Duty and Inclination/Chapter 54
CHAPTER XI.
"How hideous and forlorn! when ruthless care,
With cankering tooth corrodes the seeds of life,
And deaf with passion's storms, when pines despair,
And howling furies rouse th' eternal strife,"
Beattie.
Silent, sad, and sullen, brooding over his past phrenzied feelings, and present desperate situation, Melliphant was conveyed by the bailiffs, in the discharge of their office, and safely placed in custody.
Left to himself, he would have been overwhelmed by all the horrors of despondency, had there not still remained for him an expedient by which he hoped to burst his fetters, and obtain his freedom ere the close of day.
He called for pen and ink, and wrote to Sir Howard. He begged of him not to delay a moment in coming to him with bail. He confided wholly upon his friendship, and abandoned himself to the hope of his timely assistance—to his exertions in behalf of his liberation; which, if not immediate, if not before the night closed in, he should not afterwards care what became of him, as existence would be intolerable. That if he did not receive a reply in reasonable time, he could not answer for the extremity to which despair might drive him.
There are few, perhaps, so wholly lost and sunk in evil, as not to possess some latent good. Perhaps that quality which existed, in spite of the equipoise against it, in Sir Howard, was fidelity in friendship. Though of a temper avaricious and covetous, yet he never hesitated to perform, for the liberation of a friend in distress, an act of generosity. Through his zeal and activity, therefore, Melliphant was set free; and the first use he made of his liberty, was to fly to the house of Mrs. Belmour, in order to obtain accounts of Rosilia, who, some hours previously, had been conveyed home by her mother, dejected in spirits, but at the same time with a heart full of gratitude to that Power which had protected her in so trying a moment, and saved her the misery of engaging herself by an indissoluble promise, which her sense of honour would have rendered irrevocable.
It was then near ten at night, and upon receiving the desired information, Melliphant hastily left the house, to wander near that spot containing an object who had attained such an astonishing empire over his fate. He rivetted his sight upon that window, where, at the midnight hour, he had once beheld her, to him the only fair object in creation, and the only one capable of fixing his regard. Thus intensely wrapt in thought, her form more brilliant to his imagination than the starry heavens, a light glimmers in her chamber: it is she, it is she herself, he is assured, notwithstanding the drawn curtain veils her from his sight. Unheeding all but the voice of his passion, he rushes to the door that closes her from him; he does not venture to knock, but violently pulls the bell. He listens, but all is still within. He rings again, the sound reverberates through the house, but no footstep is heard to approach. Every light appeared extinct, save that still glimmering in Rosilia's chamber.
The servants had retired to rest, with the exception of one, who was about descending the staircase to answer the bell. Fearful and tremulous, Rosilia listened over the banisters—an idea struck her it might be Melliphant. Her father opened his dressing-room, and her agitation calmed upon hearing him peremptorily forbid the servant to give admission to any one.
"If the business is urgent," said he, "they will call again in the morning."
Again, for the third time, the persevering Melliphant rings; he even knocks, loudly but singly. His bosom conceals a pistol, and in his hand he has placed a bribe to bestow upon the servant who should open the door, and who might contrive for him a meeting with Rosilia, that he might profit by a last resource, and finally prosecute what to him, as he conceived, the unfortunate sudden entrance of the bailiffs, had in his morning's interview prevented. Not a footstep along the hall reaches his ear, as placed to receive the sound.
To relieve at once his torturing and maddening suspense, he felt a desire to lodge within his heart the contents of that weapon he had carried about since the morning, with the intention only of frightening Rosilia into compliance with his wishes; to prove to her, by visible demonstration, that he would receive his death at her hands, unless she revoked the cruel sentence she had pronounced against him—unless she bid him live, with the promise of blessing him with herself, and raising him from the absolute misery into which he was plunged, to become at once the happiest and most favoured being in existence! The report of the pistol might reach her ear, the door might then be opened, and she would behold his corse—his bleeding corse extended before her.
