Emmeline seemed to be happier since she had confessed to Godolphin his
influence over her mind, and since she had made him in some measure the
director of her actions. She hoped that she might conceal her partiality
'till she had nothing to fear from Delamere; at present she was sure he
had no suspicion that Godolphin was his rival; and she flattered
herself, that on his return to England, the conviction of her coldness
would by degrees wean him from his attachment, and that he would learn
to consider her only as his sister.
These pleasing hopes, however, were insufficient to balance the concern
she felt for Mrs. Stafford; who having long struggled against her
calamities, now seemed on the point of sinking under their pressure, and
of determining to attend, in despondent resignation, the end of her
unmerited sufferings.
Emmeline attempted to re-animate her, by repeating all the promises of
Lord Westhaven, on whose word she had the most perfect reliance. She
assured her, that the moment her own affairs were settled, her first
care should be the re-establishment of those of her beloved friend. For
some time the oppressed spirits of Mrs. Stafford would only allow her to
answer with her tears these generous assurances. At length she said--
'It is to you, my Emmeline, I could perhaps learn to be indebted
without being humbled; for you have an heart which receives while it
confers an obligation. But think what it is for one, born with a right
to affluence and educated in its expectation, with feelings keen from
nature, and made yet keener by refinement, to be compelled, as I have
been, to solicit favours, pecuniary favours, from persons who have no
feeling at all--from the shifting, paltry-spirited James Crofts,
forbearance from the claim of debts; from the callous-hearted and
selfish politician, his father, pity and assistance; from Rochely, who
has no ideas but of getting or saving money, to ask the loan of it! and
to bear with humility a rude refusal. I have endured the brutal
unkindness of hardened avarice, the dirty chicane of law, exercised by
the most contemptible of beings; I have been forced to attempt softening
the tradesman and the mechanic, and to suffer every degree of
humiliation which the insolence of sudden prosperity or the insensible
coolness of the determined money dealer, could inflict. Actual poverty,
I think, I could have better borne;
'I should have found, in some place of my soul,
A drop of patience!'
But ineffectual attempts to ward it off by such degradation I can no
longer submit to. While Mr. Stafford, for whom I have encountered it
all, is not only unaffected by the poignant mortifications which torture
me; but receives my efforts to serve him, if successful, only as a
duty--if unsuccessful, he considers my failure as a fault; and loads me
with reproach, with invective, with contempt!--others have, in their
husbands, protectors and friends; mine, not only throws on me the
burthen of affairs which he has himself embroiled, but adds to their
weight by cruelty and oppression. Such complicated and incurable misery
must overwhelm me, and then--what will become of my children?'
Penetrated with pity and sorrow, Emmeline listened, in tears, to this
strong but too faithful picture of the situation of her unfortunate
friend; and with difficulty said, in a voice of the tenderest pity--
'Yet a little patience and surely things will mend. It cannot be very
long, before I shall either be in high affluence or reduced to my former
dependance; perhaps to actual indigence. Of these events, I hope the
former is the most probable: but be it as it may, you and your children
will be equally dear to me.--If I am rich, my house, my fortune shall
be your's--if I am poor, I will live with you, and we will work
together. But for such resources as the pencil or the needle may afford
us, we shall, I think, have no occasion. You, my dear friend, will
continue to exert yourself for your children; Lord Westhaven is greatly
interested for you; and all will yet be well.'
'I am afraid not,' replied Mrs. Stafford. 'Among the various misfortunes
of life, there are some that admit of no cure; some, which even the
tender and generous friendship of my Emmeline can but palliate. Of that
nature, I fear, are many of mine. My past life has been almost all
bitterness; God only knows what the remainder of it may be, but
'Shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest upon it.'
'Ah! give not up your mind to these gloomy thoughts,' said Emmeline.
'Setting aside all hopes I have of being able, without the assistance of
any one, to clear those prospects, I have a firm dependance on Lord
Westhaven, and am sure I shall yet see you happy.'
'Never, I believe, in this world!' dejectedly answered Mrs. Stafford.
