f THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES Ex Libris SIR MICHAEL SADLER ACQUIRED 1948 WITH THE HELP OF ALUMNI OF THE SCHOOL OF EDUCATION ■ '/lii. iii/.i fl ,1,1 11/, II fi/il /li/ //l, ///■/,/ / It ll/ll,/l • ' S' II' • i fl lf/f// II f'/lffll ll/f /'I //ll If. >,!/>. ■/ .l/l'll/.'- /l III/ 1/ f l-/f.l ;[ ( D y f / '/ j / ,•{.t of irrepressible sorrow announced the return of poor James, and at the same time it was plain that his steps turned from the door as if he were unable to meet her. Emma instantly conceived, and pitied the sorrow, and the self-reproach, this honest af- fectionate servant could not fail to endure from the peculiar circumstances in which he stood. She rose from her own little couch, and opening the door, cast her eyes down tin gallery, which was only lighted by the ray from that lamp within her chamber — a ma:\ was standing very near. "James," said Emma in a mournful but kind tone, "James, are you come?" " It is not James," replied a voice which thrilled to her heart though it answered in a low inarticulate manner. Emma started back into the chamber half terrified, but she was followed by Melville, who eagerly told her "that James, on hearing of his master's death, and having the vessel still before his eyes into which they had removed but half an hour before, had procured a boat, MODERATION. 183 followed them, and caused him to return — lie thought," added he, " poor fellow, that I should be a " Most probably Melville meant to say, " a comfort," but his eyes at this moment turned upon the bed, where lay the pale remains of him whom he had so long loved as a friend, and revered as a saint, to whom he had (as an orphan from infancy) wished to believe that he could indulge the feelings which belonged to the tenderness due to a mother, and the honour claimed by a father — the lips were now sealed for ever in the coldness of death, which, that very morning, had so warmly blessed him ; never more would the instruc- tion which had assisted, the information which had delighted him, proceed from them again. Melville gazed and wept, and for some moments the evident agony of his heart shook his manly frame with convulsive agitation ; but the sigh of Emma caught his ear, the sigh of her who had suffered so long, whose loss, and, consequently, whose affliction, was so much greater than his own could pos- sibly be. " Pardon me," he stammered out at length, 184 MODERATION. " I would not — God knows I would not add to your troubles — but he was so kind to me ! so dear to me ! so — " " You were indeed much beloved by him, he spoke of you almost the last thing — called you his son." " And you were alone they say, Emma with him at that moment? Charles had de- serted you ; he did not merit to be so remem- bered." " You could not help it ; your duties called you from us : you have done all you could, Melville." " Ah ! Emma, dear, dear Emma, how truly do you say I have done all I could. Alas ! that all was of a nature I cannot now explain. But I can do no more. I cannot see you thus, a sufferer in a strange country, alone, pale, sick, perhaps dying also 1 cannot see this without devoting myself to you wholly, without offering you the most ardent affection, admiration, that heart can feel, that and yet, what can I do ? other suf- ferers claim me, I am loved so tenderly — leaned upon so helplessly — I am to the dying what you have been to the dead ; think for me, Emma, speak for me, what must I do ?" MODERATION. 185 This was declaration ; it was acknowledged love ; and though offered in a season when happy love would have been profanation to the sacred claims of sorrow, it could not be refused on that account, for it was offered with the tone and gesture of a heart torn with anguish and alarm — offered — ah, no ! that could not be called an offer which was instantly retracted ; which was rather thrown before her in the confusion of weakness, as that which ought to be refused, than pre- sented, in the confidence of honour and affec- tion, claiming acceptance and reciprocal at- tachment. Yet under any possible circumstances it is certain the assurance of being beloved by one so dear, so justly and entirely esteemed, was sweetly consolatory to the heart of Emma — hers was a gentle, modest, self-subdued, yet generous and lofty spirit ; she sought to con- trol, and she did control and moderate, every violent desire and wayward inclination ; but yet she was a young, tender-hearted woman, bowed down by the most natural grief, and touched with the most lively admiration, the most ardent friendship. It was dear and grateful to her heart to see the veil stripped, 18G MODERATION. though but for a moment, which revealed to her how deeply seated, how vividly displayed, was that passion which till now was never permitted to own its existence. The sense of comfort, of peace, which was thus given to her mind, enabled her, notwithstanding the profound sympathy which the complicated sorrows of Melville inspired, to soothe the agonies of his mind, and confirm him in the path of duty, and, judging of his feelings by her own, she did this most effectually by as- suring him, " that, though weak with sorrow and fatigue, yet she was not otherwise ill — that her awful, but most endeared task being over, she should return to her country with the mournful satisfaction of knowing that she- had done her best to smooth the pillow of suffering, and that she had enjoyed in him a friend, a brother, a something more than either — " " You will not say lover, Emma — 'tis well, for I cannot ask you ; but surely at this aw- ful moment, heart speaks to heart, and the blessed spirit which has so lately forsaken that venerated clay registers the communion — you will not deny me the consolation of believing this ? " MODERATION. 