He advanced a few paces, he raised his eyes to her window, the light was gone. It was Rosilia's hand which had extinguished it; she had consigned herself to her couch, to seek that repose which he felt assured was lost to him for ever.
In a state of the most insupportable agitation, he returned home, when, with a slow and melancholy pace, he measured his apartment. Wearied at length by such protracted anguish, he threw himself upon a sofa; but a posture of composure, little corresponding to the commotion of his thoughts, seemed but a mockery of his acute anguish, and he sprang from it with an impulse of frenzy. He flung himself into a seat, and pulled the table towards him; he seized a pen, in order to pour forth on paper the violent feelings to which he was the prey.
But, again, how inadequate were words to give proportionate strength to his sentiments; overwhelmed by a torrent of impetuous thought, language indeed seemed barren. It was the first time that Melliphant had ever acknowledged its poverty.
Rising precipitately again, before the night had withdrawn its sable veil, the restless Melliphant felt himself constrained to wander a second time around the dwelling of Rosilia. They were the last moments he might ever respire near her, who was then doubtless wrapt in peaceful sleep, whilst he wandered distracted without. The morning advanced, and fearful of discovery, he quitted a spot, formerly the scene of all his happiness, but now the witness of his uncontrollable misery!
Melliphant was a man of the strongest passions, but they had never comparatively been so deeply excited as in the present instance. The changes and vicissitudes of life and fortune, in every other relation or circumstance, had been despised by him, or considered as mere casualties of but little moment. The possession of Rosilia, on the contrary, he had estimated in proportion to the fullest ardour of which his character was capable, to the obstacles which had opposed, and the incessant difficulties which had exercised his utmost wit and invention to surmount. Had he practised a conduct totally the reverse of that which induced him to make so many strenuous efforts to appear what he really was not, had he relinquished all subterfuge and stratagem, had he acted with a perfect sincerity and uprightness, he might, with so much influence as he possessed in other respects, have succeeded better. Happily for Rosilia, that from the depraved ideas of his mind he was unfitted to form a conception of the pure and holy delights of wedded love, it terminated otherwise, and that his hypocrisy, since she could not fathom it, proved eventually the cause of his defeat.
At eight in the morning, the old travelling carriage, which, about sixteen months before had transported the De Brooke family to London, drew up at the door to convey them back to Glamorganshire. Oriana was to remain with her aunt, and Rosilia's eyes moistened at the recollection of their parting interview.
A few miles' travelling composed her, and she felt herself at length equal to relate to her parents the whole of Melhphant's proceedings, as far as they were known to or suspected by her, stating the reasons which had prevented her doing so sooner.
Mrs. De Brooke, in following her daughter's narration, trembled at the situation in which she had been placed: she could only exclaim at its conclusion. "What consummate audacity!"
"Who could have thought," added the General, that the villain should yet have gone so far as to elude our vigilance. The last day of our stay, I had not the least supposition," added he, addressing Rosilia, "but that you, and your mother would have been employed at home in making preparations for your journey; my absence elsewhere having been indispensable; and unhappily this arose from my having forgotten to caution your mother. But, too late, I discovered the real motives which influenced the great attentions I received from Sir Howard and Melliphant, perhaps in time only to have prevented ourselves from becoming completely their dupes. It was to remove my unsuspicious child from their power, that your mother consented to leave London so much before the period proposed. Dr. Lovesworth has been the kind friend watching over your real interests; he it was who cautioned me, and sincerely told me I was wrong in admitting Sir Howard and his friend so much to the house. As to the former, he is under a singular species of infatuation, to render himself thus subservient to the plans of Melliphant. Happily, however, we have effected our escape from them, and are on the road to our peaceful dwelling. The season is advancing when Dr. Lovesworth will rejoin us, and we shall yet know some days of enjoyment, retired from the world, once again at rest, and at peace among ourselves. But of this I must warn you, Rosilia; though remote from London, your steps may be traced; be careful, therefore, how you trust yourself alone at any distance beyond the precincts of your home. The last words of Dr. Lovesworth, in parting from me yesterday evening, still sound upon my ear, they were uttered in accents peculiarly emphatical, "General, take care of your daughter."
