Chapter IV

Emmeline had now been near a month at Bath, whence she had not written to Delamere. She had seldom done so oftener than once in six or eight weeks; and no reason subsisted at present for a more frequent correspondence.

Far from having any idea that he would think her temporary removal extraordinary, she had not attempted to conceal it from him; and of his jealousy of Fitz-Edward she had not the remotest suspicion. For tho' Mrs. Ashwood's hints, and the behaviour of James Crofts, had left no doubt of their ill opinion of her, yet she never supposed them capable of an attempt to impress the same idea on the mind of Delamere; and had no notion of the variety of motives which made the whole family of the Crofts, with which Mrs. Ashwood was now connected, solicitous to perpetuate the evil by propagating the scandalous story they had themselves invented.

Unconscious therefore of the anguish which preyed upon the heart of her unhappy lover, Emmeline gave her whole attention to Lady Adelina, and she saw with infinite concern the encreasing weakness of her frame; with still greater pain she observed, that by suffering her mind to dwell continually on her unhappy situation, it was no longer able to exert the powers it possessed; and that, sunk in hopeless despondence, her intellects were frequently deranged. Amid these alienations of reason, she was still gentle, amiable and interesting; and as they were yet short and slight, Emmeline flattered herself, that the opiates which her physician (in consequence of the restless and anxious nights Lady Adelina had for some time passed) found it absolutely necessary to administer, might have partly if not entirely occasioned this alarming symptom.

Still, however, the busy imagination of Emmeline perpetually represented to her impending sorrow, and her terror hourly encreased. She figured to herself the decided phrenzy, or the death of her poor friend; and unable to conquer apprehensions which she was yet compelled to conceal, she lived in a continual effort to appear chearful, and to soothe the wounded mind of the sufferer, by consolatory conversation; while she watched her with an attention so sedulous and so painful, that only the excellence of her heart, which persuaded her she was engaged in a task truly laudable, could have supported her thro' such anxiety and fatigue.

She was, however, very desirous that as Mr. Godolphin was now in England he might be acquainted with his sister's calamitous and precarious situation; and she gently hinted to Lady Adelina, how great a probability she thought there was, that such a man as her brother was represented to be, would in her sorrow and her suffering forget her error.

But by the most distant idea of such an interview, she found Lady Adelina so violently affected, that she dared not again urge it; and was compelled, in fearful apprehension, to await the hour which would probably give the fair penitent to that grave, where she seemed to wish her disgrace and affliction might be forgotten.

To describe the anxiety of Emmeline when that period arrived, is impossible; or the mingled emotions of sorrow and satisfaction, pleasure and pity, with which she beheld the lovely and unfortunate infant whose birth she had so long desired, yet so greatly dreaded.

Lady Adelina had, till then, wished to die. She saw her child--and wished to live.--The physical people who attended her, gave hopes that she might.--Supported by the tender friendship of Emmeline, and animated by maternal fondness, she determined to attempt it.

Emmeline, now full of apprehension, now indulging feeble hopes, prayed fervently for her recovery; and zealously and indefatigably attended her with more than her former solicitude. For three days, her hopes gradually grew stronger; when on the evening of the third, as she was sitting alone by the side of the bed where Lady Adelina had fallen into a quiet sleep, she suddenly heard a sort of bustle in the next room; and before she could rise to put an end to it, a gentleman to whom she was a stranger, walked hastily into that where she was. On seeing her, he started and said--

'I beg your pardon, Madam--but I was informed that here I might find Lady Adelina Trelawny.'

The name of Trelawny, thus suddenly and loudly pronounced, awakened Lady Adelina. She started up--undrew the curtain--and fixing her eyes with a look of terrified astonishment on the stranger, she exclaimed, faintly--'Oh! my brother!--my brother William!' then sunk back on her pillow, to all appearance lifeless.

Mr. Godolphin now springing forward, caught the cold and insensible hand which had opened the curtain; and throwing himself on his knees, cried--

'Adelina! my love! are you ill?--have I then terrified and alarmed you? Speak to me--dear Adelina--speak to me!'

Emmeline, whose immediate astonishment at his presence had been lost in terror for his sister, had flown out of the room for the attendants, and now returning, cried--

'You have killed her, Sir!--She is certainly dead!--Oh, my God! the sudden alarm, the sudden sight of you, has destroyed her!'

