Stories after Nature/Edmund and Edward; or, The Two Friends
EDMUND AND EDWARD;
or, the Two Friends.
WO Englishmen, named Edmund and
Edward, were friends; that is, in the full sense of the word, for this tale will show wherein friendship consists; its disinterestedness, its total unselfish and honourable love of another's happiness.
These two were left, at the age of eighteen, orphans; Edmund had a small fortune, but Edward none. This mattered not much, for what belonged to one was equally the other's; and the demon money was (as their pleasures) a mutual benefit, divided equally between them.
It happened that Edmund fell in love with a young lady, whom he had casually met; but he had lost all traces of her, and never could hear of her afterwards. Edward, seeing his melancholy, did all he could to engage his mind; and, having learnt a description of the lady, went about the town and country searching for her. This, however, ended fruitlessly, and he was about to return to his old methods of consolation with his friend; when in one of his searches he became himself a slave to the mad passion. But the goodness of his heart was placed in an unkindly ground; his love was a barren love, for the woman was a harlot; a notorious, abandoned, and beautiful harlot. For a long time he steeled his bosom against the fatality attending on an affection for such a woman; and smote his forehead, calling himself fool and beast. Soon, however, this gave way to the most fervent and overwhelming love for her; he only saw what she might be, feeling cruelly what she really was.
This woman moved among a circle of lords, and none could whisper in her ear whose words were not golden ones; therefore Edward, to be by her side, was obliged to draw largely upon his friend. Nor, indeed, did this go far with him in the riotous way in which he lived; nor furnish many opportunities by which to see this woman.
Deep thinking made him lose his colour and health; and one day when he returned, he was so abject and full of despair, that Edmund feared for him, and could hold his peace no longer; so, taking him by the hand, he pressed it fervently, and said "Edward, I have had a silent tongue, though an aching heart, for a long time. What is it troubles you? If it be a secret, too gigantic for my hearing (as I should gather from your long silence), I prythee do not unburthen yourself to me. Nay, look not so mournful—I only mean that I would rather not know this delicate matter; but as almost all evils have a remedy, tell me only how I can assist you, for if any one can, I can do it. But I cannot any longer bear to see you thus ill and despairing, without speaking." Edward was touched to the heart, and fell on his neck in tears, saying to him, "Canst thou bid a dead rose to live?" Edmund answered, "Your question is idle." Edward replied, "Then can you not help me." And rising frantic from his seat, he said, "I am glad of it; I am a beast, and deserve no help. I must sow my seed upon a rock, and then must starve, and my dear friends must grieve. What swallow loveth the consuming kite? What merchant sporteth in amongst the rocks? Who is proud of scorned things? Who opes his heart to scatter'd poison? I, only I, the simple, single fool. Eyes, I will tear ye out, ye damned slaves, that first did show her beauty to my heart, betraying so your master." And Edmund said, "Edward, are you in love?" He answered, as scorning fate, "O! aye." Edmund said, "I am glad of it." And he answered, "You will hate me soon: the woman that I love is a harlot, a common strumpet, a helpster, as the wind to the catching sail. Yet scorn me not, 'tis such a wreck! as beautiful as Eden's garden after it was damned, where fragments that the heavenly eye had fancied lay in chaotic heaps; bright grandeur disarrayed. Oh! do not scorn me, one of us is true; for I would bear greatly, were it misery here, such as men howl at; were it fear hereafter, with but a little hope in it, I would take it. Aye, any thing to make her once again a maid." Edmund, pressing his heart, said, "I am sorry for you." And he answered enthusiastically, "Sorry, for what? I am proud, man; I know of great things for this bad world to own. Last night—thou knowest how awful night and silence are to the guilty—well, in the dead and middle of the night I woke her, and in laughter (wherein there was some heart-ache, for I, poor fool, lay thinking all the night) talked to her of her state of life: bade her look round and see the shallow depth she hardly swam in: shewed that her flatterers coveted but loved her not, and fancied her sarsnet equal, loving her even to the extent of her train and ruffles: talked of old age, of death, of Heaven, of God: whereat she trembled, and cried out for mercy; shed tears upon my neck; begged me to help her; noted the secret silence of the night, and her mind stirred with agony. She slept no more that night: in the morn she arose with unpressed lips."
