Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  Your affectionate

  LEONORA L —— .

  I open this to enclose the general’s letter, which will explain every thing.

  LETTER XCVII.

  GENERAL B —— TO THE DUCHESS OF —— .

  MY DEAR MADAM, Yarmouth.

  Your Grace, I find, is apprised of Lady Leonora L — —’s journey hither: I fear that you rely upon my prudence for preventing her exposing herself to the danger of catching this dreadful fever. But that has been beyond my power. Her ladyship arrived late last night. I had foreseen the probability of her coming, but not the possibility of her coming so soon. I had taken no precautions, and she was in the house and upon the stairs in an instant. No entreaties, no arguments could stop her; I assured her that Mr. L — —’s fever was pronounced by all the physicians to be of the most infectious kind. Dr. —— joined me in representing that she would expose her life to almost certain danger if she persisted in her determination to see her husband; but she pressed forward, regardless of all that could be said. To the physicians she made no answer; to me she replied, “You are Mr. L — —’s friend, but I am his wife: you have not feared to hazard your life for him, and do you think I can hesitate?” I urged that there was no necessity for more than one person’s running this hazard; and that since it had fallen to my lot to be with my friend when he was first taken ill — She interrupted me,—”Is not this taking a cruel advantage of me, general? You know that I, too, would have been with Mr. L —— , if — if it had been possible.” Her manner, her pathetic emphasis, and the force of her implied meaning, struck me so much, that I was silent, and suffered her to pass on; but again the idea of her danger rushing upon my mind, I sprang before her to the door of Mr. L — —’s apartment, and opposed her entrance. “Then, general,” said she, calmly, “perhaps you mistake me — perhaps you have heard repeated some unguarded words of mine in the moment of indignation ... unjust ... you best know how unjust indignation! — and you infer from these that my affection for my husband is extinguished. I deserve this — but do not punish me too severely.”

  I still kept my hand upon the lock of the door, expostulating with Lady Leonora in your Grace’s name, and in Mr. L — —’s, assuring her that if he were conscious of what was passing, and able to speak, he would order me to prevent her seeing him in his present situation.

  “And you, too, general!” said she, bursting into tears: “I thought you were my friend — would you prevent me from seeing him? And is not he conscious of what is passing? And is not he able to speak? Sir, I must be admitted! You have done your duty — now let me do mine. Consider, my right is superior to yours. No power on earth should or can prevent a wife from seeing her husband when he is.... Dear, dear general!” said she, clasping her raised hands, and falling suddenly at my feet, “let me see him but for one minute, and I will be grateful to you for ever!”

  I could resist no longer — I tremble for the consequences. I know your Grace sufficiently to be aware that you ought to be told the whole truth. I have but little hopes of my poor friend’s life.

  With much respect,

  Your grace’s faithful servant,

  J.B.

  LETTER XCVIII.

  OLIVIA TO MR. L —— .

  Richmond.

  A mist hung over my eyes, and “my ears with hollow murmurs rung,” when the dreadful tidings of your alarming illness were announced by your cruel messenger. My dearest L —— ! why does inexorable destiny doom me to be absent from you at such a crisis? Oh! this fatal wound of mine! It would, I fear, certainly open again if I were to travel. So this corporeal being must be imprisoned here, while my anxious soul, my viewless spirit, hovers near you, longing to minister each tender consolation, each nameless comfort that love alone can, with fond prescience and magic speed, summon round the couch of pain.

  “O that I had the wings of a dove, that I might fly to you!” Why must I resign the sweetly-painful task of soothing you in the hour of sickness? And shall others with officious zeal,

  “Guess the faint wish, explain the asking eye?”

  Alas it must be so — even were I to fly to him, my sensibility could not support the scene. To behold him stretched on the bed of disease — perhaps of death — would be agony past endurance. Let firmer nerves than Olivia’s, and hearts more callous, assume the offices from which they shrink not. ’Tis the fate, the hard fate of all endued with exquisite sensibility, to be palsied by the excess of their feelings, and to become imbecile at the moment their exertions are most necessary.