'I am afraid it has!' exclaimed Godolphin wildly, and hardly knowing what he said--'I am indeed afraid it has! My poor sister--my unhappy, devoted Adelina!--have I then found you only to destroy you? But perhaps,' continued he, after a moment's pause, during which Emmeline and the nurse were chafing the hands and temples of the dying patient--'perhaps she may recover. Send instantly for advice--run--fly--let me go myself for assistance.'

He would now have run out of the room; but Emmeline, whose admirable presence of mind this sudden scene of terror had not conquered, stopped him.

'Stay, Sir,' said she, 'I beseech you, stay. You know not whither to go. I will instantly send those who do.'

She then left the room, and ordered a servant to fetch the physician; for she dreaded least Mr. Godolphin should discover the real name and quality of the patient to those to whom he might apply; and on returning to the bed side, where Lady Adelina still lay without any signs of existence, and by which her brother still knelt in speechless agony, her fears were again alive, least when the medical gentlemen arrived, his grief and desperation should betray the secret to them. While her first apprehension was for the life of her friend, these secondary considerations were yet extremely alarming--for she knew, that should Lady Adelina recover, her life would be for ever embittered, if not again endangered, by the discovery which seemed impending and almost inevitable.

The women who were about her having now applied every remedy they could think of without success, began loudly to lament themselves. Emmeline, commanding her own anguish, besought them to stifle their's, and not to give way to fruitless exclamations while there was yet hope, but to continue their endeavours to recover their lady. Then addressing herself to Mr. Godolphin, she roused him from the stupor of grief in which he had fallen, while he gazed with an impassioned and agonizing look on the pale countenance of his sister.

'Pardon me, Sir,' said she, 'if I entreat you to go down stairs and await the arrival of the advice I have sent for. Should my poor friend recover, your presence may renew and encrease the alarm of her spirits, and embarrass her returning recollection; and should she not recover, you had better hear such mournful tidings in any place rather than this.'

'Oh! if I _do_ hear them,' answered he, wildly, 'it matters little where. But I _will_ withdraw, Madam, since you seem to desire it.'

He had hardly seen Emmeline before. He now turned his eyes mournfully upon her--'It is, I presume, Miss Mowbray,' said he, 'who thus, with an angel's tenderness in an angel's form, would spare the sorrows of a stranger?'

Emmeline, unable to speak, led the way down to the parlour, and Godolphin silently followed her.

'Go back,' said he, tremulously, as soon as they reached the room--'go back to my sister; your tender assiduity may do more for her than the people about her. Your voice, your looks, will soothe and tranquillize her, should she awaken from her long insensibility. Ah! tell her, her brother came only to rescue her from the misery of her unworthy lot--Tell her his affection, his brotherly affection, hopes to give her consolation; and restore her--if it may yet be--to her repose. But go, dearest Miss Mowbray go!--somebody comes in--perhaps the physician.'

Emmeline now opening the parlour door, found it to be indeed the physician she expected; and with a fearful heart she followed him, informing him, as they went up stairs, that the sudden appearance of Mrs. St. Laure's brother, whom she had not seen for two or three years, had thrown her into a fainting fit, from which not all their endeavours had recovered her.

He remonstrated vehemently against the extreme indiscretion of such an interview. Emmeline, who knew not by what strange chain of circumstances it had been brought about, had nothing to reply.

So feeble were the appearances of remaining life, that the physician could pronounce nothing certainly in regard to his patient. He gave, however, directions to her attendants; but after every application had been used, all that could be said was, that she was not actually dead. As soon as the physician had written his prescription and retired, Emmeline recollected the painful state of suspense in which she had left Mr. Godolphin, and trying to recover courage to go thro' the painful scene before her, she went down to him.

As she opened the door, he met her.

'I have seen the doctor,' said he, in a broken and hurried voice--'and from his account I am convinced Adelina is dying.'

'I hope not,' faintly answered Emmeline. 'There is yet a possibility, tho' I fear no great probability of her recovery.'