The father of Rosilia ceased to speak; and amidst the perturbed reflections that crossed her, and the idea that the good Doctor's friendly warning might have come too late, the recollection of her once singular dream rushed upon her mind, and, to her mental eye, was presented in golden characters, such as she had seen them, Beware of Mankind. Dr. Lovesworth appeared the venerable friend, and Melliphant the frightful being from whose grasp he rescued her, as if, conformably to his message, like to that of the aged sire of her dream, she was now quitting the haunts of life for those of the shade, where no regret, no hesitation intruded.
After a long pause, in which each was pursuing a train of silent reflections, Rosilia observed, "On my way to Mrs. Belmour yesterday, I met a gentleman on crutches, whom I should not probably have noticed, but for the circumstance of my being suddenly pushed against him as I passed. His face seemed familiar to me, and his accents were such as I have heard before."
"He addressed you then," remarked Mrs. De Brooke hastily.
The recollection of the flattering ejaculation he had uttered, as she caught his eye, sent again the blush to her cheek; "Nothing particular," answered she; "merely a passing exclamation occasioned by the accident."
Mrs. De Brooke was mortified to think that she had twice become the dupe of Sir Howard, in obeying his call, and descending to the parlour to hear what was of no manner of importance, and being kept at home from accompanying her daughter to Mrs. Belmour, on account of his promised introduction to Sir Arthur Melliphant, a distant cousin it appeared of his friend, whose country seat, he said, was not far removed from the borders of Glamorgan. Such had been his tale, whether true or otherwise it was impossible for her at that moment to ascertain, not having fulfilled his engagement, sending for excuse at a late hour in the evening that he had not been able to meet with the Baronet. If it was not a fiction, she feared those men might avail themselves, the one of his relationship, and the other of his intimacy with Sir Arthur and his family, to draw near and molest them, in the retirement of their Bower. The consideration exceedingly distressed her; but never, she was determined, would she again countenance the visits of either.
Douglas we have seen rejected by Rosilia, at a time when her mind was enslaved by the tyrannical influence of opposite feelings, her reason being at variance with her affections. It was the painful disunion between those mental powers which discovered to her the fatal weakness which, with such soft and insensible steps, had stolen in upon and deprived her of happiness. When more alarmed at the intrusion of this wrong bias of her inclinations than desirous of indulging them, she formed the heroic resolve of acting in direct opposition to their deceptive impulse. Borne away by an enthusiasm for virtue, strength of mind, and steady principles, how greatly must they have been exerted: or how else could firmness, perseverance, and self-denial have formed those bulwarks that had surrounded and fortified her. To eradicate that error, already but too deeply imbibed, to subdue and triumph over human infirmity, was indeed difficult, but to Rosilia a derogation from virtue was still more so.
How different were the feelings which swayed her in the case of Melliphant. Never had he for one moment excited in her sentiments of higher interest, of softer tendency, of nearer association, than the mere tacit consent of her reason to his claims upon her esteem; an approbation of his merits, so modestly, yet conspicuously displayed, so extolled by those around, was all she could bestow. The distress of mind, the secret sorrow, he seemed labouring under, made visible by a pensiveness of manner, sudden emotion, and half suppressed sighs, awakened in Rosilia but a tender commiseration. And even long before she suspected that she was herself the author of those sufferings, she wished, ardently wished, that she had it in her power to restore peace, happiness, and content to so apparently deserving a character; it is not surprising then that, contrary to her better prudence and judgment, her warm and generous nature should have hurried her on, with unsuspecting steps, even to the brink of that precipice so long yawning to receive her, its innocent and defenceless victim!
