Mrs. Loudon

“The bright vision lasted not.”

When Edmund retired to rest, all his ideas were in such a state of confusion, that sleep was absolutely out of the question. He found it equally impossible to arrange his thoughts. All came and went in a constant whirl, over which he seemed to have no controul. Yet, at first, all were blissful: fond recollections again and again presented themselves, of the endearing attachment which Julia had in childhood evinced for him; and these again and again blended themselves with intoxicating visions of her present loveliness, and while the tenderness he had ever cherished for her, was all at once converted into an overwhelming passion; so entirely was every reasoning faculty subdued, that with no better foundation than these same recollections, a delightful feeling, almost approaching a sense of mutual affection, glowed at his heart, and unconsciously strengthened his own infatuation.

When it so happens, that the same object which has engrossed the tenderest affections of the child; and which, if we may be allowed the expression, is, as it were, at home in the heart, associated with all its best, its purest feelings, becomes also the first object to awaken passion, the feeling, so produced, is as rare as the combination of circumstances out of which it arises. This is First Love, indeed, with all its own luxuriance of blossom, yet as deep-rooted as the ties of kindred: how unlike the surface-sown plant, Love at First Sight.

As, however, the delightful sensations derived from seeing and speaking to Julia, from receiving her smiles, and listening to the sweet accents of her voice; as these, we say, began to subside, other, and less pleasing thoughts, like spectres, arose and crossed his imagination: at first singly, and at a great distance, and causing only momentary panics; afterwards, nearer and nearer; till, at length, they collected around him, closed in upon him, awoke him from his dream of unfounded, unjustifiable happiness, and compelled him to look on the realities of his situation.

“Though,” said he to himself, “she is not to be, thank heaven!—cannot be married to Lord Morven, I am not the less altogether unworthy of her! It would not be the less of presumption, the less of ingratitude, the less of baseness in me, to indulge for a moment in such a thought. Though Lord Morven happens to be a married man, it is to some one of rank and fortune equal to his, that Lord L. will think of uniting his daughter. That Lord Borrowdale!—he is not married, and it was with him she danced the first set—and they are neighbours too. But of what avail is it for me to torture myself with conjectures?—it is enough for me, that she can never, never—no, never be——” He paused—then recommenced—“I must fly her presence! I must return to the wild waves which have long been my home, and make them my home still! There I have earned a sort of claim; elsewhere I have none! On no one spot of earth can the wretched Edmund place the wanderer’s foot, and say, ‘This is my native soil!’—and for a name——!” Here the painful thought pressed upon him, that he had no actual right to any. He then remembered, with a sigh, the many useless efforts which had been made to discover his birth. Then a burning blush tingled on his cheek, as the sudden thought struck him, and for the first time, that he might possibly be the child of shame, and that therefore it was that no one would claim him. He strove to shake off the idea; then, as if to drown an intruding voice, which seemed to whisper that the suggestion was probable, he thus continued:—“Wrapped in mystery, as every thing concerning me is, I must, all my life, remain an isolated, a miserable being! A home of joy—sweet domestic affections—all, in short, that renders life desirable, is forbidden to me! Under what name dare I present myself before heaven’s holy altar? What appellation dare I offer to that woman who would share my fortunes?”

Engaged in reflections such as these, every delightful vision vanished, the tumultuous beatings of each pulse subsided; and, under the sobering, yet soporific influence of sadness, he at length fell asleep—a long and tremulous sigh, as his eye-lids closed, breaking, for the last time, the regulated breathing which nature was endeavouring to establish. His dreams, however, by an extraordinary contradiction, took their colour from his first feelings. Julia seemed to be before him; to smile sweetly upon him; to raise her full eyes to his. Their expression carried absolute conviction to his heart that he was beloved: the impression was irresistible: he thought he declared his own mad passion; he thought he saw her covered with blushes indeed, but there was no reproof in her manner, and all his own scruples, too, had somehow vanished! He thought he held her soft hand; (for he remembered, particularly when he awoke, how soft it had felt;) she did not withdraw it; nay, it seemed to return the pressure of his! Then he thought, with all the strange and sudden inconsistency of dreams, that he had actually been married to Julia for some time, though he could not remember how or where the ceremony had taken place; yet he saw her so distinctly that he was sure he was awake. Her appearance was what it had been the evening before at the supper table; but her manners, what they had used to be in childhood: the same endearing, enthusiastic, unreserved affection; manifesting itself, with all the happy confidence of mutual and habitual fondness.

But the feelings such visions excited were not calm enough for undisturbed repose: he heard the beating of his own heart, through his sleep; he began to fear he was dreaming; he tried not to awake—but it would not do: his eyes opened; he saw the sun shining through his window-curtains; he started upright in his bed. A tide of contradictory recollections poured in upon him; but, alas! where were those so full of bliss?—They were in his dream!—they were not to be recalled; yet, while he could contrive to discourage all thought, a vaguely pleasing impression remained, as though something very delightful had lately happened! He dressed mechanically; when, crossing his apartment to step forth by a glass door, which opened on the lawn, he caught a glimpse of Julia, turning into one of the walks of the shrubbery. His heart began again to beat audibly, as it had done in his dream; he stumbled against his valet, who stood offering him his hat, and, going out without it, flew across the green to join her. She, too, had had her reflections: she had reproached herself for having treated Edmund quite like a stranger. “And without any fault of his,” said she to herself—for Julia was a great respecter of justice, and, on the present occasion, fancied herself guided entirely by its dictates. There was not one hour of her whole existence, (that she could remember,) when Edmund had not shared with Frances her sisterly affection; and he had not done any thing wrong, she argued with herself—any thing unkind, any thing to forfeit any one’s regard; then would it not be very wrong, very unjust of her, if she did not still love—that is to say, still consider him as her brother. Had not grandmamma and Mr. Jackson always loved him as much as if he was really so; and, of course, they did so still, and so ought Frances and herself.

