship bowed assent. They retired. Fitz-Ullin, on entering
the library, grasped Lord L⸺’s hand, and named Julia. Lord L⸺ looked
dignified, and at a loss.
“I have loved her,” said Fitz-Ullin, “from the days of childhood to the
present hour!”
“What, then, could have induced you to keep your sentiments so long a
secret?” said Lord L⸺. “But, I will confess, Fitz-Ullin——” Here the
gentlemen proceeded with mutual confessions; till, being quite satisfied
with the knowledge thus obtained of each other’s private opinions, they
re-entered the breakfast-room, with countenances of the most perfect
good humour. Lord L⸺ sought the eye of Julia; and when he caught it for
a moment, smiled with a look, which added yet a tinge to the blush that
already dyed her cheek. She stood in the recess of a glass-door, apart.
Fitz-Ullin was soon at her side. In a low whisper, and without looking
up, she said, “I should like to speak to grandmamma before we sit down to
breakfast, and you may follow me.” Both glided out unperceived.