'But why should I distress you, my best Emmeline, with a repetition of
my hopeless sorrows; why cannot I now refrain, as I have hitherto done,
from taxing with my complaints your lively sensibility?' She then began
to talk of their journey for the next day, for which every thing was now
ready. It would have been very agreeable to Emmeline could Mrs. Stafford
have gone by Southampton, and have accompanied her for a few days to
East Cliff; but she said, that besides her suffering so much at sea,
which made the long passage to France very dreadful to her, she had
already, in a letter to her husband, fixed to go by Calais; and as he
might either send or come to meet her on that road, he might be offended
if she took the other: besides these reasons, she had yet another in the
chance the Calais road afforded of meeting Lord and Lady Westhaven. The
two last arguments were unanswerable: Emmeline relinquished the project
of their going together; and they passed the rest of the day in the last
preparations for their separate journeys. In the course of it, Bellozane
called twice, but was not admitted. Godolphin was allowed to sup with
them; and early the next morning came again to see them set out. They
parted on all sides with tears and reluctance--Emmeline, with Madelon
in the chaise with her, and Le Limosin on horseback, took the road to
Southampton, and Mrs. Stafford pursued her melancholy journey to Dover.
Emmeline arrived at Southampton late the same evening, where she slept;
and the next morning landed on the Isle of Wight.
It was a clear and mild day, towards the end of October; and she walked,
attended by her servants, to East Cliff. As she approached the door of
Godolphin's house, her heart beat quick; a thousand tender recollections
arose that related to it's beloved master, and some mournful
apprehensions for the fate of it's present lovely and unhappy
inhabitant.
The maid who had so long waited on Lady Adelina opened the door, and
expressed the utmost delight at seeing Emmeline. 'Ah! dearest Madam!'
said she, 'how good it is in you to come to my lady! Now, I hope, both
her health and her spirits will be better. But the joy of knowing you
are here, will overcome her, unless I inform her of it with caution; for
tho' she rather expected you, I know it will be extreme.'
Barret then ran to execute this welcome commission, and in a few moments
Lady Adelina, supported by her, walked into the room, holding in her
hand little William, and fell, almost insensible, into the arms of her
friend.
The expression of her countenance, faded as it was, where a gleam of
exquisite pleasure seemed to lighten up the soft features which had long
sunk under the blighting hand of sorrow; her weeds, forming so striking
a contrast to the fairness of her transparent skin; and the lovely
child, now about fourteen months old, which hung on her arm; made her
altogether appear to Emmeline the most interesting, the most affecting
figure, she had ever seen. Neither of them could speak. Lady Adelina
murmured something, as she fondly pressed Emmeline to her heart; but it
was not till it's oppression was relieved by tears, that she could
distinctly thank her for coming. Emmeline, with equal marks of
tenderness, embraced the mother and caressed the son, whose infantine
beauty would have charmed her had he been the child of a stranger. After
a little, they grew more composed; and Emmeline, while Lady Adelina in
the most melting accents spoke of her brother William, and enquired
tenderly after her elder brother and his wife, had time to contemplate
her lovely but palid face; from which the faint glow of transient
pleasure, the animated vivacity of momentary rapture, was gone; and a
languor so great seemed to hang over her, such pensive and settled
melancholy had taken possession of her features, that Emmeline could
hardly divest herself of the idea of immediate danger; and fancied that
she was come thither only to see the beauteous mourner sink into the
grave. She trembled to think on the consequence which, in such a state
of health, might arise from the conflict she would probably have to
undergo in regard to Fitz-Edward. Emmeline herself dared not name him to
Godolphin in their long conference. It was a subject, on which (however
slightly touched) he had always expressed such painful sensibility, that
she could not resolve to enter upon it with him. Yet she foresaw, that
on Lord Westhaven's arrival either a general explanation must take
place, or that his Lordship would accept, for his sister, the offer of
Fitz-Edward, to which there would be in his eyes, (while he yet remained
ignorant of their former unfortunate acquaintance,) no possible
objection. She supposed that Lord and Lady Clancarryl, equally ignorant
of that error (which had been partly owing to their own confidence in
Fitz-Edward) would press Lady Adelina to accept him; and that Godolphin
must either consent to forgive, and receive him as his brother, or give
such reasons for opposing his alliance with Lady Adelina, as would
probably destroy the peace of his family and the fragile existence of
his sister. Sometimes, she thought that his inflexible honour would
yield, and induce him to bury the past in oblivion. But then she
recollected all the indignation he had but lately expressed against
Fitz-Edward, and doubted, with fearful apprehension, the event.
The first day passed without that mutual and unreserved confidence being
absolutely established, which the lovely friends longed to repose in
each other. Lady Adelina languished to enquire after, to talk of
Fitz-Edward, yet dared not trust herself with his name; and Emmeline,
tho' well assured that the knowledge of those terms which she was now on
with Godolphin would give infinite pleasure to his sister, yet had not
courage to reveal that truth which her conscious heart secretly enjoyed.
