Time, thus occupied, passed lightly away; Spring arrived almost imperceptibly, and brought again weather which enabled Emmeline to reassume her walks along the shore or among the rocks, and to indulge that contemplative turn of mind which she had acquired in the solitude of Mowbray Castle.
It was on a beautiful morning of the month of April, that, taking a book with her as usual, she went down to the sea side, and sat reading for some hours; when, just as she was about to return home, she saw a lovely little boy, about five years old, wandering towards the place where she was, picking up shells and sea weeds, and appearing to be so deeply engaged in his infantine pursuit, that he did not see her ‘till she spoke to him.
‘Whose sweet little boy are you, my love?’ said she.
The child looked at her with surprise.
‘I am my mamma’s boy,’ said he, ‘and so is Henry,’ pointing towards another who now approached, and who seemed hardly a year younger.
The second running up to his brother, caught his hand, and they both walked away together, looking behind at the strange lady with some degree of alarm.
Their dress convinced Emmeline that they belonged to a stranger; and as they seemed to have nobody with them, she was under some apprehension for their safety, and therefore arose to follow them, when on turning round the point of a rock whose projection had concealed the shore to the left, she saw a lady walking slowly before her, whom the two little boys had now rejoined. In her hand she held a little girl, who seemed only learning to walk; and she was followed by a nursery maid, who held in her arms another, yet an infant at the breast.
The stranger, near whom Emmeline was obliged to pass, curtsyed to her as she went by. And if Emmeline was surprised at the early appearance of company at a time when she knew it to be so unusual, the stranger was much more so at the uncommon elegance of her form and manner: she was almost tempted to believe the fable of the sea nymphs, and to fancy her one of them.
Emmeline, on regaining her apartment, heard from the hostess, whom she found with another neighbour, that the lady she had seen arrived the evening before, and had taken lodgings at the house of the latter, with an intention of staying great part of the summer.
The next day Emmeline again met the stranger; who accosting the fair orphan with all that ease which characterises the address of those who have lived much in good company, they soon entered into conversation, and Emmeline almost as soon discovered that her new acquaintance possessed an understanding as excellent as her person and address were captivating.
She appeared to be not more than five or six and twenty: but her person seemed to have suffered from sorrow that diminution of its charms, which time could not yet have effected. Her complexion was faded and wan; her eyes had lost their lustre; and a pensive and languid expression sat on her countenance.
After the first conversation, the two ladies found they liked each other so well, that they met by agreement every day. Emmeline generally went early to the lodgings of Mrs. Stafford, and stayed the whole day with her; charmed to have found in her new friend, one who could supply to her all the deficiencies of her former instructors.
To a very superior understanding, Mrs. Stafford added the advantages of a polished education, and all that ease of manner, which the commerce of fashion can supply. She had read a great deal; and her mind, originally elegant and refined, was highly cultivated, and embellished with all the knowledge that could be acquired from the best authors in the modern languages. Her disposition seemed to have been naturally chearful; for a ray of vivacity would frequently light up her countenance, and a lively and agreeable conversation call forth all its animated gaiety. But it seldom lasted long. Some settled uneasiness lay lurking in her heart; and when it recurred forcibly to her, as it frequently did in the midst of the most interesting discourse, a cloud of sorrow obscured the brilliancy of her countenance and language, and she became pensive, silent, and absent.
Emmeline observed this with concern; but was not yet intimate enough with her to enquire or discover the cause.
Sometimes, when she was herself occupied in drawing, or some other pursuit in which Mrs. Stafford delighted to instruct her, she saw that her friend, believing herself unobserved, gave way to all the melancholy that oppressed her heart; and as her children were playing round her, she would gaze mournfully on them ‘till the tears streamed down her cheeks.
By degrees the utmost confidence took place between them on every subject but one: Mrs. Stafford never dwelt on the cause, whatever it was, which occasioned her to be so frequently uneasy; nor did she ever complain of being so: but she listened with the warmest interest to the little tale Emmeline had to relate, and told her in return as much of her own history as she thought it necessary for her to know.