"Well, well, how did this work?"
"Now you have struck me here on the breast. Will you believe it? In the unscreening daylight, five heartless lords, forsooth, in silken suits, 'did ravel all this matter out,' by playing with her fan, and making bad comparisons."
"And do you love her still?"
"Oh! Edmund! Each day we walk some paces towards our grave: between this step and the last nothing can do me good but only she. Do I love her? Thou hast never seen her lip, her hand, her eye; nor known of her good soul so turned to bad; for if you had you would let me take thy cloth to wipe away these tears."
Edmund did all in his power to comfort him, seeing the nobleness of his unfortunate passion, and that he was not allied to her dishonour; sent privily for money, and laid it in his chamber, and helped him to this woman's company, as much as he was able; trusting that Heaven would by some means help his dear friend. He retired to the country to decrease his expense, and lived upon little. But the exorbitant demands of his thoughtless friend, in two years not only reduced his fortune, but beggared him. When Edmund found this, he grieved deeply that he could no longer supply him; and was pained to know how best to tell it to him, knowing that the truth, if told, would make him most miserable. So he disguised it; and sent to him, saying that he could only supply him with a little, as he had honourable demands upon him, for a large debt contracted by his late father, which could not be paid for some time.
Having done this, he set diligently about working for a livelihood for himself, and a supply for his friend; and being a man of some genius, he undertook the defence of certain public matters for the people; and by this means obtained a comfortable income. His fortune, however, turned (and that for the better) most suddenly and unexpectedly; and as a reward for his great patience and gentleness, he at last succeeded in gaining all that his heart most ardently desired.
One evening, after having made a most successful defence to some important opposition, he was surprised by the following note.
"Edmund, or, Dear Edmund;
"I am as bold as willing to address you by this title, knowing your gentle disposition. More so, as it will clear away at once all formal weeds from the flowery way to my heart; and also, that should I not prove so dear to you (which I think fate cannot prevent), yet will you ever be dear to me.
"To be brief, then. I met last night at a mask, your friend Edward, who was ranging about in a loose domino, in some hot pursuit. I knew him immediately, though I had only seen him once—But oh! that once never will be forgotten. I joined him, and inquiring, full of hope and fear, about you, learnt (O bliss!) your kindness, and your love for me; that we had both done nothing but hunt for each other since that first short gaze, and but for this trifling accident might never have met.—On such a hair does mortal happiness depend.—But having found you, I will now make prize of your heart.
"If you will marry me, I am your wife; and my fortune is yours at once. Come thou and claim me; and that suddenly, as there are friends and relations who would sell me to a golden calf.
"Yours for ever,
"Emma."
He departed immediately, claimed the lady; married her, and brought her to his house. Thus did his own generosity reward him; for, but for his delicacy to his friend, he had been ruined, and neither might have seen this lady again.
Edmund, however, did not immediately give up his public employment, but carried it on like a patriot; till it ended in covering him with honour, and hearty thanks. For his poor friend he knew nothing could be done but supplying him with money: he hoped, however, that so good a heart and such great faith would not be thrown away. He also had seen this woman, who was one of those, who, with virtue, would have been most virtuous and admired by all. Humanity would have dropped a tear, seeing such noble beauty run to waste.
Edward still followed the bent of his affections, and waited upon his fate most patiently; choosing such times as he could find his lady alone, and in a tranquil state of mind, and drawing her over hills and vales, would talk with her of this world and the next; ever softening her mind by gentle degrees, till she was fit to receive the truth, and he could speak out. His tone had become patriarchal; his countenance kind, intensely sweet, but sorrowful; his step slow, and his action decisive. In the great face of nature, he often made her shift her guilty eyes at what her ears received: under the heavens, walking on the earth, she was disarmed of vanity; fear, sorrow, and tears, became habitual. But above all, love for the object, on whom she felt a kind of hope she might rely for future forgiveness; and as he was her lover only, and not her paramour, there was an awful distance between them, that worked in her a strange respect for him.