  Your too tenderly sympathizing

  OLIVIA.

  LETTER XCIX.

  LEONORA TO HER MOTHER.

  Yarmouth.

  My husband is alive, and that is all. Never did I see, nor could I have conceived, such a change, and in so short a time! When I opened the door, his eyes turned upon me with unmeaning eagerness: he did not know me. The good general thought my voice might have some effect. I spoke, but could obtain no answer, no sign of intelligence. In vain I called upon him by every name that used to reach his heart. I kneeled beside him, and took one of his burning hands in mine. I kissed it, and suddenly he started up, exclaiming, “Olivia! Olivia!” with dreadful vehemence. In his delirium he raved about Olivia’s stabbing herself, and called upon us to hold her arm, looking wildly towards the foot of the bed, as if the figure were actually before him. Then he sunk back, as if quite exhausted, and gave a deep sigh. Some of my tears fell upon his hand; he felt them before I perceived that they had fallen, and looked so earnestly in my face, that I was in hopes his recollection was returning; but he only said, “Olivia, I believe that you love me;” then sighed more deeply than before, drew his hand away from me, and, as well as I could distinguish, said something about Leonora.

  But why should I give you the pain of hearing all these circumstances, my dear mother? It is enough to say, that he passed a dreadful night. This morning the physicians say, that if he passes this night — if — my dear mother, what a terrible suspense!

  LEONORA L —— .

  LETTER C.

  LEONORA TO HER MOTHER.

  Yarmouth.

  Morning is at last come, and my husband is still alive: so there is yet hope. When I said I thought I could bear to survive him, how little I knew of myself, and how little, how very little I expected to be so soon tried! All evils are remediable but one, that one which I dare not name.

  The physicians assure me that he is better. His friend, to whose judgment I trust more, thinks as they do. I know not what to believe. I dread to flatter myself and to be disappointed, I will write again, dearest mother, to-morrow.

  Your ever affectionate

  LEONORA L —— .

  LETTER CI.

  LEONORA TO HER MOTHER.

  Wednesday.

  No material change since yesterday, my dear mother. This morning, as I was searching for some medicine, I saw on the chimney-piece a note from Lady Olivia —— . It might have been there yesterday, and ever since my arrival, but I did not see it. At any other time it would have excited my indignation, but my mind is now too much weakened by sorrow. My fears for my husband’s life absorb all other feelings.

  LETTER CII.

  OLIVIA TO MR. L —— .

  Richmond.

  Words cannot express what I have suffered since I wrote last! Oh! why do I not bear that the danger is over! — Long since would I have been with you, all that my soul holds dear, could I have escaped from these tyrants, these medical despots, who detain me by absolute force, and watch over me with unrelenting vigilance. I have consulted Dr. —— , who assures me that my fears of my wound opening, were I to take so long a journey, are too well-founded; that in the present feverish state of my mind he would not answer for the consequences. I heed him not — life I value not. — Most joyfully would I sacrifice myself for the man I love. But even could I escape from my persecutors, too well I know that to see you would be a vain attempt — too well I know that I should not be admitted. Y
our love, your fears for Olivia would barbarously banish her, and forbid her your dear, your dangerous atmosphere. Too justly would you urge that my rashness might prove our mutual ruin — that in the moment of crisis or of convalescence, anxiety for me might defeat the kind purpose of nature. And even were I secure of your recovery, the delay, I speak not of the danger of my catching the disease, would, circumstanced as we are, be death to our hopes. We should be compelled to part. The winds would waft you from me. The waves would bear you to another region, far — oh! far from your

  OLIVIA.

  LETTER CIII.

  GENERAL B —— TO THE DUCHESS OF —— .

  MY DEAR MADAM, Yarmouth, Thursday, — .

  Mr. L —— has had a relapse, and is now more alarmingly ill than I have yet seen him: he does not know his situation, for his delirium has returned. The physicians give him over. Dr. H —— says that we must prepare for the worst.