'My Adelina!' resumed he, walking about the room--'my Adelina! for whose sake I so anxiously wished to return to England--Gracious God! I am come too late to assist her! Some strange mystery surely hangs over her! Long lost to all her friends, I find her here dying! The sight of me, instead of relieving her sorrow seems to have accelerated her dissolution! And you, Madam, to whose goodness she appears to be so greatly indebted--may I ask by what fortunate circumstance, lost and obscure as she has been, she has acquired such a friend?'

Emmeline, shuddering at the apprehension of enquiries she found it impossible to answer, was wholly at a loss how to reply to this. She knew not of what Mr. Godolphin was informed--of what he was ignorant; and dreaded to say too much, or to be detected in a false representation. She therefore, agitated and hesitating, gravely said--

'It is not now a time, Sir, to ask any thing relative to Lady Adelina. I am myself too ill to enter into conversation; and wish, as you have been yourself greatly affected, that you would now retire, and endeavour to make yourself as easy as you can. To-morrow may, perhaps, afford us more chearful prospects--or at least this cruel suspense will be over, and the dear sufferer at peace.'

She sobbed, and turned away. Godolphin rising, said in a faultering voice--

'Yes, I will go! since my stay can only encrease the pain of that generous and sensible heart. I will go--but not to rest!--I cannot rest! But do you try, most amiable creature! to obtain some repose--Try, I beseech you, to recover your spirits, which have been so greatly hurried.'

He knew not what he said; and was hastening out of the room, when Emmeline, recollecting how ardently Lady Adelina had desired the concealment of her name and family, stopped him as he was quitting her.

'Yet one thing, Captain Godolphin, allow me to entreat of you?'

'What can I refuse you?' answered he, returning.

'Only--are you known at Bath?'

'Probably I may. It is above three years since I was in England, and much longer since I have been here. But undoubtedly some one or other will know me.'

'Then do indulge me in one request. See as few people as you can; and if you accidentally meet any of your friends, do not say that Lady Adelina is here.'

'Not meet any one if I can avoid it!--and if I do, not speak of my sister! And why is all this?--why this concealment, this mystery?--why--'

Emmeline, absolutely overcome, sat down without speaking. Godolphin, seeing her uneasiness, said--

'But I will not distress _you_, Madam, by farther questions. Your commands shall be sufficient. I will stifle my anxiety and obey you.' Then bowing respectfully, he added--'To-morrow, at as early an hour as I dare hope for admittance, I shall be at the door. Heaven bless and reward the fair and gentle Miss Mowbray--and may it have mercy on my poor Adelina!'--He sighed deeply, and left the house.

Lady Adelina, tho' not so entirely insensible, was yet but little amended. But as what alteration there was, was for the better, Emmeline endeavoured to recall her own agitated and dissipated spirits. The extraordinary scene which had just passed, was still present to her imagination; the last words of Godolphin, still vibrated in her ears. 'Fair and gentle Miss Mowbray!' repeated she. 'He knows my name; yet seems ignorant of every thing that relates to his sister!'

Her astonishment at this circumstance was succeeded by reflecting on the unpleasant task she must have if Mr. Godolphin should again enquire into her first acquaintance with his sister. To relate to him the melancholy story she had heard, would, she found, be an undertaking to which she was wholly unequal; and she was equally averse to the invention of a plausible falsehood. From this painful apprehension she meditated how to extricate herself; but the longer she thought of it, the more she despaired of it. The terrors of such a conversation hourly augmented; and wholly and for ever to escape from it, she sometimes determined to write. But from executing that design, was withheld by considering that if Godolphin was of a fiery and impetuous temper, he would probably, without reflection or delay, fly to vengeance, and precipitate every evil which Lady Adelina dreaded.

After having exhausted every idea on the subject, she could think of nothing on which her imagination could rest, but to send to Mrs. Stafford, acquaint her with the danger of Lady Adelina, and conjure her if possible to come to her. This she knew she would do unless some singular circumstance in her own family prevented her attention to her friends.

Resolved to embrace therefore this hope, she dispatched an hasty billet by an express to Woodfield; and then betook herself to a bed on the floor, which she had ordered to be placed by the side of that where Lady Adelina, in happy tho' dangerous insensibility, still seemed to repose almost in the arms of death.

Emmeline could not, however, obtain even a momentary forgetfulness. Tho' she could not repent her attention to the unhappy Lady Adelina, she was yet sensible of her indiscretion in having put herself into the situation she was now in; the cruel, unfeeling world would, she feared, condemn her; and of it's reflections she could not think without pain. But her heart, her generous sympathizing heart, more than acquitted--it repaid her.