187 " No, dear Charles, I will not." " Ten thousand blessings be on )uu for those words, they will give me the power to do my duty, my duty! can it be right to leave you ? — impossible." " Unquestionably it is, have you not told us that your uncle was your parent ? is not your cousin, brother, sister, sole relative and friend to you? you must go, you must ful- fil all your own sense of love and obliga' tion." " Then it must be this moment, if I listen to you, if I look at you again, Emma, I am lost — I have a thousand things to say, tc confess ; but this is not the time, there never has been a time." The heavy steps and crutch of poor James was heard in the gallery. " My time is gone, but the boat shall wait, we shall but lose one tide, and I must provide you a friend — that at least is in my power." For a moment Melville caught her in his arms, each threw their eyes on the corpse, for they could not look on each other, thick suf- focating sobs rose from either breast, and tears streamed from their eyes — .'twas but till James tapped at the door, and then Emma 188 MODERATION. found herself dismissed with a heavy groan from the arms which had enfolded her, she was seated on a chair, the door was closed. the feet departed with rapidly-descending steps, and all was again silent and deserted; it was a^ain the chamber of death. The people of the house, considering thaV the stranger might have certain rites to per- form agreeable to her own religion, or be- lieving her perhaps too devoid of any to be an object of interest, suffered her to remain un- disturbed ; and as James had again departed, being advised, almost commanded, "not vet to intrude upon her," she remained alone the rest of the night — sometimes in tears, some- times in prayer, endeavouring to subdue her emotions, and tranquillize the strange confu- sion of her thoughts, which on reflection seemed to forbid her to repose on the love of one whose words were mysterious, though his countenance was open and his nature frank. At length, nature exhausted by long suffer ing sunk unexpectedly into that uneasy slum- ber, which a frame unequal to further en- durance found even on that scat which was close by the bed of her father. 189 CHAP. XI. Uay was risen, and the world was abroad, before poor Emma's head was so far raised from the wall against which she leaned, as to be sensible of her situation. When she did look up, James stood before her, and old Barba was near him, but as she cast her eyes towards the bed and recollected all that had occurred, she became fearful that she had not fulfilled her watch, and eagerly rose to see that the treasure was safe. Her own cambric handkerchief was on the face, for James had thrown it there; as she removed it she trembled violently, for the first time an undefined, but secret fear pervaded her heart. The altered hue told her that her fears, her sensations had cause ; and the earnest en- treaty of James that she would leave the chamber was faintly parried, until it appeared evident that the poor man conceived himself J90 MODERATION. to be under her displeasure ; she could not remove this weight upon his mind without acceding to his wish, and she was too ge- nerous to continue it; she also felt that she had duties to perform, that she was called to think and act, and that therefore she must take refreshment, and see her fellow-creatures on business of the most urgent nature. But when Emma held herself prepared for this, she was informed, "that all was kindlv arranged, that the funeral which could not be delayed beyond evening, was already in prepa- ration, that the banker of Mr. Melville had taken charge of every thing, and would engage two English gentlemen to attend their country- man's funeral, cither as mourners or supporters \o her if she wished to attend." " I will see him laid in the dust," said Emma, "it is the last duty I can show my father." " Yet you can surely trust me, Miss Emma? it will be too much for you — it will indeed." Emma shook her head in unbelief. " I shall be sustained through it, I trust — I have borne much more." In the hour of evening, about the same period when his pure spirit departed to hie MODERATION. 191 God, the necessary attendants arrived, and they proceeded to the English burying- ground. It is well known as a spot singu- larly adapted for the purpose, being shaded by dark cypress trees, which cast their long mournful shadows over the graves of many young, beautiful, and wealthy from our na- tive shores ; and such was its affecting influ- ence on the mind of Emma, that she never visited it but once, when she had accompa- nied Melville thither, whilst her father sat by the sick bed of James. The funeral was per- formed by a young clergyman apparently in delicate health himself; and that sublime and affecting service which she had so often heard read by the deceased, under such cir- cumstances, was almost overwhelming. She clung to the arm of her unknown and unseen countryman, for her veil was closely wrapt around her, and for a short time feared that she should faint. This stranger was evidently a man of much sympathy, his own sighs responded to hers, and his aspirations were fervent — she was persuaded he was the father of a family ; probably had himself laid a blooming daugh- ter or a promising son in that cemetery ; but 192 MODERATION. of him, or for him, Emma could not think at such a time, further than to be grateful for his tender attention and paternal care. The last look was taken, the crumbling mould fell hard and dry on the coffin, and scarcely could the shaking limbs of Emma support her through the avenue which led to the carriage. Another gentleman now took her hand, placed his arm round her, and sup- ported her, and when she entered the coach, followed her into it ; but the person on whom she had hitherto leaned stepped into another carriage, and drove away in a manner which betokened great haste. Surely the vessel which she knew had been hired by Sir Geof- frey was still in the river detained for this purpose — the farewell pressure of that friendly hand, told her that it was, it could be no other than Melville, who had shared her awful situation. * The gentleman now in the carriage after some pause addressed her with much cour- tesy, and pressed upon her an invitation to the Banker's house, from whom she had re- ceived so many marks of valuable attention ; and being persuaded that her privacy would be for the present sacred, and that it was a MODERATION. ]t)3 most respectable home, she thankfully ac- cepted the offer, sensible of the goodness of Providence in so tempering her sorrow, and securing assistance in the very hour when she seemed bereft of all. She was sensible of great personal weakness, and remembering how much she had suffered during her first voyage, thought that if even it had been possible for her to embark immediately, she ought not to venture — besides, " there was in her own country, at this time, no one person so attractive as even the grave of her father appeared in her eyes. She had no home : no brother to receive and supply to her a father's protection ; no aunt to give her a mother's countenance. Her eldest sister's marriage had taken her in a twofold sense from her family, as her silence implied, and Sophia — " Emma stayed the sad current of her medi- tations as her younger sister passed in re- view before her. She recollected the un- feigned sorrow that sister had manifested to- wards her father, the