  I have but one word of comfort for your Grace — that your admirable daughter’s health has not yet suffered.

  Your Grace’s faithful servant,

  J.B.

  LETTER CIV.

  LEONORA TO HER MOTHER.

  MY DEAREST MOTHER, Yarmouth.

  The delirium has subsided. A few minutes ago, as I was kneeling beside him, offering up an almost hopeless prayer for his recovery, his eyes opened, and I perceived that he knew me. He closed his eyes again without speaking, opened them once more, and then looking at me fixedly, exclaimed: “It is not a dream! You are Leonora! — my Leonora!”

  What exquisite pleasure I felt at the sound of these words, at the tone in which they were pronounced! My husband folded me in his arms; and, till I felt his burning lips, I forgot that he was ill.

  When he came thoroughly to his recollection, and when the idea that his fever might be infectious occurred to him, he endeavoured to prevail upon me to leave the room. But what danger can there be for me now? My whole soul, my whole frame is inspired with new life. If he recover, your daughter may still be happy.

  LETTER CV.

  GENERAL B —— TO THE DUCHESS OF —— .

  My Dear Madam,

  A few hours ago my friend became perfectly sensible of his danger, and calling me to his bedside, told me that he was eager to make use of the little time which he might have to live. He was quite calm and collected. He employed me to write his last wishes and bequests; and I must do him the justice to declare, that the strongest idea and feeling in his mind evidently was the desire to show his entire confidence in his wife, and to give her, in his last moments, proofs of his esteem and affection. When he had settled his affairs, he begged to be left alone for some time. Between twelve and one his bell rang, and he desired to see Lady Leonora and me. He spoke to me with that warmth of friendship which he has ever felt from our childhood. Then turning to his wife, his voice utterly failed, and he could only press to his lips that hand which was held out to him in speechless agony.

  “Excellent woman!” he articulated at last; then collecting his mind, he exclaimed, “My beloved Leonora, I will not die without expressing my feelings for you; I know yours for me. I do not ask for that forgiveness which your generous heart granted long before I deserved it. Your affection for me has been shown by actions, at the hazard of your life; I can only thank you with weak words. You possess my whole heart, my esteem, my admiration, my gratitude.”

  Lady Leonora, at the word gratitude, made an effort to speak, and laid her hand upon her husband’s lips. He added, in a more enthusiastic tone, “You have my undivided love. Believe in the truth of these words — perhaps they are the last I may ever speak.”

  My friend sunk back exhausted, and I carried Lady Leonora out of the room.

  I returned half an hour ago, and found every thing silent: Mr. L —— is lying with his eyes closed — quite still — I hope asleep. This may be a favourable crisis. I cannot delay this letter longer.

  Your Grace’s faithful servant,

  J. B.

  LETTER CVI.

  LEONORA TO HER MOTHER.

  DEAREST MOTHER, Yarmouth.

  He has slept several hours. — Dr. H —— , the most skilful of all his physicians, says that we may now expect his recovery. Adieu. The good general will add a line to assure you that I am not deceived, nor too sanguine.

  Yours most affectionately,

  LEONORA L —— .

  Postscript by General B —— .

  I have some hopes — that is all I can venture to say to your grace.

  LETTER CVII.

  LEONORA TO HER MOTHER.

  DEAREST MOTHER, Yarmouth.

  Excellent news for you to-day! — Mr. L —— is pronounced out of danger. He seems excessively touched by my coming here, and so grateful for the little kindness I have been able to show him during his illness! But alas! that fatal promise! the recollection of it comes across my mind like a spectre. Mr. L —— has never touched upon this subject, — I do all in my power to divert his thoughts to indifferent objects.

  This morning when I went into his room, I found him tearing to pieces that note which I mentioned to you a few days ago. He seemed much agitated, and desired to see General B —— . They are now together, and were talking so loud in the next room to me, that I was obliged to retire, lest I should overhear secrets. Mr. L —— this moment sends for me. If I should not have time to add more, this short letter will satisfy you for to-day.

  Leonora L —— .