Affected with her friend's depression, and unwilling to keep her up
late, she complained of fatigue soon in the evening, and retired to her
own room. She there dismissed Madelon, and bade her, as soon as Mrs.
Barret came from her lady's apartment, let her know that she desired to
speak to her.
She wished to enquire of this faithful servant her opinion of her lady's
health. And as soon as she came to her, expressed her fears about it in
terms equally anxious and tender.
'Ah! Madam,' said Barret, 'all you observe as to my lady is but too
just; and what I go thro' about her, (especially when the Captain is not
here) I am sure no tongue can tell. Sometimes, Ma'am, when I have left
her of a night, and she tells me she is going to bed, I hear her walk
about the room talking; then she goes to the bed (for I have looked
thro' the key hole) where Master Godolphin sleeps, and looks at him, and
bursts into tears and laments herself over him, and again begins to walk
about the room, and speaks as it were to herself; and at other times,
she will open the window, and leaning her head on her two hands, sit and
look at the clouds and the stars; and sighs so deeply, and so often,
that it makes my heart quite ache to hear her. The child was very ill
once with a tooth fever, while the Captain was gone to France; and then
indeed I thought my poor lady would have been quite, quite gone in her
head again; for she talked _so_ wildly of what she would do if he died,
and said such things, as almost frightened me to death. We sent to
Winchester for a physician; and before he could come, for you know,
Ma'am, what a long way 'tis to send, she grew so impatient, and had
terrified herself into such agonies, that when the doctor did come, he
said she was in a great deal the most danger of the two. Thank God,
Master Godolphin soon got well; but it was a long time before my lady
was quite herself again; and since that, Ma'am, she will hardly suffer
Master out of her sight at all; but makes either his own maid or me sit
in the room to attend upon him while she reads or writes. When she walks
out, she generally orders one of us to take him with her; and only goes
out alone after he is in bed of a night. Then, indeed, she stays out
long enough; and tho' you see, Ma'am, how sadly she looks, she never
seems to care at all about her own health, but does things that really
would kill a strong person.'
'What then does she do?' enquired Emmeline.
'Why, Ma'am, quite late sometimes of a night, when every body else is
asleep, she will go away by herself perhaps to that wood you see there,
or down to the sea shore; and she orders me to let nobody follow her.
Quite of cold nights this Autumn, when the wind blew, and the sea made a
noise so loud and dismal, she has staid there whole hours by herself;
only I ventured to disobey her so far as to see that no harm came to
her. But three or four times, Ma'am, she remained so long that I
concluded she must catch her death. At last, I bethought me of getting
one of the maids to go and tell her Master was awake; and I have got her
to come in by that means out of the wind and the cold. Then, Ma'am, she
seems to take pleasure in nothing but sorrow and melancholy. The books
she reads are so sad, that sometimes, when her own eyes are tired and
she makes me read them to her, I get quite horrible thoughts in my head.
But my lady, instead of trying, as I do, to shake them off, will go
directly to her music, and play such mournful tunes, that it really
quite overcomes me, as I am at work in another room. At other times she
goes and writes verses about her own unhappiness. How is it possible,
Ma'am, that with such ways of passing her time, my lady, always so
delicate as she was in health, should be well: for my part I only wonder
she is not quite dead.'
'But how do you know, Barret, that your lady employs herself in writing
verses about her own unhappiness?'
'Dear, Ma'am, I have found them about every where. When the Captain is
absent, my lady is indifferent where she leaves them. Sometimes four or
five sheets lay open on the table in her little dressing room, and
sometimes upon her music.'
Emmeline was too certain that such were the occupations of her poor
friend. During the short time they had been together, Lady Adelina had
shewn her some work; and as she took it out of her drawer, she drew out
some papers with it.
'I do but little work,' said she. 'I find even embroidery does not serve
to call off my thoughts sufficiently from myself. I read a good deal in
books of mere amusement, for of serious application I am incapable; and
here is another specimen of my method of employing myself, which perhaps
you will not think a remedy for melancholy thoughts.'
She put a written paper into Emmeline's hand, who was about to open it;
but Lady Adelina added, with a pensive smile, 'do not read it now;
rather keep it till you are alone.'