kindness and modesty of her late letters, as contrasted with her former spiritual pride and assumption — her extreme youth and the influence which had o 194 MODERATION'. wrought upon her that partial alienation from her family which was respectable even in its error, in so far as it was sincere, and awakened by the most awful subject of anxiety which can affect the mind. She felt that Sophia had a claim upon her tenderness, her counsel, her forbearance for the future, her forgetfulness of the past; she hoped that the time might yet come when they should " take sweet counsel together, and walk in the house of God," and in the world also, "as friends" and sisters. As it was but too probable that the death of her father might cause Sophia to revert more decidedly than ever to her former associates in the enthusiasm that affecting event would stimulate, Emma determined only with the more affectionate moderation to guide her by degrees into a safer and wiser path — to use the increased light she had herself gained in this eventful period from her father's con- versations ; for the purpose of strengthening the understanding and tranquillizing the con- science of that beloved child, whom she well knew "lay heavy at his heart," almost till its last pulsation. The family of Don Chicolo di Albareda, omitted no act of true politeness, and svm- MODERATION. ] Q5 pathy towards their guest whom they con sidered the relation of the Melvilles. Emma had been there only three days, when from the arrival of various mails she became all at once as much incommoded with an abund- ance of letters, as she had of late felt herself neglected by their absence. That of Harriet claimed her first attention, because she hoped to find in it reason for long silence, and also inclosures which would be far more welcome than further trespass on her friends. Considering Harriet as so newly married, Emma was struck by the multitude of her complaints, but she soon found that her trouble in going to Ireland, her hatred of that place on her arrival, her difficulty in effecting a re- turn, and finally, her dislike and dread of her £reat Indian uncle, who arrived by the spring ships, were all intended as apologies for silence, which she knew to be inexcusable, and for conduct she felt to be so unjust, that every possible palliative had need to be pressed into her service. The letter contained the sum of one out of two hundred pounds, which Charles had commissioned her to send four months before, and which from his own letter it appeared he expected would accompany o 2 l[)G .MODERATION. a third, which was then due from her husband to Emma for interest. "1 know," said Harriet, "you are so very prudent, my dear Emma, and things (1 have understood.) are so very cheap at Lisbon, that I hope the little delay, or the circum- stance of my borrowing a hundred pounds, will not signify; you must be aware how dreadfully L have been troubled for want of money for our double journies, and the necessity 1 was under of appearing like a bride, when we joined Wilmington's regi- ment in Dublin, where the women are, ge- nerally speaking, very handsome, and dress elegantly, and where I was expected to be fashionable. " Apropos, pray where have you left those papers. 1 mean the title-deeds of those lew miserable acres which old Fountain digni- fied with the title of " a paternal estate," and which he talks of beautifying, building upon, and what not. Frank says that his mother believes he will purchase the estate, and should he find out the circumstance of the mortgage, he will be enrage with ail the heat of Calcutta, so pray tell me where 1 can get the papers. It strikes me that you left them MODERATION. ]g7 with Charles, and that he gave them with other matters of the same description to Sophia, but the little demure minx will not confess, nor allow me to look into the strong- box — never surely was there such a piece of pertinacity; in other respects she is better, for during her illness the new curate attended her, and I apprehend reconverted her; I have a great notion there is something more than meets the eye between them. I hope you will be at home soon, and set all of us to rights ; my father ought to interfere as Sophia is under age." " What would have become of me at this moment," said Emma to herself, " if we had not met with Melville? ah! how cruelly sel- fish does extravagance make us, whilst Har- riet could literally rob both Charles and me, at a time when the comforts, the very life of a sick father were affected by the circumstance, in order to deck her own person, to cut a figure among people for whom she could have no regard — fie on it. Sophia, dear Sophia, there is little comparison between your faults and those of your elder sister. Harriet will ruin her husband." In a long letter from Mrs. Wilmington, \[)S MODERATION. all her fears on this head were confirmed. She learnt also that Mr. Fountain was angry with his nephew for marrying a woman with so small a fortune as Miss Carysford, he having set his heart it appeared on uniting him to Miss Mortimer, whose early predilec- tion for the army he was well acquainted with, and whose residence in the same village with his friends would have given him a decided advantage: "not," added the writer, "but my brother is reasonable, and was glad to find your sister was Miss Tintagell's favourite ; but since then we have learnt that her rich aunt is as little pleased with the match as toy brother, so you see, my dear Miss Emma, we are all in the wrong, and sincerely do I wish that you and our dear revered friend were here, for you only have influence over my son and daughter." In the evident anxiety of this excellenJ mother, she had reserved to a postscript the extraordinary information, that the inhabitants of the Park were all gone to the continent; but the letters of Charles (two of which though written at different periods were now delivered together) gave her the further information as to their route and present situation, likely to MODERATION. 