  I open my letter to say, that I am not so happy as I was when I began it. I have heard all the circumstances relative to this terrible affair. Mr. L —— will go to Russia. I am as far from happiness as ever.

  LETTER CVIII.

  OLIVIA TO MR. L —— .

  Richmond.

  “Say, is not absence death to those that love?”

  How just, how beautiful a sentiment! yet cold and callous is that heart which knows not that there is a pang more dreadful than absence — far as the death of lingering torture exceeds, in corporeal sufferance, the soft slumber of expiring nature. Suspense! suspense! compared with thy racking agony, even absence is but the blessed euthanasia of love.

  My dearest L —— , why this torturing silence? one line, one word, I beseech you, from your own hand; say but I live and love you, my Olivia. Hour after hour, and day after day, have I waited and waited, and hoped, and feared to hear from you. Oh, this intolerable agonizing suspense! Yet hope clings to my fond heart — hope! sweet treacherous hope!

  “Non so si la Speranza

  Va con l’inganno unita;

  So che mantiene in vita

  Qualche infelici almen.”

  Olivia.

  LETTER CIX.

  MR. L —— TO OLIVIA.

  MY DEAR OLIVIA, Yarmouth.

  This is the first line I have written since my illness. I could not sooner relieve you from suspense, for during most of this time I have been delirious, and never till now able to write. My physicians have this morning pronounced me out of danger; and as soon as my strength is sufficient to bear the voyage, I shall sail, according to my promise.

  Your prudence, or that of your physician, has saved me much anxiety — perhaps saved my life: for had you been so rash as to come hither, besides my fears for your safety, I should have been exposed, in the moment of my returning reason, to a conflict of passions which I could not have borne.

  Leonora is with me; she arrived the night after I was taken ill, and forced her way to me, when my fever was at the highest, and while I was in a state of delirium.

  Lady Leonora will stay with me till the moment I sail, which I expect to do in about ten days. I cannot say positively, for I am still very weak, and may not be able to keep my word to a day. Adieu. I hope your mind will now be at ease. I am glad to hear from the surgeon that your wound is quite closed. I will write again, and more fully, when I am better able. Believe me, Olivia, I am most anxious to secure your happiness: allow me to believe that this will be in the power of

  Yours
sincerely,

  F. L —— .

  LETTER CX.

  OLIVIA TO MR. L —— .

  Richmond.

  Barbarous man! with what cold cruelty you plunge a dagger into my heart! Leonora is with you! — Leonora! Then I am undone. Yes, she will — she has resumed all her power, her rights, her habitual empire over your heart. Wretched Olivia! — But you say it is your wish to secure my happiness, you bid me allow you to believe it is in your power. What phrases! — You will sail, according to your promise. — Then nothing but your honour binds you to Olivia. And even now, at this guilty instant, in your secret soul, you wish, you expect from my offended pride, from my disgusted delicacy, a renunciation of this promise, a release from all the ties that bind you to me. You are right: this is what I ought to do; what I would do, if love had not so weakened my soul, so prostrated my spirit, rendered me so abject a creature, that I cannot what I would.

  I must love on — female pride and resentment call upon me in vain. I cannot hate you. Even by the feeble tie, which I see you long to break, I must hold rather than let you go for ever. I will not renounce your promise. I claim it. I adjure you by all which a man of honour holds most sacred, to quit England the moment your health will allow you to sail. No equivocating with your conscience! — I hold you to your word. Oh, my dearest L —— ! to feel myself reduced to use such language to you, to find myself clinging to that last resource of ship-wrecked love, a promise! It is with unspeakable agony I feel all this; lower I cannot sink in misery. Raise me, if indeed you wish my happiness — raise me! it is yet in your power. Tell me, that my too susceptible heart has mistaken phantoms for realities — tell me, that your last was not colder than usual; yes, I am ready to be deceived. Tell me that it was only the languor of disease; assure me that my rival forced her way only to your presence, that she has not won her easy way back to your heart — assure me that you are impatient once more to see your own