Emmeline found that she was not a widow, as she had at first supposed; for she spoke sometimes of her husband, and said she expected him at Swansea. She had been married at a very early age; and they now generally resided at an house which Mr. Stafford’s father, who was still living, had purchased for them in Dorsetshire.
‘I came hither,’ said she, ‘thus early in the year, at Mr. Stafford’s request, who is fond of improvements and alterations, and who intends this summer to add considerably to our house; which is already too large, I think, for our present fortune. I was glad to get away from the confusion of workmen, to which I have an aversion; and anxious to let Charles and Henry, who had the measles in the Autumn and who have been frequently ill since, have a long course of sea-bathing. I might indeed have gone to Weymouth or some nearer place; but I wish to avoid general company, which I could not have done where I am sure of meeting so many of my acquaintance. I rejoice now at my preference of Swansea, since it has been the means of my knowing you, my dear Emmeline.’
‘And I, Madam,’ returned Emmeline, ‘have reason to consider the concurrence of circumstances that brought you here as the most fortunate for me. Yet I own to you, that the charm of such society is accompanied with great pain, in anticipating the hour when I must again return to that solitude I have ‘till now considered as my greatest enjoyment.’
‘Ah! my dear girl!’ replied Mrs. Stafford, ‘check in its first appearance a propensity which I see you frequently betray, to anticipate displeasing or unfortunate events. When you have lived a few years longer, you will, I fear, learn, that every day has evils enough of its own, and that it is well for us we know nothing of those which are yet to come. I speak from experience; for I, when not older than you now are, had a perpetual tendency to fancy future calamities, and embittered by that means many of those hours which would otherwise have been really happy. Yet has not my pre-sentiments, tho’ most of them have been unhappily verified, enabled me to avoid one of those thorns with which my path has been thickly strewn.’
Emmeline hoped now to hear what hand had strewn them.
Mrs. Stafford, sighing deeply, fell into a reverie; and continuing long silent, Emmeline could not resolve to renew a conversation so evidently painful to her.
It was now six weeks since she had first seen Mrs. Stafford, and the hours had passed in a series of felicity of which she had ‘till then formed no idea.
Mrs. Stafford, delighted with the lively attachment of her young friend, was charmed to find herself capable of adorning her ingenuous and tender mind with all that knowledge which books or the world had qualified her to impart.
They read together every day: Emmeline, under the tuition of her charming preceptress, had made some progress in French and Italian; and she was amazed at her own success in drawing since she had received from Mrs. Stafford rules of which she was before ignorant.
As the summer advanced, a few stragglers came in, and it was no longer wonderful to see a stranger. But Mrs. Stafford and Miss Mowbray, perfectly satisfied with each other, sought not to enlarge their society. They sometimes held short conversations with the transient visitants of the place, but more usually avoided those walks where it was likely they should meet them.
&nbs
p; Early one morning, they were returning from the bathing place together, muffled up in their morning dresses. They had seen at a distance two gentlemen, whom they did not particularly notice; and Emmeline, leaning on the arm of her friend, was again anticipating all she should suffer when the hour came which would separate them, and recollecting the different company and conversation to which she had been condemned from the death of Mrs. Carey to her quitting Mowbray Castle —
‘You have not only taught me, my dear Mrs. Stafford,’ said she, ‘to dread more than ever being thrown back into such company; but you have also made me fear that I shall never relish the general conversation of the world. As I disliked the manners of an inferior description of people when I first knew them, because they did not resemble those of the dear good woman who brought me up; so I shall undoubtedly be disappointed and dissatisfied with the generality of those acquaintance I may meet with; for I am afraid there are as few Mrs. Staffords in your rank of life as there were Mrs. Careys in hers. However, there is no great likelihood, I believe, at present, of my being convinced how little they resemble you; for it is not probable I shall be taken from hence.’