199 interest her. She found that Lord Alfre ton's loss of health arose from a wound received in a duel, which had entailed not less weakness of bod\', than remorse of mind, which his aunt kindly sought to ameliorate by introducing to him a relation whose education fitted him to offer that consolation which could alone be considered adequate to the end : " Alas ! " said Charles, " I am very young, Emma, and very unequal to the task. What would I give that my dear father had come to Italy, instead of going to Lisbon, that I might receive from his lips the instructions I desire to convey, that I might exemplify in his character the excellence of those doctrines I wish to incul- cate — every day I desire to set out to you, but this I cannot now do, for my aunt is so fully persuaded that you will leave Lisbon in consequence of the heats of June, that she is arranging her own departure in the hope of finding you at home. God grant she may." Those only who have been similarly situat- ed can conceive what those harrowing sensa- tions were, which such sentences as referred to her father as living, awoke in the breast of his daughter. All spoke of him with that moving tenderness which extended its thril- COO MODERATION. ling influence to her own heart, and the re inembrance that she was called upon to < s- tinguish their hopes, to awaken their sorrows, to live attain through scenes she trembled to recall, or, by using the hand of another, add anxiety on her own account, to grief lor the loss of her father, for some time appalled her with new distress. It led her notwithstanding to remember with gratitude from how much alllietion of a similar nature she had been spared — that source of sweetly treasured satis- faction, which arose from the love of Melville, soothed and to a certain decree invigorated her spirits for the terrible task which still re- mained to her, of announcing the death of one who must be lamented, as he had been beloved. We cannot pursue the detail of those feel- ings with which this sad duty was fulfilled, but we may assert that they were struggled with, that Emma did not indulge that sensi- bility which, while it injured her health, would have- delayed her return, and thrown her a pain* ful burden upon the time' and atte-ntion of com- miserating strangers. Nor was it till she had recovered her strength, and by faith and hope attained resignation and equanimity, that she MODERATION. 201 fulfilled the foud but melancholy desire she had long felt of visiting her father's grave, and the room in which he died — none of our younger readers will suppose that she omitted to retread the walk which lead to the foun- tain, that she sought to inhale the soft per- fume from the lemon trees, but all should know that although she entered it, yet she wisely and resolutely abandoned her design, sensible that she had already endured an ex- citement to which she was unequal. This was the last day of her stay in Lisbon, and at an early hour she was summoned to the vessel, which conveyed her to the packet. She left friends in all who had witnessed her ceaseless vigilance of affection, her tender submission in affliction, the uprightness and punctuality with which she discharged her obligations of business, and the active good- ness and charitable attention she evinced to- wards all her fellow-creatures. Parting is rarely unaccompanied by sorrow, and the kindness of those around her, the memory of that precious dust she left with them, rendered her last adieus necessarily affecting ; bat Emma was surprised to see this emotion par- taken by James also, who continued to wave 202 MODERATION. his hat with a sorrowful oft reiterated fare- well, so long as the servants of Don Chicolo and Diego, from the hotel, were visible on the quay. When they were safely on board, Emma fearful of sickness remained some time on deck, and the beauty and magnificence of all around her allayed the sad remembrances which necessarily crowded on her mind, and dill'used over it that solace which a widely extended view of nature, in that still hour of morning when creation itself seems reposing, is calculated to produce. So long as she could, she continued to gaze on that spot most endeared to her as the grave of her father; but she soon lost sight of it, and by degrees the magnificent looking city, with its tall white buildings, which had lately risen proudly from the river side as a vast cres- cent, adorned by churches, convents, and palaces, bordered by a noble river, on the broad bosom of which were seen vessels of every nation, now grew less and less, as the Btream widened, and the shore receded, and at length its white walls ceased to sparkle in the sun- beams — the day advanced, but the city was lost. MODERATION. 203 " Poor old Lisbon, I shall see thee no more," said James, with a deep sigh. The words were uttered in soliloquy, but me sigh that followed them was so profound, (meant probably to be the parting groan of regret,) that Emma could not forbear to no- tice it. " I am surprised you are so sorry, James, to leave Lisbon." " Why I'm not right sorry, Miss Emma, but only it makes one feel sorrowful somehow to see the last of an old enemy, and remem- ber all that I remember. Lisbon has made me a cripple, it has drawn more blood than I had to spare, and it has taken that which I loved better than my own flesh and blood — but he said we must all forget and for- give ; so I say, God bless Lisbon after all ; there are many good folks in it, and many more out of it." The thoughts of those " out of it," to whom James unquestionably alluded, rushed with all their claims to kind and grateful remem- brance on Emma's mind — she was now borne on the wave where, " within a little month," he also had sailed with a heart swelling with her sorrows, an eye that swam in tears as it 204 MODERATION'. gazed through the space hers now tried to penetrate. In a short time, alas ! she should be separated from him still farther than now, and when she should again hear from him or behold him, she knew not. As these thoughts passed her mind, several times she was on the point of speaking to James on the sub- ject of the embarkation of the Melville fa- mily, in which he had assisted, purely for the pleasure (we may suppose) of hearing that dear name mentioned which was music to her ear, and which was dwelt upon by her honest old servant with all that zealous praise, awakened equally by personal grati- tude and warm admiration — but with this desire was blended that trembling reserve pe- culiar to timid passion, and in another mo- ment Emma almost felt afraid that James should mention the subject, lest even he should read what was passing in her heart. " 1 hope you are not beginning to be ill, Ma'am 1 " " 1 am not, thank you, James." "God forbid! I'm sure you have not strength to bear it, though they say it does one good — I hope that poor young lady, the Captain's cousin, escaped it when they — " MODERATION. 