A few days after the arrival of the De Brookes at the Bower, a letter was put into the hands of Rosilia, in the presence of her parents. She thought she knew the hand-writing, and was not deceived when with trembling hands she broke the seal and found the signature to be that of Melliphant.
His epistle was voluminous, written closely, and filling two sheets of long letter paper: he began by painting in the strongest terms the melancholy stupefaction into which her absence had plunged him; and the imminent peril into which the strength of his passion had nearly driven him, he still shuddered to think of. He hoped that instead of condemning, she had rather vindicated and pitied him, for that fatal conduct to which an involuntary impulse, springing from despair, had abandoned him, the victim of an uncontrollable passion, of which she was the author. She could form no conception of the nature and strength of his sentiments for her, or the difficulty of surviving her refusal of him.
He then described how the anguish of his mind had induced him to haunt the place of her abode, the night previous to her departure;—the terror he felt for the fate of his letter;—begged an immediate answer, which if he did not receive in proper time, would cause him to follow her into Wales;—and that he should immediately avail himself of the frequent invitations given by his relation, Sir Arthur Melliphant, who, together with his lady, held him in the highest estimation possible.
The letter then stated that if she would give him the least encouragement, and allow hope once more to dawn upon his mind, he should be raised from a state of the utmost despondency and misery, to become at once the happiest of men, and surmount every difficulty that might henceforth arise to oppose him; but that if, by her answer, she drove him a second time to despair, his passion, enfolded in the deepest recesses of his heart, would even there be nourished; that there it might live and feed upon his vitals, as the canker-worm does upon the author of its existence; and that after some previous arrangements in his affairs, he should fly from his native country, to seek in other regions that peace which had been denied him in his own.
Such was nearly the tenor of those impassioned lines Rosilia and her parents mutually perused; the latter launching at intervals into reproaches and invectives against the author, for his still persevering pursuit of their child; alternately censuring themselves for having so long remained in ignorance as to his real sentiments, and for having admitted his frequent visits.
Rosilia found herself in a dilemma the most perplexing, from which she knew not how to extricate herself, but by submitting her judgment entirely to the discretion of her parents; neither of whom could take upon themselves to write the desired answer, since they were well persuaded Melliphant would not receive dismission at their hands.
The General conceived the most effectual method to put a stop to his further persecutions, would, be for Rosilia herself, in compliance with his entreaty, to pen him a reply such as, by its diction, would be calculated to extinguish in him all further hopes.
In communicating with him upon the subject, she accordingly wrote in a style which met the full concurrence of both her father and mother. Her task thus completed, she was now left to her private meditations: admitting the statement of Melliphant to be exaggerated, she had, nevertheless, been the cause, though no reproach could be attached to herself, of plunging him into sorrow. Ah! thought she, who would ever sigh for conquests? where can be the supreme felicity of reducing a fellow-being to distress, and afterwards, from vain-glorious feelings, to exult and triumph in the pain occasioned? May he speedily forget me, and regain his peace! was the ardent prayer she breathed.
Her letter had been couched in language more harsh and decided than the nature of her own compassionate and gentle feelings would have allowed, yet she felt convinced of the necessity of the measure. He will load me with reproaches, thought she; but no matter: if it enables him to forget me, the end is answered.
So deep was that veil thrown over Melliphant by his habitual vices, that had Rosilia possessed the power of removing even its slightest windings, by which she might have gained some insight into his thoughts, views, and purposes, divested of every false coloring, she would have shrunk with horror at the appalling discovery—an exhibition of his internal deformity. That hideous sight, the unveiled human heart, would have presented a spectacle to her pure mind which would have chilled the vital current in her veins.
Melliphant in due time received that reply which, with combined feelings of anxiety and suspense, he had been daily expecting.—But having sufficiently dwelt upon the intemperate passion by which he was governed, let us proceed to other themes.