‘Perhaps,’ answered Mrs. Stafford, ‘you might be permitted to stay some months next winter with me. I shall pass the whole of it in the country; the greatest part of it probably alone; and such a companion would assist in charming away many of those hours, which now, tho’ I have more resources than most people, sometimes are heavy and melancholy. My children are not yet old enough to be my companions; and I know not how it is, but I have often more pain than pleasure in being with them. When I remember, or when I feel, how little happiness there is in the world, I tremble for their future destiny; and in the excess of affection, regret having introduced them into a scene of so much pain as I have hitherto found it. But tell me, Emmeline, do you think if I apply to Lord Montreville he will allow you to pass some time with me?’
‘Dear Madam,’ said Emmeline, eagerly, ‘what happiness do you offer me! Lord Montreville would certainly think me highly honoured by such an invitation.’
‘Shall I answer for Lord Montreville,’ said a voice behind them, ‘as his immediate representative?’
Emmeline started; and turning quickly, beheld Mr. Delamere and Fitz-Edward.
Delamere caught her hands in his.
‘Have I then found you, my lovely cousin?’ cried he.— ‘Oh! happiness unexpected!’
He was proceeding with even more than his usual vehemence; but Fitz-Edward thought it necessary to stop him.
‘You promised, Frederic, before I consented to come with you, that you would desist from these extravagant flights. Come, I beg Miss Mowbray may be permitted to speak to her other acquaintance; and that she will do us both the honour to introduce us to her friend.’
Emmeline had lost all courage and recollection on the appearance of Delamere. Mrs. Stafford saw her distress; and assuming a cold and distant manner, she said— ‘Miss Mowbray, I apprehend from what this gentleman has said, that he has a message to you from Lord Montreville.’
‘Has my Lord, Sir,’ said Emmeline to Delamere,— ‘has my Lord Montreville been so good as to honour me with any commands?’
‘Cruel girl!’ answered he; ‘you know too well that my father is not acquainted with my being here.’
‘Then you certainly ought not to be here,’ said Emmeline, coolly; ‘and you must excuse me, Sir, if I beg the favor of you not to detain me, nor attempt to renew a conversation so very improper, indeed so cruelly injurious to me.’
Mrs. Stafford had Emmeline’s arm within her own, from the commencement of this conversation; and she now walked hastily on with her.
Delamere followed them, intreating to be heard; and Fitz-Edward, addressing himself on the other side to Mrs. Stafford, besought her in a half whisper to allow his friend only a few moments to explain himself to Miss Mowbray.
‘No, Sir, I must be excused,’ answered she— ‘If Miss Mowbray does me the honour to consult me, I shall certainly advise her against committing such an indiscretion as listening to Mr. Delamere.’
‘Ah! Madam!’ said the colonel, throwing into his eyes and manner all that insinuation of which he was so perfect a master, ‘is it possible, that with a countenance where softness and compassion seem to invite the unhappy to trust you with their sorrows, you have a cruel and unfeeling heart? Lay by for a moment your barbarous prudence, in favour of my unfortunate friend; upon my honour, nothing but the conviction that his life was at stake, would have induced me to accompany him hither; and I pledge myself for the propriety of his conduct. He only begs to be forgiven by Miss Mowbray for his improper treatment of her at Mowbray Castle; to be assured she is in health and safety; and to hear that she does not hate him for all the uneasiness he has given her; and having done so, he promises to return to his family. Upon my soul,’ continued he, laying his hand upon his breast, ‘I know not what would have been the consequence, had I not consented to assist him in deceiving his family and coming hither: but I have reason to think he would have made some wild attempt to secure to himself more frequent interviews with Miss Mowbray; and that a total disappointment of the project he had formed for seeing her, would have been attended with a violence of passion arising even to phrenzy. — Madness or death would perhaps have been the event.’
Mrs. Stafford turned her eyes on Fitz-Edward, with a look sufficiently expressive of incredulity— ‘Does a modern man of fashion pretend to talk of madness and death? You certainly imagine, Sir, that you are speaking to some romantic inhabitant of a Welch provincial town, whose ideas are drawn from a circulating library, and confirmed by the conversation of the captain in quarters.’