205 " Young lady!" exclaimed Emma, in a voice which, though low and impeded, re- sembled a shriek. " Yes, the sick young lady, I mean, as be gone to the Madeiras — poor creature, she seemed to me more like a bundle of clothes than a woman, as the Captain carried her ; and the poor old gentleman was helping, thof she was as light as a feather, I take it — I just saw her face peep out of the military cloak she was wrapped in, and a very pretty face it was, with fine black eyes like her cousin's, only she's not dark like him, but very white indeed — I beg pardon for talking, Ma'am, you are ill." Emma tacitly confessed she was, by in- stantly retreating to the only place of retire- ment circumstances allowed ; on her bed she could weep unseen, she could combat best the astonishment, grief, and indignation which, in the moment of this overwhelming surprise, made her desire not merely to hide her scald- ing tears, but to fly for ever from a world which was hateful to her. " Am I again deceived? again disappoint- ed ? why do I say again ? never before did I know what it was so to prefer, to admire, to 200 MODERATION. love any human being. Why was I so cru- elly, so perfidiously betrayed i I who would not so injure any human being — by Mel- ville too, the most open, frank, artless of all creatures, whom my poor father so often used to charge with being less worldly-wise than himself." By degrees recollections arose which told Emma that it was possible James might be mistaken ; he had, it appeared, seen an inva- lid wasted it might be to more than feminine delicacy — " but, no ! all that was mysterious in the conduct of Melville was thus, and could only be thus accounted for : he had in every conversation dwelt much on the sor- rows of his uncle, but spoken little of the peculiar ailment of the invalid ; he had men- tioned no name save that of his relationship, or the terms, " an only child," " the dear pa- tient," " our beloved sufferer," See. His every word in their last meeting was now fully explained, as indicating a tic to his fellow travellers beyond what appeared ; and she could not doubt that if Melville's cousin was a woman, to that woman he was bound in claims beyond those of friendship or con- sanguinity. MODERATION. 207 But had he therefore deceived her ? was he, on whose integrity she could have relied so implicitly, a vain, a fickle, a designing man ? every reflection on his character, his manners, and his conduct, alike answered de- terminately "No!" Had he then read the tender secret of her heart, and was he led from pity to profess that attachment which might soothe the severity of her present troubles ? The deep agitation of his own awakened feelings, the profound delicacy and respect with which he had uniformly treated her, forbade her to entertain a fear so wound- ing to virgin delicacy : how often had he been on the point of declaring that love which was read in his looks, his manners, and, above all, in his solicitude, and which was unquestionably suspected, or rather, confided in by her father himself? How se- vere his struggles had been to conquer this passion, might be inferred from his altered looks, which she had imputed to the sleepless nights she supposed he passed with his cou- sin — " well might he suffer, when he consi- dered that he was deceiving an artless, affec- tionate stranger on the one hand, perhaps a long affianced bride on the other, whose pre- COS Mi) DURATION. lent deplorable situation rendered her only the more irresistible in her claims upon his tenderness and honour." A generous, disinterested mind has, in a trial like this, (which is doubtless one of the severest to which our nature is subject,) great advantage over a narrow and selfish spirit. Whatever might be the sufferings of JNlr. Melville, however pitiable his situation might be, and blameless his original intention, still he had been guilty of a species of deception. Emma could neither, by any possible view of the case, acquit him of this fact, nor cease to feel that he had rendered her a sufferer from it; but as with this knowledge was united an assurance that he was severely afilicted for this fault, and had in other respects great merit, she desired if possible to pardon it, and dismiss it from her memory. Thousands of women would have bemoaned their hard fate, as victims of deception ; and yet, with all their anger at the aggressor, their self-pity, and the remembrance of their wrongs, have cither cherished his memory in their hearts, though it was as a viper's sting to their peace, or, from a species of revenge and scorn, by no means incompatible with exist- MODERATION. 209 ing love, resolved to marry the first man who should afterwards address them. Such are the common operations of pride upon the hearts of those who are unaccustomed to self-examination, and unconscious of the in- fluence of christian humility, which can alone rebuke the winds and waves of this or any other passion, and say, " peace, be still." The heart constantly exercised in kindly feelings, less troubled with its own wishes and desires than in considering the wants or comforts of beloved relatives, esteemed friends, and the wide circle of those who claim the charities of life, in going out of itself to inhabit the breast of another, will find so much there, in which to sympathize, as to lose half its own load upon the thresh- old. Deep was the pity which moved the heart of Emma for Melville, and it will be readily supposed, that the fault of loving her too well was one which she could readily forgive, for we affect not to paint her as a perfect cha- racter. She was one of " like passions with others," but she had even at this period of life manifested a power of successfully, be- cause firmly and meekly, repelling the ascen- p 210 MODERATION. dancy of vanity, ambition, anger, and inordi- nate grief — could she now apply the same principles to that which appears the most amiable, and is therefore the most insidious of all mental disorders? could she arrest that passion which, resting in the most secret re- cesses of the heart, is nurtured by imagina- tion and memory, and in her case was held sacred by gratitude, which self-deception loves to embalm under the name of friend- ship, and which every human being in early life feels privileged to indulge in, as the com- mon though latent weakness of their age, and entwined with their very being '.' That Emma did not for some time see her duty in this respect, and therefore did not call up her reason or religion to oppose it, is certain ; but she did in the first place ear- nestly endeavour to obtain that equanimity of mind without which she knew it was im- possible for her judgment to act. When she found that by placing herself in this situation she was only led to pity and love Melville the more, she resolved to contemplate the situation of Miss Melville, her weak state, her affection, perhaps nurtured from child- hood, the quickness of perception her own MODERATION. 