This paper Emmeline took out to peruse as soon as she had dismissed
Barret. Her heart bled as she ran over this testimony of the anguish and
despondence which preyed on the heart of Lady Adelina. It was an
ODE TO DESPAIR
Thou spectre of terrific mien,
Lord of the hopeless heart and hollow eye,
In whose fierce train each form is seen
That drives sick Reason to insanity!
I woo thee with unusual prayer,
'Grim visaged, comfortless Despair!'
Approach; in me a willing victim find,
Who seeks thine iron sway--and calls thee kind!
Ah! hide for ever from my sight
The faithless flatterer Hope--whose pencil, gay,
Portrays some vision of delight,
Then bids the fairy tablet fade away;
While in dire contrast, to mine eyes
Thy phantoms, yet more hideous, rise,
And Memory draws, from Pleasure's wither'd flower,
Corrosives for the heart--of fatal power!
I bid the traitor Love, adieu!
Who to this fond, believing bosom came,
A guest insidious and untrue,
With Pity's soothing voice--in Friendship's name;
The wounds _he_ gave, nor Time shall cure,
Nor Reason teach me to endure.
And to that breast mild Patience pleads in vain,
Which feels the curse--of meriting it's pain.
Yet not to me, tremendous power!
Thy worst of spirit-wounding pangs impart,
With which, in dark conviction's hour,
Thou strik'st the guilty unrepentant heart!
But of Illusion long the sport,
That dreary, tranquil gloom I court
Where my past errors I may still deplore
And dream of long-lost happiness no more!
To thee I give this tortured breast,
Where Hope arises but to foster pain;
Ah! lull it's agonies to rest!
Ah! let me never be deceiv'd again!
But callous, in thy deep repose
Behold, in long array, the woes
Of the dread future, calm and undismay'd,
Till I may claim the hope--that shall not fade!
The feelings of a mind which could dictate such an address, appeared to
Emmeline so greatly to be lamented, and so unlikely to be relieved, that
the tender and painful compassion she had ever been sensible of for her
unhappy friend, was if possible augmented. Full of ideas almost as
mournful as those by which they had been inspired, she went to bed, but
not to tranquil sleep. Her spirits, worn by her journey, and oppressed
by her concern for Lady Adelina, were yet busy; and instead of the
uneasy images which had pursued her while she waked, they represented to
her others yet more terrifying. She beheld, in her dreams, Godolphin
wildly seeking vengeance of Fitz-Edward for the death of his sister.
Then, instead of Fitz-Edward, Lord Delamere appeared to be the object of
his wrath, and mutual fury seemed to animate them against the lives of
each other. To them, her uncle, in all the phrenzy of grief and despair,
succeeded; overwhelmed her with reproaches for the loss of his only son,
and tore her violently away from Godolphin, who in vain pursued her.
These horrid visions returned so often, drest in new forms of terror,
that Emmeline, having long resisted the impression they made upon her,
could at length bear them no longer; but shaking off all disposition to
indulge sleep on such terms, she arose from her bed, and wrapping
herself up in her night gown, went to the window. The dawn did not yet
appear; but she sat down by the window, of which she had opened the
shutter to watch it's welcome approach.
The morning, for it was between three and four, was mild; the declining
stars were obscured by no cloud, and served to shew dimly the objects in
the garden beneath her. She softly opened the sash; listened to the low,
hollow murmur of the sea; and surveyed the lawn and the hill behind it,
which, by the faint and uncertain light, she could just discern. All
breathed a certain solemn and melancholy stillness calculated to inspire
horror. Emmeline's blood ran cold; yet innocence like her's really fears
nothing if free from the prejudices of superstition. She endeavoured to
conquer the disagreeable sensations she felt, and to shake off the
effects of her dreams; but the silence, and the gloominess of the scene,
assisted but little her efforts, and she cast an eye of solicitude
towards the Eastern horizon, and wished for the return of the sun.
In this disposition of mind, she was at once amazed and alarmed, by
seeing the figure of a man, tall and thin, wrapped in a long horseman's
coat, as if on purpose to disguise him, force himself out from between
the shrubs which bounded one part of the lawn. He looked not towards the
windows; but with folded arms, and his hat over his eyes, was poring on
the ground, while with slow steps he crossed the lawn and came
immediately under the windows of the house.
