‘Death and madness!’ cried Delamere, relapsing into all the violence of his nature— ‘what do you mean by all this! Selfish! rebellious! unfeeling! — am I then so worthless, so detestable in your eyes?’
His extravagant expressions of passion always terrified Emmeline; but the paroxysm to which he now yielded, alarmed her less than it did Miss Lawson, who never having seen such frantic behaviour before, thought him really mad. She tremblingly besought him to sit down and be calm; while the pale countenance of Emmeline which she shewed him, convinced him he must subdue the violence of his transports, or hazard seeing her relapse into that alarming state which had forced him to relinquish his project. This observation restored his senses for a moment. — He besought her pardon, with tears; then again cursed his own folly, and seemed on the point of renouncing the contrition he had just assured her he felt. The scene lasted till Emmeline, quite overcome with it, grew so faint that she said she must go to bed; and then Delamere, again terrified at an idea which he had forgot but the moment before, consented to retire if she would again repeat her forgiveness.
She gave him her hand languidly, and in silence. He kissed it; and half in resentment, half in sorrow, left her, and returned to the inn, in a humour which equally unfitted him for society or solitude. Obliged, however, to remain in the latter, he brooded gloomily over his disappointment; and believing Emmeline’s life no longer in danger, he fancied that his fears had magnified her illness. He again deprecated his folly for having consented to relinquish the prosecution of his journey, and for having agreed to carry her where he feared access to her would be rendered rare and difficult, by the inflexible prudence and watchful friendship of Mrs. Stafford. Sometimes he formed vague projects to deceive her, and carry her again towards Scotland; then relinquished them and formed others. He passed the night however nearly without sleep, and the morning found him still irresolute.
At eight o’clock, he went to the house of Mrs. Champness; and Miss Lawson came down to him, but with a countenance in which uneasiness was so visible, that Delamere was almost afraid of asking how Miss Mowbray did.
She told him that she had passed a restless and uncomfortable night, and that the conversation he had held the evening before had been the cause of an access of fever quite as high as the first attack; and, that tho’ she tried to conquer her weakness, and affected ability to prosecute a journey for which she hourly grew more eager, it was easy to see that she was as unfit for it as ever. Miss Lawson added, that if in a few hours she was not better, she should send to Mr. Lawson to come from Stevenage to see her. This account renewed with extreme violence all the former terrors of Delamere, which a few hours before he had been trying to persuade himself were groundless.
He now reproached himself for his thoughtless cruelty; and Miss Lawson seized this opportunity to exhort him to be more cautious for the future, which he readily and warmly protested he would be. He promised never again to give way to such extravagant transports, and pressed to be admitted to see Emmeline; but Miss Lawson would by no means suffer him to see her ‘till she was more recovered from the effects of his frenzy.
In the afternoon, he was allowed to drink tea in Emmeline’s room, and expressed his sincere concern for his indiscretion of the evening before. He tried, by shewing a disposition to comply with all her wishes, to obliterate the memory of his former indiscretion. Emmeline was willing to forget the offence, and pardon the offender, on his renewing his promise to take her the next day towards London, on her route into Dorsetshire; if she should be well enough to undertake the journey.
The spirit and fortitude of Emmeline, fatal as they were to his hopes, commanded the respect, esteem, and almost the adoration of Delamere; while her gentleness and kindness oppressed his heart with fondness so extreme, that he was equally undone by the one and the other, and felt that it every hour became more and more impossible for him to live without her.
It was agreed, that as it would be impossible to reach Woodfield from Hertford, without stopping one night on the road, they would proceed thro’ London to Staines the first day, and from thence go on early the next to the house of Mrs. Stafford.
After lingering with her as long as he could, Delamere took his leave for the evening, determined to observe the promises he had made her, and never again to attempt to obtain her but by her own consent. When he made these resolves, he really intended to adhere to them; and was confirmed in his good resolutions when he the next morning found her ready to trust herself with him, calm, chearful, full of confidence in his promises, and of gentleness and kindness towards him.
Emmeline took an affectionate leave of her amiable acquaintance, Miss Lawson, whose uncommon kindness, on so short a knowledge of her, filled her heart with gratitude. She promised to write to her as soon as she got to Woodfield, and to return the cloaths she had borrowed, to which she secretly purposed adding some present, to testify her sense of the civilities she had received.
Delamere enclosed, in a letter which he sent by Miss Lawson to her father, a bank note, as an acknowledgment of his extraordinary kindness.
They quickly arrived in London; and as Emmeline still remained in the resolution of avoiding a return to Mrs. Ashwood, they changed horses in Piccadilly to go on.
Tho’ by going to her former residence she might have escaped a longer continuation, and farther journey, with Delamere, of the impropriety of which she was very sensible; yet she declined it, because she knew that as her adventure might be explained several ways, Mrs. Ashwood and Miss Galton were very likely to put on it the construction least in her favour; and she was very unwilling to be exposed to their questions and comments, till she could, in concert with Mrs. Stafford, and with her advice, give such an account of the affair as would put it out of their power to indulge that malignity of remark at her expence of which she knew they were capable.