‘Ah, madam,’ said he, ‘I know not to whom I have the honour of addressing myself,’ (though he knew perfectly well;) ‘but I feel too certainly that madness and death would be preferable to the misery such coldness and cruelty as your’s would inflict on me, was it my misfortune to love as violently as Delamere; and indeed I tremble, lest in endeavouring to assist my friend I have endangered myself.’
Of this speech, Mrs. Stafford, who believed he did not know her, took very little notice; and turning towards Emmeline, who had in the mean time been listening in trembling apprehension to the ardent declarations of Delamere, said it was time to return home.
Delamere, without attending to her hint, renewed his importunities for her friendship and interest with Miss Mowbray; to which, as soon as he would allow her to answer, she said very gravely— ‘Sir, as Miss Mowbray seems so much alarmed at your pursuing her hither, and as you must be yourself sensible of it’s extreme impropriety, I hope you will not lengthen an interview which can only produce uneasiness for you both.’
‘Let us go home, for heaven’s sake!’ whispered Emmeline.
‘They are determined, you see, to follow us,’ replied her friend; ‘we will however go.’
By this time they were near the door; and Mrs. Stafford wishing the two gentlemen a good morning, was hurrying with Emmeline into the house; but Fitz-Edward took hold of her arm.
‘One word, only, madam, and we will intrude upon you no farther at present: say that you will suffer us to see you again to-morrow.’
‘Not if I can help it, be assured, Sir.’
‘Then, madam,’ said Delamere, ‘you must allow me to finish now what I have to say to Miss Mowbray.’
‘Good heaven! Sir,’ exclaimed Emmeline, ‘why will you thus persist in distressing me? You are perhaps known to Mrs. Watkins; your name will be at least known to her; and intelligence of your being here will be instantly sent to Lord Montreville.’
Emmeline, by no means aware that this speech implied a desire of concealment, the motives of which might appear highly flattering to Delamere, was soon made sensible of it’s import by his answer.
‘Enough, my adorable Emmeline!’ cried he eagerly, ‘if I am worthy of a thought of that sort, I am less wretched than I believed myself. I will not now insist on a longer audience; but to-morrow I
must see you again. — Your amiable friend here will intercede for me. — I must not be refused; and will wish you a good day before you can form so cruel a resolution.’
So saying, he bowed to Mrs. Stafford, kissed Emmeline’s hand, and departed with Fitz-Edward from the door.
CHAPTER VIII
The two fair friends no sooner entered the house, than Emmeline threw herself into a chair, and burst into tears.
‘Ah! my dear madam,’ said she, sobbing, ‘what will now become of me? Lord Montreville will believe I have corresponded with his son; he will withdraw all favour and confidence from me; and I shall be undone!’
‘Do not thus distress yourself,’ said Mrs. Stafford, tenderly taking her hand— ‘I hope the rash and cruel conduct of this young man will not have the consequences you apprehend. Lord Montreville, from your former conduct, will easily credit your not having encouraged this visit.’
‘Ah! my dear Mrs. Stafford,’ replied Emmeline, ‘you do not know Lord Montreville. He hastily formed a notion that I made an appointment with Mr. Delamere at Mowbray Castle, when I had not even seen him above once; and though, from my eagerness to leave it, I believe he afterwards thought he had been too hasty, yet so strong was that first impression, that the slightest circumstance would, I know, renew it as forcibly as ever: for he has one of those tempers, which having once entertained an idea of a person’s conduct or character, never really alters it, though they see the most convincing evidence of it’s fallacy. Having once supposed I favoured the addresses of Mr. Delamere, as you know he did, at Mowbray Castle, the present visit will convince him he was right, and that I am the most artful as well as the most ungrateful of beings.’
Mrs. Stafford hesitated a moment, and then said, ‘I see all the evil you apprehend. To convince Lord Montreville of your ignorance of Delamere’s design, and your total rejection of his clandestine addresses, suppose I were to write to him? He must be prejudiced and uncandid indeed, if after such information he is not convinced of your innocence.’
Charlotte Smith- Collected Poetical Works Page 34