When she first perceived him, she had started back from that where she
sat; but tho' greatly surprized, she could not forbear watching him: on
longer observing his figure, she fancied it was that of a gentleman; and
by his slow walk and manner he did not appear to have any design to
attack the house. Her presence of mind never forsook her unless where
her heart was greatly affected; and she had now courage enough to
determine that she would still continue for some moments to observe him,
and would not alarm the servants till she saw reason to believe he had
ill intentions. She sat therefore quite still; and saw, that instead of
making any attempt to enter the house, he traversed the whole side of it
next the lawn, with a measured and solemn pace, several times; then
stopped a moment, again went to the end, and slowly returned; and having
continued to do so near an hour, he crossed the grass, and disappeared
among the shrubs from whence he had issued.
Had not Emmeline been very sure that she not only heard his footsteps
distinctly as he passed over a gravel walk in his way, but even heard
him breathe hard and short, as if agitated or fatigued, she would almost
have persuaded herself that it was a phantom raised by her disordered
spirits. The longer she reflected on it, the more incomprehensible it
seemed, that a man should, at such an hour, make such an excursion,
apparently to so little purpose. That it was with a dishonest design
there seemed no likelihood, as he made no effort to force his way into
the house, which he might easily have done; and had he come on a
clandestine visit to any of the servants, he would probably have had
some signal by which his confederates would have been informed of his
approach. But he seemed rather fearful of disturbing the sleeping
inhabitants; his step was slow and light; and on perceiving the first
rays of the morning, he 'started like a guilty thing,' and swiftly
stepped away to his concealment.
Emmeline continued some time at the window after his disappearance,
believing he might return. But it soon grew quite light: the gardener
appeared at his work; and she was then convinced that he would for that
time come no more.
So extraordinary a circumstance, however, dwelt on her mind; nor could
she entirely divest herself of alarm. A strange and confused idea that
this visitor might be some one not unknown to her, crossed her mind. His
height answered almost equally to that of Bellozane, Godolphin, and
Fitz-Edward. The latter, indeed, was rather the tallest, and to him she
thought the figure bore the greatest resemblance. Yet he had taken leave
of her ten days before she left London, and told her he was going down
to Mr. Percival's, in Berkshire; where, as he was very anxious to hear
of Lady Adelina, he had desired Mrs. Stafford to write to him; (who had
done so, and had received an answer of thanks dated from thence before
the departure of Emmeline from London). That Fitz-Edward, therefore,
should be the person, seemed improbable; yet it was hardly less so that
a night ruffian should be on foot so long, without any attempt to
execute mischief, or even the appearance of examining how it might be
perpetrated. After long consideration, she determined, that lest the
first conjecture should be true, she would speak to nobody of the
stranger she had seen; but would watch another night, before she either
terrified Lady Adelina with the apprehension of robbers, or gave rise to
conjectures in her and the servants of yet more disquieting tendency.
Having taken this resolution, and argued herself out of all those fears
for her personal safety which might have enfeebled a less rational mind,
she met Lady Adelina at breakfast with her usual ease, and almost with
her usual chearfulness: but she was pale, and her eyes were heavy: Lady
Adelina remarked it with concern; but Emmeline, making light of it,
imputed it intirely to the fatigue of her journey; and when their
breakfast was finished, proposed a walk. To this her friend assented;
and while she went to give some orders, and to fetch the crape veil in
which she usually wrapped herself, (for even her dress partook something
of the mournful cast of her mind), Emmeline, already equipped, went into
the lawn, and saw plainly where the stranger had made his way thro' the
thick shrubs, and where the flexible branches of a young larch were
twisted away, a laurel broken, and that some deciduous trees behind them
had lost all their lower leaves; which, having sustained the first
frosts, fell on the slightest violence. She marked the place with her
eye; and determined to observe whether, if he came again, it was from
thence.
Emmeline now desired that Madelon might come with them to wait on little
William, rather than his own maid; as she understood English so ill,
that she would be no interruption to their discourse. They then walked
arm in arm together towards the sea; and there Lady Adelina, who now
enjoyed the opportunity she had so long languished for, opened to her
sympathizing friend the sorrows of an heart struggling vainly with a
passion she condemned, and sinking under ineffectual efforts to
vindicate her honour and eradicate her love.
She knew not that Fitz-Edward had ever written to her. Godolphin, well
acquainted with his hand, had kept the letter from her. She knew not
that he had applied to Emmeline: and tho' she had torn herself from him,
and had vowed never again to write to him, to name him, to hear from
him, she involuntarily felt disposed to accuse him of neglect, of
ingratitude, of cruelty, for having never attempted to write to her or
see her; and added the poignant anguish of jealousy to the dreary
horrors of despair. That Fitz-Edward was for ever lost to her, she
seemed to be convinced; yet that he should forget her, or attach himself
to another, seemed a torment so entirely insupportable, that when her
mind dwelt upon it, as it perpetually did, her reason was inadequate to
the pain it inflicted; and when she touched on that subject, Emmeline
too evidently saw symptoms of that derangement of intellect to which she
had once before been a melancholy witness.