She therefore dispatched a servant to Mrs. Ashwood with a note for her cloaths, whom Delamere directed to rejoin them at Staines.
At that place they arrived early in the evening; and Emmeline, to whom Delamere had behaved with the utmost tenderness and respect, bore her journey without suffering any other inconvenience than some remaining languor, which was now more visible in her looks than in her spirits. Charmed with the thoughts of so soon seeing Mrs. Stafford, and feeling all that delight which a consciousness of rectitude inspires, she was more than usually chearful, and conversed with Delamere with all that enchanting frankness and sweetness which made her general conversation so desireable.
CHAPTER VII
As they had an hour or two on their hands, which Emmeline wished to employ in something that might prevent Delamere from entertaining her on the only subject he was ever willing to talk of when they were together, she desired him to enquire for a book. He went out, and returned with some volumes of novels, which he had borrowed of the landlord’s daughter; of which Emmeline read in some a page, and in others a chapter, but found nothing in any, that tempted her to go regularly through the whole.
While she was reading, Delamere, equally unable to occupy himself with any other object whether she was absent or present, sat looking at her over the table which was between them. After some time passed in this manner, their supper was brought in, and common conversation took place while it was passing. When it was removed, Emmeline returned again to the books, and took up one she had not before opened. — It was the second volume of the Sorrows of Werter. She laid it down again with a smile, saying— ‘That will not do for me to-night.’
‘What is it?’ cried Delamere, taking it from her.— ‘O, I have read it — and if you have, Emmeline, you might have learned the danger of trifling with violent and incurable passions. Tell me — could you ever be reconciled to yourself if you should be the cause of a catastrophe equally fatal?’
Still meaning to turn the conversation, she answered gaily— ‘O, I fancy there is very little danger of that — you know the value of your existence too well to throw it inconsiderately away.�
�
‘Do not be too certain of that, Emmeline. Without you, my life is no longer valuable — if indeed it be supportable; and should I ever be in the situation this melancholy tale describes, how do I know that my reason would be strong enough to preserve me from equal rashness. Beware, Miss Mowbray — beware of the consequence of finding an Albert at Woodfield.’
‘It is very unlikely I should find any lover there. I assure you I desire none; nor have I any other wish than to pass the remainder of the winter tranquilly with my friend.’
‘If then you really never wish to encourage another, and if you have any sensibility for the pain I feel from uncertainty, why will you not solemnly engage yourself to me, by a promise which cannot be broken but by mutual consent?’
‘Because we are both too young to form such an engagement. — You are not yet quite one and twenty; a time of life in which it is impossible you can be a competent judge of what will make you really happy. I am more than two years younger: but short as has been my knowledge of the world, I have already seen two or three instances of marriages made in consequence of early engagements, which have proved so little fortunate that they have determined me never to try the experiment. Should you bind yourself by this promise, which you now think would make you easy, and should you hereafter repent it, which I know to be far from improbable, pride, obstinacy, the shame of retracting your opinion, would perhaps concur to prevent your withdrawing it; and I should receive your hand while your heart might be attached to another. The chains which you had yourself put on, in opposition to the wishes of your family, you would, rather than own your error, rivet, tho’ your inclination prompted you to break them; and we should then be both miserable. — No, Delamere — let us remain at liberty, and perhaps — —’
‘It is impossible, Madam!’ cried Delamere, suddenly and vehemently interrupting her— ‘It is absolutely impossible you could argue thus calmly, if you had any regard for me — Cold — cruel — insensible — unfeeling girl! Oh! fool, fool that I am, to persist in loving a woman without an heart, and to be unable to tear from my soul a passion that serves only to make me perpetually wretched. Cursed be the hour I first indulged it, and cursed the weakness of mind that cannot conquer it!’
This new instance of ungovernable temper, so contrary to the promises he had given her at Hertford, extremely provoked Emmeline, who answered very gravely —
‘If you desire, Sir, to divest yourself of this unfortunate passion, the task is already half accomplished. Resolve, then, to conquer it wholly: restore me to that tranquillity you have destroyed — vindicate my injured reputation, which your headlong ardour has blemished — give me back to the kindness and protection of your father — and determine to see me no more.’
This spirited and severe answer, immediately convinced Delamere he had gone too far. He had never before seen Emmeline so much piqued, and he hastened to appease her.
‘Pardon me! — forgive me, Emmeline! I am not master of myself when I think of losing you! But you, who feel not any portion of the flame that devours me, can coolly argue, while my heart is torn in pieces; and deign not even to make any allowance for the unguarded sallies of unconquerable passion! — the phrenzy of almost hopeless love! Sometimes, when I think your coldness arises from determined and insurmountable indifference — perhaps from dislike — despair and fury possess me. Would you but say that you will live only for me — would you only promise that no future Rochely, none of the people you have seen or may see, shall influence you to forget me — I should, I think, be easier!’
