XV Lady Cheyne to Francis
Portsmouth, May 28th.
Do not write, and do not persist in trying to speak to me again. If you care for any of us, you will not stay here. I can do nothing. When my husband speaks to me, it turns me hot and sick with fear. I am ashamed of every breath I draw. If you cannot have mercy, do, for God’s sake, think of your own honour. If you stay here, you may as well show this letter at once. I wish Cheyne would kill me. But, even if he saw what I am thinking of when I look at him, I believe he would not. He is so fearfully good to me. Oh, if I were to die, I should never forget that! I don’t know that it matters much what I do. I have broken my faith to him in thought, and, if justice were done, I ought to be put away from him. I look at my hand while I write, and think it ought to be cut off-my ring burns. I cannot think how things can be as dreadful as they are. I suppose, if I can live through this, I shall live to see them become worse. If I could but see what to do, I should be content with any wretchedness. I never meant to be a bad wife. When I woke this morning, I felt mad. People would say there was nothing to repent of; but I know. It is worse not to love him than it would be to leave him. What have you done to me? for I never lied and cheated till now. After such horrible falsehood and treason I don’t see what crime is to stop me. If I had known that another woman was like me at heart I could not have borne to let her look at me. I feel as if I must go away and hide myself. If only something would give me an excuse for going home! At least, if I must stay with my husband, I implore you to leave me. Tell your sister you must go. Say you are tired. Or go to London to-morrow with Cheyne, and don’t return. You can so easily excuse yourself from the sailing party. He stays in town one night, and comes down in time for it the day after. You can make a pretext for remaining. If you have any pity, you will. I have nothing to help me in the world. It would kill me to appeal to Reginald. No one could understand. I am sure, if you knew how I do want and trust to be kept right, and what a fearful life I have of it with this sense of a secret wearing me out, you would be sorry for me. And if you love me so much, knowing what you know now, you ought to be sorry. It is too late for me to get happy again, but I may come not to feel such unbearable shame as I do now, and shall while you stay. Promise you will not try to see me. I wonder if God will be satisfied, supposing you never do see me again? I shall have tried to be good. I think He ought to have pity on me, too. But, if I live to grow old, I shall want to see you then.
XVI Mrs. Radworth to Lady Midhurst
Portsmouth, June 3rd.
You will have heard, my dear aunt, of our wretched loss, and the fearful bereavement of poor Amicia. I wish I could give a reassuring account of her, but she appears to be quite broken; it is miserable to see her. She sits for whole hours in her own room; I did hope at first it was to seek the consolation of prayer, but that comfort, I fear greatly, she is not yet capable of feeling. She looks quite like death. I suggested she should go into the room where he is lying, and take her last look of him, but she turned absolutely whiter than she was, shuddered, and seemed quite sick. My brother is hardly less overcome. On a servant addressing him yesterday by his title, he actually sank into a chair, and gave way in a manner which I could not but regret. I am certain he would sacrifice worlds to restore his cousin to life.
Mr. Harewood has been throughout most kind. He has done all that the best friend of our poor child could do. Amicia will hardly see anyone but him. Mr. Radworth offered to relieve him of some part of the wretched trouble and business he has undertaken to spare dear Amicia (Francis, I must tell you, seems incapable of moving); but he refuses to share it. I cannot express to you the admiration we all feel for his beautiful management of her, poor child. Who could remember at such a time the former folly which he must himself have forgotten? I am constantly reminded that you alone always did him justice. I suppose you will wish to know the sad detail, and it had better perhaps be given at once by me than by another. We had decided, as you know, to take Saturday last as the day of our projected sail. Francis seemed curiously unwilling to go at first, and it was only at poor Lord Cheyne’s repeated request that he assented. Amicia was very quiet, and I thought rather depressed-I have no doubt in consequence of the sudden reaction from a continued strain on her spirits. It was a very dull party altogether; only Mr. Harewood and poor Edmund seemed to have any spirits to enjoy it. They talked a great deal, especially about summer plans. Quite suddenly, we heard ahead what I fancied was the noise of the overfalls, and began passing out of smooth water. I thought it looked dangerous, but they would put inshore. Feeling the waves run rapidly a little higher and higher, I said something to Amicia, who I knew was a bad sailor, and as she scarcely answered, but lay back in the boat, I feared the discomfort to her of rough water had begun. I stooped forward, as well as I remember, to sign to my husband to make Lord Cheyne look at her. Ernest, in his nervous absent way, failed to catch my meaning, and, in rising to speak to me, was pitched forwards with a jerk, and came full against Mr. Harewood, who was helping to shift a sail. Then I really saw nothing more but that the sail-yard (is it a yard they call the bit of wood a sail is tied to? 1) swung round, and I screamed and caught hold of Amicia, and next second I saw poor Lord Cheyne in the water. He caught at Francis, who was next him, and missed. Mr. Harewood jumped in after him with his coat on, but he could hardly make the least way because of the ground swell. They had to pull him in again almost stifled, and 1 NOTE (? by Lady Midhurst).-” Too ingenuous by half for the situation.”