211 love might have given her, the bitter pangs which might arise from a sense of coldness, or neglect, of suspicion that he in whom she had so long " garnered up her heart," could suffer his eye to wander because her form was fading. She felt ready to expostulate with him on the weakness, the cruelty, the un- manly indecision of such a dereliction from love and honour, which was the more unwor- thy of him because his judgment was sound, his principles good, his sentiments noble, his disposition excellent. " Ah ! what must be the power of that passion which could so far warp a nature so ingenuous, a spirit so lofty ? which could teach even the most trivial shadow disguise can frame to one abhorrent of baseness, and seduce a heart so full of kindness to every human being into an act of cruelty to one beloved so fondlv ? I never, never can cease to lament him, to thank him, to — yes, to love, but not so to love him as I have done." Day after day passed, the wind fell, the vessel slumbered on the waters which lay be- neath her like a mirror of molten gold ; com- plaints were heard on all sides, and Emma reflected with surprise on the many days in p 2 212 modi: r a t i N . which her mind, occupied with one subject, had wandered in a labvrintli of distracting thoughts, without making any progress to- wards that freedom and tranquillity it was her duty to obtain. During this period, every book on board had been exchanged amongst the passengers, to beguile the wearisome time, and divert the uneasiness experienced by several whose prognostications diffused general apprehen- sion. One gentleman had offered a poem to Emma, of which he spoke very highly, bur as the book was a quarto, and the sickly frame of mind into which she had unhappily fallen by supplying eternal food for conjec- ture and recollection, chilled alike the power of exertion and the excitement of curiosity, she had hitherto never looked beyond the title-page, where " Armageddon," and a Greek motto, seemed to offer subjects be- yond her present powers of attention. But she now determined to task those pow- ers, to compel that attention ; she lifted up her heart as well as she was able to Him who " seeth the secrets of all hearts," and then began seriously to enter on that (which would in days past have been seized with MODERATION. 213 avidity) beautiful poem, as an exercise for her faculties, necessary, but not palatable. For some time she pursued the soaring flights of our living Milton with weak, abstracted gaze ; but she soon became sufficiently aware of the poetic beauties to know that the fault was wholly in herself if she were neither charmed by the delightful flow of its melli- fluous lines, nor wrapped in the sublime con- ceptions of the mighty theme. She saw that of all other books, which under any possible circumstances might have been laid before b.er at this time, not one could have been equally calculated for her benefit, since no enervating or love-indulging sentiment could be found there from the very nature of the subject ; yet were the powers of imagination excited and gratified, the most commanding and magnificent objects, the most beautiful pictures presented, and all combined with the great, endearing, and consolatory truths of Christianity. By degrees the wandering, bewildered mind of Emma regained the power of attention, a sense and relish for passages of extraordi- nary interest, and solicitude in the pursuit ; the book, though frequently laid down, was 214 MODLItATIO.N. as frequently recurred to, and that which was at first as fatiguing and difficult as the study of mathematics might have been, be- came a constant and dear resource, in which she found at once the action her faculties required, and the serenity she sought. Whilst she was thus beneficially employed in moderating the all-enin-ossinir and " inordi- nate affection" which had from so many causes become the master spring of her spi- rit, a favourable breeze sprung up, and in another week they arrived in the Channel. But, alas ! Emma was not able to welcome the shores of her native land — whether it were the extraordinary fatigues she had en- countered in attending upon her father during the intolerable heats, the bad provisions to which the unexpected length of their voyage had subjected the passengers, the severe men- tal struggle she had undergone, or all these causes combined, we know not; but for the last three days she had experienced extreme languor, the restlessness of fever, and much acute pain in her head and her side. The excellence of her constitution had hitherto been remarkable, although her frame was delicate; and her exquisite sensibility sub- MODERATION. 215 jected her to those partial inequalities of health, inseparable from a reflective and strongly attached mind. In consequence of having never suffered in any comparative de- gree before, she was led to believe, at an early stage of the disease, that she was in consi- derable danger, and of course felt much soli- citude to be on shore, and to secure that female attendance so necessary to her com- fort in every respect. They landed at Falmouth, and in her de- sire to save Sophia from alarm, rather than from any hope that she should be able to travel to her native village, Emma proceeded about sixty miles, when she became too ill to give any further directions, much less proceed, and the landlady of the Inn took charge of her, and engaged such help as the small town afforded, whilst poor James, almost broken hearted, proceeded to that place where he had now neither master, nor mistress, nor home, where every object awoke new sorrows from old and dear memorials of departed happi- ness, to procure assistance. At those periods when acute pain did not give a kind of new and artificial vigour to her faculties, Emma lay in a state of apparent 2lG MODERATION. stupor, which was expected by those around her to be the prelude to delirium, but was in fact the consequence of that exhaustion occa- sioned by past suffering. Her mind never lost the power of recollection, and her situa- tion in all its bearings was constantly present. She felt that her situation was forlorn and de- solate, as contrasted with those whose bed of death is soothed by tender relations, and sur- rounded by those aids and comforts home only can bestow — her eyes earnestly looked out for familiar faces, her ears desired to drink the sweet sounds of friendly voices, and there was one that would have been most dear on which her heart desired to dwell, lint this dear, this dangerous subject, she dismissed with an earnest prayer l'or blessings on his head, as one on which she ought not to think. "It is too agitating for me now, it will de- stroy the little chance I may have for life, and that would be wrong, and it will unfit me for that resignation with which I desire to depart, if such be the will of my heavenly Father." \\ hen the recollection of her late loss arose to her mind with all the circumstances attending it, she sincerely thanked God that she had been enabled to supply to him those MODERATION. 