‘You have a better opinion of yourself, Mr. Delamere,’ answered Emmeline, calmly, ‘than to believe it probable. But be that as it may, I have told you that I will neither make or receive any promises of the nature you require. I have already suffered too much from your extravagant passion to put it farther in your power to distress me. But I shall be better able to reassume this conversation to-morrow — to-night I am fatigued; and it is time for us to separate.’
‘And will you leave me, then, Emmeline? — leave me too in anger?’
‘I am not angry, Mr. Delamere — here is my hand.’
‘This hand,’ exclaimed he, eagerly grasping it, ‘which ought to have been mine! — Now, even now, that you are about to tear yourself from me, it should have been mine for ever! But I have relinquished my prize at the moment I might have secured it; and if I lose it entirely my own folly only will be the cause.’
‘These violent transports may terrify me, but shall not alter my determination. Quit my hand, Mr. Delamere,’ continued she, struggling to disengage it— ‘I will not be detained.’
She rang the bell; and the waiter almost instantly entering, she took a candle and went to the apartment prepared for her: while Delamere, vexed to have commanded himself so little, and to be so unable to adhere to the good resolutions he had made, dared not attempt to prevent her.
He had now again to make his peace, but would not venture to take any steps towards it that night; and he retired to his own room, considering how he might remain near her after she got into Dorsetshire, and dreading the hour of even a temporary separation.
The next morning Emmeline, impatient to be gone, dressed herself early; and just as she was about to go down to hasten their breakfast and departure, she saw, from a window that looked into the yard of the inn, a phaeton and four enter it, remarkable for the profusion of expensive and ill-fancied ornaments with which both the carriage and harness were covered. In it were two gentlemen wrapped in great coats, as the weather was very severe; on whom Emmeline casting a transient glance, discovered that one of them was Elkerton.
She was a good deal alarmed at his arrival: for she had reason to fear, that this man, to whom she had a decided aversion, would see her, and know that she was travelling alone with Delamere. She saw him get out, and give directions for putting up his horses, telling the people who came out to attend him that he should breakfast and stay there some hours.
Since his unfortunate rencontre with Delamere at Mrs. Ashwood’s, he had almost entirely relinquished the pursuit of Emmeline. He had never been able to shake off the ridicule his vanity had brought upon him, and therefore had forborne to enter the circle where it had happened. He had, however, seen Miss Mowbray once or twice in public, and she had been too generally admired not to interest his pride in keeping up the acquaintance, tho’ she treated him always with coldness, and found it difficult to be barely civil. She knew that he was severely mortified by her indifference, and that in matters of scandal and gossiping no old woman could be a greater adept. When therefore personal pique was added to his natural love of anecdote, Emmeline apprehended so much from him, that she determined, if possible, to escape his sight.
To do this, however, was very difficult. She saw him and his companion take possession of a room that had windows looking into the yard through which she must of necessity pass, and where, when the post-chaise drew up, they must see whoever got into it. She wrapped herself up in her cloak, pulled her hat over her eyes, and holding up her handkerchief as if to guard her face from the cold, she passed unobserved to the room where Delamere was waiting breakfast.
The remembrance of his last night’s behaviour was in some measure obliterated by the alarm she had felt at the sight of Elkerton. Delamere looked melancholy and dejected. Emmeline speaking to him with her usual sweetness, seemed to have forgotten the offence he had given her, and tried to restore his good humour as if she had been the aggressor: but he continued gloomy and pensive.
They began their breakfast, and conversed on different subjects.
‘Did you observe,’ said Emmeline, ‘the phaeton which drove in just now?’
‘No — what was there remarkable about it?’
‘Nothing, but that one of the persons it contained was Elkerton, the poor man you made so absurd at Mrs. Ashwood’s, when he boasted of knowing you. I hope I shall get away without his seeing me — I should extremely dislike meeting him.’
‘St
upid dog! — why should you care whether you meet him or no?’
‘Because he must think it so strange that I am here with you.’
‘Let him — Of what consequence is it to us what such a puppy thinks? I cannot possibly care about it.’
‘But I do, Mr. Delamere,’ said Emmeline, somewhat gravely.— ‘You will recollect that I may be very much injured by the scandal such a man may circulate.’
‘Well, well, my dear Emmeline — we will set out directly, and you will not meet him. — I will order the chaise.’
He went out for that purpose as soon as their breakfast ended; but a few paces from the door was accosted by Elkerton, who feeling himself in point of figure equal to speak to any man, addressed him with all the confident familiarity of an old acquaintance.
‘Sir, your most obedient humble servant.’
‘Your servant, Sir;’ replied Delamere, brushing by him.
‘Sir, I hope you, and my Lord and Lady Montreville, have been well since I had last the honour of seeing you?’
‘Since you oblige me, Sir, to acknowledge the acquaintance, I must remind you that our last meeting was attended with some circumstances which should make you not very desirous of recollecting it.’
Complete Poetical Works of Charlotte Smith Page 49