Towards the middle of the night, Lady Adelina, who had made two or three faint efforts to speak, sighed, and again in faint murmurs attempted to explain herself. Emmeline started up and eagerly listened; and in a low whisper heard her ask for her child.

Emmeline ordered it instantly to be brought; and those eyes which had so lately seemed closed for ever, were opened in search of this beloved object: then, as if satisfied in beholding it living and well, they closed again, while she imprinted a kiss on it's little hand. She then asked for Emmeline; who, delighted with this apparent amendment, prevailed on her to take what had been ordered for her. She appeared still better in a few moments, but was yet extremely languid.

'I have had a dreadful dream, my Emmeline,' said she, at length--'a long and dreadful dream! But it is gone--you are here; my poor little boy too is well; and this alarming vision will I hope haunt me no more.'

Emmeline, who feared that the dream was indeed a reality, exhorted her to think only of her recovery; of which, added she cheerfully, we have no longer any doubt.

'Comfortable and consoling angel!' sighed Lady Adelina--'your presence is surely safety. Do not leave me!'

Emmeline promised not to quit the room; and elate with hopes of her friend's speedy restoration to health, fell herself into a tranquil and refreshing slumber.

On awakening the next morning, she found Lady Adelina much better; but still, whenever she spoke, dwelling on her supposed dream, and sometimes talking with that incoherence which had for some weeks before so greatly alarmed her. Her own dread of meeting Godolphin was by no means lessened; and to prevent an immediate interview, she dispatched to him a note.

'Sir,

'I am happy in having it in my power to assure you that our dear
patient is much better. But as uninterrupted tranquillity is
absolutely necessary, that, and other considerations, induce me to
beg you will forbear coming hither to day. You may depend on having
hourly intelligence, and that we shall be desirous of the pleasure
of seeing you when the safety of my friend admits it.

I have the honour to be, Sir,
your most humble servant,
EMMELINE MOWBRAY.'

_Sept._ 20,17--.

To this note, Mr. Godolphin answered--

'If Miss Mowbray will only allow me to wait on her for one moment
in the parlour, I will not again trespass on her time till I have
her own permission.

W. G.'

This request, Emmeline was obliged, with whatever reluctance, to comply with. She therefore sent a verbal acquiescence; and repaired to the bed-side of Lady Adelina, who had asked for her.

'Will you pardon my folly, my dear Emmeline,' said she languidly--'but I cannot be easy till I have told you what a strange idea has seized me. I seemed, last night, I know not at what time, to be suddenly awakened by a voice which loudly repeated the name of Trelawny. Startled by the sound, I thought I undrew the curtain, and saw my brother William, who stood looking angrily on me. I felt greatly terrified; and growing extremely sick, I lost the vision. But now again it's recollection harrasses my imagination; and the image of my brother, sterner, and with a ruder aspect than he was wont to wear, still seems present before me. Oh! he was accustomed to be all goodness and gentleness, and to love his poor Adelina. But now he too will throw me from him--he too will detest and despise me--Or perhaps,' continued she, after a short pause--'perhaps he is dead. I am not superstitious--but this dream pursues me.'

Emmeline, who had hoped that the very terror of this sudden interview had obliterated it's remembrance, said every thing she thought likely to quiet her mind, and to persuade her that the uneasy images represented in her imperfect slumbers were merely the effect of her weakness and perturbed spirits.

The impression, however, was too strong to be effaced by arguments. It still hung heavy on her heart, irritated the fever which had before been only slight, and deprived her almost entirely of sleep; or if she slept, she again fancied herself awakened by her brother, angrily repeating the name of Trelawny.

Sometimes, starting in terror from these feverish dreams, she called on her brother to pardon and pity her; sometimes in piercing accents deplored his death, and sometimes besought him to spare Fitz-Edward. These incoherences were particularly distressing; as names were often heard by the attendants which Emmeline hoped to have concealed; and it was hardly possible longer to deceive the physician and apothecary who attended her.

With an uneasy heart, and a countenance pensively expressive of it's feelings, she went down to receive Captain Godolphin in the parlour.