Edward began to see a change in her conduct; such as great esteem suddenly shown, and curbed impatience when he told blunt and unpleasant truths; and above all, in silent moments, tears, sharp and agonizing tears, unprovoked, flowing from the rifts of a broken heart. So he laboured with secret prayer, and with watching, and every patient endeavour in his virtuous work.
Now it happened about this time, that this woman's mother died, who had been much respected, virtuous, and good. Edward would not let her know it: intending to work upon her by the event; and having spoken to her a long time, and subdued her great spirits, he said gravely to her, "Madam, your mother is dead." And she snatched as it were for breath, as if he had struck her; and falling heavily on his shoulder, wept as though her heart would break. Presently she got up, and wiped her eyes, and said cheerfully, "It is past." And he said, "What?" She replied, "Oh! Edward, what it is for a sinner to become as a little child! I feel all here about my heart, as if a girdle, that would have burst me, were suddenly broken. God! I hope thou wilt forgive me." Edmund said, "Beware, beware; that fiery tongue of thine may find thunder in heaven, for its false invocations. Play not with salvation." She replied, "Rob not thyself of thy reward; believe it not, but thou hast saved my soul."
Then leaving him, she attired herself in black, and putting on a veil of crape, came to him, and said, "Come." He asked her, "Where?" She answered, "Where should a daughter go, that hath a mother dead, but to her bed; and follow her with slow and pained feet to the dark grave? Believe me not; think not you have saved me, but come." She smiled sweetly upon him, and then, looking sorrowful, went out with him, weeping all the way. And Edward's heart began to swell from that hour.
When she came to her mother's corpse she acted nothing; her misery was sharp, and when she thought upon the pain she had caused her mother, her despair was complete, and she sat as one mad.
When they had returned from burying her mother, she threw herself upon her knees before Edward, and looking on him said, "Heaven, sir, will return the good you have done me, so be that struck out of our account. Heaven and your own heart will understand between you. I am an excluded third. Believe me, sir, I now love you as greatly as you have loved me; be my loss my punishment. I do not ask you to be my fellow any longer; knowing that my foulness must have long made you pity, but not love me; and that you have laboured thus far, only to save my soul. You have done it, if Heaven will. I now ask you, as I am a poor abandoned outcast, to put me in some way to live honestly, that I rust not with idleness, nor perish for want; and to see me sometimes."
But Edward knew that his hope had long swam with a false bottom; and being determined on proving her, said, "Madam, we that are fledged know what checks the cunning hawk can make. You, though as common as dirt, once despised me. I have laboured thus far, only to strike your heart against your rocky ribs, and so bruise it; I have done so, and glory in it. I now look upon thee as mine enemy, who has fallen from the battlement of his strength; and cursing him, leave him to die." And he went out smiling, with affected malice. She followed him with her eye as far as she could see, and then, listening to his last footfall, gathered her hair, and holding her forehead, turned to the right and to the left; and looking mournfully round, burst into fresh tears, as a child who hath lost its way.
Now the evening was advanced, so walking a few paces in the field where she was, she threw herself on some half-made hay, and slept soundly till the morning. Then rising refreshed, and going into the town, she sold all the jewels she had about her, and took up her abode with a respectable family; who, being humane people, got her employment; and so she lived.
Edward, who had watched over her all this time, still jealous of his conquest, and tempting his fate, took care, that two noblemen, her former favourite companions, should know where she had bestowed herself. They went to her with a brilliant equipage, and made her golden offers to return amongst them; but she scorned them all; and when they talked of the past, shed tears and was subdued. But when they exposed her to the people with whom she lived, and had induced them to drive her out, she laughed, out of her firmness, at their imbecility; and having no money, and nowhere to go, she wandered about and begged.
When Edward found this, he was satisfied; and consoled himself for the pain he had made her suffer, by his having been a participator in it. He watched where she went, threw a cloak round him, and passed by her, and she begged alms of him; but turning his face suddenly upon her, and opening his cloak, she shrieked a recognition, and fell, embracing his knees.
So he carried home the weak penitent, and married her that day. And though many a mind will not admit it, yet is the truth not the less, she lived respected and loved by the good and wise; reared an honourable family, and died, leaving the image of her virtue in the hearts of all her friends.