With a mind thus unsettled, and a heart thus oppressed, the consequences
of touching on the application of Fitz-Edward to herself, might, as
Emmeline believed, have the most alarming effect on Lady Adelina. And
she dared not therefore name it unless she had the concurrence of
Godolphin. She only attempted to soothe and tranquillize her mind,
without giving her those assurances of his undiminished attachment,
which, she thought, might in the event only encrease her anguish, if her
brother remained inflexible. On the other hand, she forbore to
remonstrate with her on the necessity there might be to forget him;
being too well convinced that the arguments which were to enforce that
doctrine, would be useless, and perhaps appear cruel, to a heart so
deeply wounded as was that of the luckless, lovely Adelina.
But in pouring her sorrows into the bosom of her friend she appeared to
find consolation. The tender pity of Emmeline was a balm to her wounded
mind; and growing more composed, she began to discourse on the singular
discovery Emmeline had made, and to enter with some interest into the
affairs depending between her and the Marquis of Montreville; and by
questions, aided by the natural frankness of Emmeline, at length became
acquainted with the happy prospects, which, tho' distant, opened to
Godolphin.
This was the only information that seemed to have the power of
suspending for a moment the weight of those afflictions which Lady
Adelina suffered. 'My brother then,' cried she--'my dear Godolphin, will
be happy! And you, my most amiable friend, will constitute, while you
share his felicity. Ah! fortunate, thrice fortunate for ye both, was the
hour of your meeting; for heaven and nature surely designed ye for each
other! Fortunate, too, were those circumstances which divided my
Emmeline from Delamere, before indissoluble bonds enchained you for
ever. Had it been otherwise; had _your_ guardian angel slumbered as
_mine did_; you too, all lovely and deserving as you are, would have
been condemned to the bitterest of all lots, and might have discovered
all the excellence and worth of Godolphin, when your duty and your
honour allowed you no eyes but for Delamere. _Your_ destiny is more
happy--yet not happier than you deserve. Oh! may it quickly be fixed
unalterably; and long, very long, may it endure! So shall your Adelina,
for the little while she drags on a reluctant existence, have something
on which to lean for the alleviation of her sorrows; and when she shall
interrupt your felicity no longer by the sight of cureless calamity, she
will, in full confidence, entrust the sole tie she has on earth, the
dear and innocent victim of her fatal weakness, to the compassionate
bosoms of Godolphin and his Emmeline!'
The tremulous voice and singular manner in which Lady Adelina uttered
these words, made Emmeline tremble. She now tried to divert the
attention of her poor friend, from dwelling too earnestly either on her
own wretchedness or the promised felicity of her brother: but, as if
exhausted by the mingled emotions of pain and pleasure, she soon
afterwards fell into a deep silence; scarce attending to what was said;
and after a long pause, she suddenly called to Madelon, in whose arms
her little boy had fallen asleep, and looking at him earnestly a moment,
took him from the maid, and carried him towards the house. Emmeline,
more and more convinced of her partial intellectual derangement,
followed her, dreading lest she should see it encrease, without the
power of applying any remedy. Before Lady Adelina reached the gate,
which opened from the cliffs to the lawn, she was fatigued by her lovely
burthen and forced to stop. Emmeline would then have taken him; but she
said 'No!' and sitting down on the ground, held him in her lap, till
Barret, who had seen her from a window, came out and took him from her;
to which, as to a thing usual, she consented, and then walked calmly
home with Emmeline, who, extremely discomposed by the wildness of her
manner, was fearful of again introducing any interesting topic, lest she
should again touch those fine chords which were untuned in the mind of
her unhappy friend; and which seemed occasionally to vibrate with an
acuteness that threatened the ruin of the whole fabric. Barret, who
afterwards came to assist her in dressing, told her, that within the
last six weeks her lady had often been subject to long fits of absence,
sometimes of tears; which generally ended in her snatching the child
eagerly to her, kissing him with the wildest fondness, and that after
having kept him with her some time, and wept extremely, she usually
became rational and composed for the rest of the day.