I feared insensible. Before I came to myself so as to see what anybody was doing, they had got the body on board, and Francis and the sailors and Ernest were trying to revive it. Amicia, who was shaking dreadfully, kept hold of her brother, chafing and kissing his face and hands. How we ever got back God knows. Amicia seemed quite stunned; she never so much as touched her husband’s hand. When we came to get out, I thought Francis and my husband would have had to support her, but Mr. Radworth was quite useless, and poor Francis could not bear even to look at her misery. So Mr. Harewood (who was really unfit to walk himself) and one of the sailors had to carry her up to the house. The funeral takes place to-morrow; I trust my brother may be able to attend, but really he seems at times perfectly broken down in health and everything.
XVII Lady Midhurst to Lady Cheyne
Ashton Hildred, June 6th.
MY DEAREST CHILD:
I WOULD not let your mother go, or she would have been with you before this. It must have done her harm. She is not well enough even to write; we have had to take her in hand. It is a bad time for us all; we must live it down as we best may. I thought of advising your father to be with you before the funeral, but she would hardly like him to leave her. I shall start myself to-morrow, and take you home with me. You had better not go to Lidcombe. With us you will at least have thorough quiet, and time to recover by degrees. Now no doubt you are past being talked to. I only hope those people do their best for you. It is well now that nothing ever came between poor Cheyne and you. I suppose you have had as quiet and unbroken a time since your marriage as any one ever does get. The change is sharp; all changes are that turn upon a death. I know, too, that he loved you very truly, and was always good, just, and tender to all he knew; a man to be seriously and widely regretted. It may be that you are just now inclining to believe you will never get over the pain of such a loss. Now, in my life, I have lost many people and many things I would have given much to keep. I have repented and lamented much that I have done, and more that has happened to me-sometimes through my own fault. But one thing I do know, and would have you lay to heart-that nobody living need retain in his dictionary the word irretrievable. Strike it out, I advise you; I erased it from mine long ago. Self-reproach and the analysis of regret are most idle things. Abstain at least from confidences and complaints. Bear what you have to bear steadily, with locked teeth as it were. This minute may be even graver than you think. I know how expansion follows on the thaw of sudden sorrow. I am always ready to
hear and help you to the best of my poor old powers; but, even to me, I would not have you overflow too much. I write in all kindness and love to you, my poor child, and I know my sort of counselling is harsh, heathen, mundane-I can hardly help your way of looking at it. No one is sorrier than I am; no one would give more to recall irrevocable things. But once again I assure you what cannot be recalled may be retrieved. Only the retrieving must come from you: show honour and regard to Cheyne’s memory by controlling and respecting yourself to begin with. If you have some floating desire to make atonement of any kind, atone in that way. But if you have any such feeling, there is a morbid nerve; you should labour to deaden it by no means to stimulate. I am more thankful than I can say that you have Reginald with you. The boy is affectionate, and not of an unhealthy nature. He ought to be of use and comfort; I am sure he is good for you. I can well believe you see no more of others than you can help. It was nice for me to hear from any quarter that Redgie had done his part well. There ought always to be a bond between you two. Family ties are invaluable where they are anything: and neither of you could have a better stay in any time of need than the other. As to friendships of a serious nature (very deeply serious that is) between man and man, or between woman and woman, I have no strong belief in their existence-none whatever in their possible usefulness.
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) Page 299