21? tender attentions and that support which her own wants taught her to feel the value of. She felt it a trial to be cutoff " in the morning of her days, " and subjected to those frequently recurring pains which visited her with a se- verity beyond what she had ever witnessed, but she considered that as she had been spared to a good end, so she might be removed in much mercy ; that her present sufferings might work out for her " a more exceeding weight of glory," for though she could not pretend to boast of the faith, or the hope, of which Sophia used to speak in her visits to the dying, yet she did feel assured that God would not forsake her " in the valley of the shadow of death," through which she war passing. " How r thankful ought I to be," said she, " that I am in my own country, with those who speak my language and understand my wants — that I have fulfilled my task and closed my beloved father's eyes, that I have arranged all my affairs with my brother, and been the means of assisting him — that I did not warp the virtue, nor bring self-reproach on the conscience, of that beloved being, whose sorrows miarht have been increased a 218 MODERATION. thousand fold — oh! I have.' much to be rc- membered with gratitude, let me then drink the cup now prepared, though bitter, with humility and patience — it is the Lord, let him do what scemeth him good." The nurse who attended Emma, pronounced sentence of death very positively, " because the patient was such a sweet, quiet young creature, she was too good for this world;" her medical attendant thought it possible, that she might get through, " from the firm, calm equanimity of her mind, and her patient en- durance of pain." After many ballled at- tempts he at length succeeded in obtaining sleep, and producing from sudorifics a relief to the tortures she had so long experienced. Sophia and Mrs. "Wilmington arrived when she was in this state of repose, and great care was kindly taken to save her on awaking from the bad effects even pleasure might have occasioned to one so weak. "My sister!" said Emma, and tears of delight sprung to her eyes, but she obeyed the injunction of her adviser, she checked her emotion, and whilst she silently thanked God for the gift, she restrained the pleasure with which she received it. MODERATION. 219 So weak and shadowy, so extremely pale, and painfully interesting, was poor Emma in the eyes of Mrs. Wilmington, that it was with the utmost difficulty that she could ap- ply the benefit of her skill (as the experienced mother of a large family) to her assistance, without betraying the most affecting agita- tion; and so warmly rekindled were the affec- tions of Sophia, who had not received the news of her father's death more than a month, that, going from one extreme to another, she lavished upon her all the treasured tenderness and gratitude which circumstances had in- duced her to nourish ; and but for her own con- tinued moderation in gently eluding that ex- ercise of sensibility, urged by their mistaken love, it is certain she must have been now killed with kindness. 230 CHAP. XII. VV hen at length Emma regain d the pow< r of venturing into the air, her recovery was rapid, and she experienced renovated health with every breeze which fanned her shrunken form. She therefore proposed setting out by easy journies for her native village, as the most likely place to perfect her recovery, and where Mrs. Wilmington earnestly pressed her to go. It was also evident, that Sophia was soli- citous to return thither for the sake of intro- ducing her to the young clergyman, who, she blushingly confessed, " was a person for whom she had a great esteem," and who, to- gether with her present sense of her dear lather's excellence as a christian minister, had greatly changed her sentiments. " Nor do I stand alone in this change, I assure you, Emma," added Sophia, " lor from the very Sunday when my father preached his last MODERATION. 221 sermon, every body has gone to church ; so when the winter set in we ceased to have a preacher come over at all, and Mr. Bennison has the satisfaction of knowing there is but one flock and one shepherd, in the whole parish — every body now is ready to say there never was such a pastor as Mr. Carysford, and when Mr. Evans came over to preach his funeral sermon, the very people who had left him — but why do I talk of them ? i" left him — I, a mere child, his own child, the pet lamb. / ' had lift up my voice against him' — / had been wise in my own conceit, and barbed the shaft which wounded — oh ! I cannot, cannot bear it — " Sophia wept aloud in very agony, and it was some time before Mrs. Wilmington could so far calm her, as to make her listen to the assurance, that she was injuring Emma ex- ceedingly by this effusion of sorrow, since it could not fail to remind her of circumstances too moving for her weak state, and would render her incapable of pursuing her journey. " Then I will not indulge even godly sorrow," said Sophia, " for it is to Emma alone I owe every thing; her moderation in bearing with my reproaches, in defending my 2C'2 MODERATION. sincerity, in discriminating between my errors and my intentions, have shown me on reflec- tion what true religion is, have saved idl- perhaps from flying from one extreme to another far worse; what would have become of me if, under the agitation in which part- ing with my father had left me, I had given myself up to the guidance of Harriet?" To the great surprise of the party, Sophia was interrupted by the announcement of Harriet herself, who, together with her hus- band and Miss Tintagell, made their ap- pearance in time to put a stop to their jourm v. In noticing their arrival, we have named the mover of the journey, and by far the most important personage in it last, as the others travelled in her carriage and came at her request. We do not however mean to say that Mrs. Francis Wilmington did not greatly desire to see her sister, for she certainly did, from mo- tives of affection and interest also ; but it is only justice to say that the latter was for- gotten when she beheld her attenuated form and pallid face, and saw the poor place where she had been lying sick, and where her conscience told her she might, have besn as MODERATION. 