'I fear, Miss Mowbray,' said he, as soon as they were seated, 'you will think me too ready to take advantage of your goodness. But there is that appearance of candour and compassion about you, that I determined rather to trust to your goodness for pardon, than to remain longer in a state of suspense about my sister, which I have already found most insupportable. In the note you honoured me with to day you say she is better. Is she then out of danger? Has she proper advice?'

'She has the best advice, Sir. I cannot, however, say that she is out of danger, but'--She hesitated, and knew not how to proceed.

'But--you hope, rather than believe, she will recover,' cried Godolphin eagerly.

'I both hope it and believe it. Mr. Godolphin, you yesterday did me the honour to suppose I had been fortunate enough to be of some service to Lady Adelina; suffer me to take advantage of a supposition so flattering, and to claim a sort of right to ask in my turn a favour.'

'Surely I shall consider it as an honour to receive, and as happiness to obey, any command of Miss Mowbray's.'

'Promise me then to observe the same silence in regard to your sister as I asked of you last night. Trust me with her safety, and believe it will not be neglected. But you must neither speak of her to others, or question me about her.'

'Good God! from whence can arise the necessity for these precautions! What dreadful obscurity surrounds her! What am I to fear? What am I to suppose?'

'You will not, then,' said Emmeline, gravely--'you will not oblige me, by desisting from all questions 'till this trifling restraint can be taken off?'

'I will, I do promise to be guided wholly by you; and to bear, however difficult it may be, the suspense, the frightful suspense in which I must remain. Tell me, however, that Adelina is not in immediate danger. But, but' added he, as if recollecting himself, 'may I not apply for information on that head to her physician?'

'Not for the world!' answered Emmeline, with unguarded quickness--'not for the world!'

'Not for the world!'--repeated Godolphin, with an accent of astonishment. 'Heaven and earth! But I have promised to ask nothing--I must obey--and will now release you, Madam.'

Godolphin then took his leave; and Emmeline, whose heart had throbbed violently throughout this dialogue, sat down alone to compose and recollect herself. She saw, that to keep Godolphin many days ignorant of the truth would be impossible: and from the eager anxiety of his questions, she feared that all the horrors Lady Adelina's troubled imagination had represented would be realized--apprehensions, which seemed armed with new terror since she had seen and conversed with this William Godolphin, of whose excellent heart and noble spirit she had before heard so much both from Lady Adelina and Fitz-Edward, and whose appearance seemed to confirm the favourable impression those accounts had given her.

Godolphin, who was now about five and twenty, had passed the greatest part of his life at sea. The various climates he had visited had deprived his complexion of much of it's English freshness; but his face was animated by dark eyes full of intelligence and spirit; his hair, generally carelessly dressed, was remarkably fine, and his person tall, light, and graceful, yet so commanding, that whoever saw him immediately and involuntarily felt their admiration mingled with respect. His whole figure was such as brought to the mind ideas of the race of heroes from which he was descended; his voice was particularly grateful to the ear, and his address appeared to Emmeline to be a fortunate compound of the insinuating softness of Fitz-Edward with the fire and vivacity of Delamere. Of this, however, she could inadequately judge, as he was now under such depression of spirits: and however pleasing he appeared, Emmeline, who conceived herself absolutely engaged to Delamere, thought of him only as the brother of Lady Adelina; yet insensibly she felt herself more than ever interested for the event of his hearing how little Fitz-Edward had deserved the warm friendship he had felt for him. And her thoughts dwelling perpetually on that subject, magnified the painful circumstances of the approaching éclaircissemen; while her fears for Lady Adelina's life, who continued to languish in a low fever with frequent delirium, so harrassed and oppressed her, that her own health was visibly affected. But without attending to it, she passed all her hours in anxiously watching the turns of Lady Adelina's disorder; or, when she could for a moment escape, in giving vent to her full heart by weeping over the little infant, whose birth, so similar to her own, seemed to render it to her a more interesting and affecting object. She lamented the evils to which it might be exposed; tho' of a sex which would prevent it's encountering the same species of sorrow as that which had embittered her own life. Of her friendless and desolate situation, she was never more sensible than now. She felt herself more unhappy than she had ever yet been; and would probably have sunk under her extreme uneasiness, had not the arrival of Mrs. Stafford, at the end of three days, relieved her from many of her fears and apprehensions.