223 devoid of money as of friends. Harriet, as we may have said before, was a woman of quick feelings, but they were neither go- verned by principle, nor lasting in effect, and her education under the paternal roof had been forgotten in the gay world with which she had afterwards mixed. At this moment, her heart was touched with lively remem- brance of her father, sorrow for her sister's evident sufferings, and shame for the share it was too probable she had had in them. In consequence of this sensation, she began to weep and to accuse herself in such a manner as to bring all her pecuniary transactions be- fore her aunt ; to the evident distress and confusion of her husband, and the utter dis- may of her mother-in-law, who, knowing the predicament in which her son at this moment stood with his uncle, dreaded any breach with Miss Tintagell, whose influence in his favour might have been very great if she would con- descend to use it. In the midst of Harriet's self-upbraidings, the remembrance of her present wants struck more strongly than ever upon her mind, in consequence of the vivid picture she had drawn of those temptations which induced 224 MODERATION. hrr to gratify her own wishes at the expense of her sister's necessities, and she suddenly stopped short in her declamation to exclaim, " But where arc those tormenting papers, Emma ? surely Charles has not got them on the Continent?" " All the papers my brother gave me to keep for Emma are in my writing-desk," said Sophia, leaving the room to fetch them, in answer to a look from that sister. The anger this confession elicited, lighted up the cheek and dried the tears of Harriet. " I thought, I hoped Sophia had been im- proved, but cant and hypocrisy debase the very soul — I always suspected she had these papers — I always said so, did'nt I, my d< ar ' and yet she never would confess, although she knew I was in the greatest distress lo them." At this moment, Sophia returned with parcel directed by her brother to his sister Em- ma, or, in case she did not return, to his aunt. " There, there" cried Harriet, in a fury, " you'll see they will be found in that very parcel." " I know nothing of the contents," said Sophia. MODERATION. 225 " No, Miss, but you know that you could have given the parcel to me, and I could have looked for the papers I wanted, I should have taken out none but what I wanted." Emma at this moment fixed her eyes on Harriet, and those eyes, calm as their ex- pression was, said so plainly, " that is not certain" that the blush of anger subsided as quickly as it had risen, and that of shame replaced it. At this moment Miss Tintagell arose, her tall, majestic form apparently di- lating by the style in which she proceeded to the table, and the difficulty with which she had hitherto suppressed her indignation at the past and present conduct of her once darling niece. " Have I your permission, Miss Gary s ford, to open this ? " " Certainly, my dear aunt, I am unequal to business." " So I perceive, child — well, here are the papers : the marriage settlement of Charles Carysford and Harriet; (Miss Tintagell trembled, and her tears for a moment ob- structed her vision ;) then here is a bond ; and poor Miss Carysford's will ; (excellent, good Miss Carysford ;) and here are Charles's Q 226 MODERATION. accounts, poor fellow ; and now — aye — this is the title-deed — Captain Wilmington, these are the papers in question — there they lie." " Why don't you take them, Captain Wil- mington?" cried his lady, "I'm sure you have teazed me very sufficiently on the sub- ject." " I cannot take them, they are your sister's security for the money she lent to my father, for me; I always told you so." " The money which saved us all from de- struction," said Mrs. Wilmington, sobbing. — Miss Tintas-ell resumed : O " Captain Wilmington, I thank you for relieving me from part of the horror and dis- gust with which the conduct of your wife has inspired me. I hope you will in time teach her better principles, and make her sensible that if she has neither the affections of a daughter or sister, her family may yet hope for a portion of common honesty in the daughter of such parents as hers were. For you, Sir, [ have all possible consi- deration, and — hold, what is this paper ap- pended to the deeds? it is your writing, iiima : MODERATION. £27 " In case of my death, I desire that these deeds may be restored immediately to Captain Wilmington, on condition of his payment of one half of that which he is in- debted to my sister Sophia. The rest of my property I leave in my brother's hands, to be divided equally between my sisters after a period of five years, during which time he shall not be asked for it. This is my will in the event of death ; if I live to return, it is my intention equally to devote this sum to my sisters, when I become repossessed of that which I have lent to Charles, till then, it is evident that I cannot spare it, as the interest will be my only income. Emma Carysford." " Wise as generous ! well, then, I now say, Sir, Emma presents you with one half of your debt, and / give you the other — and to you, Sophia, the same Emma will give the same sum, when Mr. Bennison can afford to take you, child. It will furnish a house, and keep your own little dower in safety." " Dear Emma, how shall I thank you? but is it right to take your money ?" " I thought it right to take your fifty Q 2 228 MODERATION. pounds, dear Sophia, and found such comfort in it — it was indeed the happy cause of my procuring essential aid at a time when my distress was very, very great." These words escaped Emma in her conso- lations to Sophia, and were evidently not meant for Harriet's car, but they met those of Mrs. Wilmington, who could not forbear to lament bitterly that any person in her fa- mily could have so rewarded Emma's good- ness to them. Miss Tintagell cauirht eagerly those words which spoke of Sophia's kind- ness, and, on learning what she had done, for the first time she kissed her, folded her i n her arms, and called her " the picture of her mother;" she then observed, in a kind and consolatory manner, " You have been a self-willed, and in some respects a mistaken child ; but you never had either cant or hypocrisy — your conduct has excited mortification and anger to your friends, and bitter grief, I fear, at times, in one who undoubtedly prayed for you and forgave you ; and therefore it would ill be- come me not to endeavour to do the same — y