Had she been aware how very complimentary to Edmund were the causes which had unconsciously operated upon her manner, in producing the unusual restraint of which she was so painfully conscious, she would have acquitted herself of unkindness to an old friend, and want of generous feeling towards the friendless; for we can venture to assert, upon our own knowledge of her warm-hearted character, that had Edmund not been tall or handsome; had his figure and carriage had no air, no look of consequence, no dignity, no grace; had there been no expression in his eyes, particularly when he looked at her; no glow on his cheek, especially when he spoke to her; nothing at all dangerous in his smile, or persuasive in the tones of his voice, particularly when he spoke to her; had she never heard his gallant actions and high character extolled; had she never known Mr. Jackson, as he laid down the newspaper, exclaim, “There is true nobility for you! Pray what is it that you titled people inherit from your ancestors, but the distant reflection of some great exploit performed by some one of them, for which he was ennobled! Then, is not that man, in whom the splendour of noble deeds is self-existent, in whom it shines independent of reflection, greater than any of you? And yet,” would he add, with that glaring inconsistency of which the wisest of us are often guilty, “I have not a doubt that my Edmund, my boy, will yet prove the descendant of a line of ancestry as exalted as his own merits, and I need say no more!” Had nothing, we say, of all this been the case; on the contrary, had all this been reversed—had Edmund been, as indeed he might have been, and yet have been a very worthy personage, a little, insignificant-looking, diminutive-faced, bandy-legged fellow, with a grey freckled skin, light red hair, and green-gooseberry eyes, who had never done any thing remarkable in his life, of whom nobody spoke, whose entrance into a room created no sensation,—in this case, we maintain that Julia would have felt, forcibly, his situation as the protegÉ of her family; that she would have dreaded the thoughts of his feeling himself little among so many great people; and that, therefore, she would have shown him, particularly on his return home, the most marked attention, and bestowed, too, with the utmost frankness.

This morning, however, she had not yet seen him, to remind her of the tall and awful hero he now appeared in her eyes; and she had been studiously bringing to her recollection what he had been, when Frances and herself used to vie with each other in declarations of how much they loved him, and ask him, again and again, which he loved best; and she well remembered (but, of course, as the nonsense of children) that he used to tell her, when Frances would get tired of the subject, and run away to play, that it was her he loved best; that she was his favourite, his darling Julia! &c. &c.

Finally, she came to the valiant resolve, to shake off the artificial manner, made up of too much, perhaps sometimes, and, certainly, often too little courtesy, which she felt she had had a part, at least, of yesterday, and to be, what she had ever been, towards one, who had no friends but those at Lodore House. “I don’t mean,” said she to herself, “flying into his arms at meetings and partings, as I used to do, when I was a foolish child;” and here she blushed, and felt astounded, at the recollection; “but I mean to show him frank and unaffected kindness, always the same.”

As she arrived at this sage conclusion, Edmund stood before her, looking not the worse for the want of his hat, the careless arrangement the breeze had thought fit to make of his hair, and the heightened colour caused by running; to say nothing of a certain beaming light, which thoughts, that lovers’ lips dare not confess, sometimes shed through lovers’ eyes. In short, his dream had given a most dangerous, delighted, bridegroom-like expression to his countenance!

On first seeing him Julia blushed, as though, in her late conference with herself, she had been speaking, instead of only thinking, and might have been overheard. In pursuance, however, of her resolve, she extended towards him the open palm of welcome, as she bade him good morning.

When he felt her hand within his, soft as it had been in his dream; when he saw her cheek glowing, and in her eyes, as she lifted them to his, beheld the blended expression of kindness and timidity, called up by the yet unsubdued current of such reflexions as had just passed through her mind; he could not help thinking how like she, at that moment, looked, to what she had appeared in the too delightful vision, from which he had so lately and so unwillingly awakened.

He was so much absorbed by this idea, that his eyes dwelt on her face, till hers were bent on the ground: her blush, too, deepened. She wished to speak, but felt there was something in his manner, which made it impossible for her to keep her resolution of behaving with perfect ease; both remained silent, and she withdrew her hand.

Edmund, who had continued gazing, till aroused by this movement, now felt that some apology was necessary. He stammered out one about her being so much grown, and about trying to trace, in her present appearance, the little favourite of his boyish days. “After the first surprise is over,” he added, encouraged by a gentle look, and playfully lowering his tone, and smiling, as he drew her hand over his arm, and walked slowly on, his head turned towards his companion—“after the first surprise is over, of finding her, whom I can remember carrying about in my arms through these very woods, become,—while I was so busy ploughing the wide ocean, that I observed not the lapse of time,—a full-grown, fashionable, awe-inspiring woman!—when this surprise is over, I say, you will find that I shall learn to behave myself with all due propriety, and not stare grownup young ladies out of countenance, as if they were still children.”

Julia, remembering her resolution, seized this opening, and said, “I hope, Edmund, I shall never prove so much the woman of fashion, as to be capricious or unsisterly, in my manners or conduct. Perhaps you think I have been so?”

“You quite mistake my meaning, Julia,” said Edmund.

“But,”—she continued, hesitating, “I trust you will find that the regard which Frances and I have felt for you, from our earliest childhood, will prove, through life, an unshaken friendship!”

This was valiantly said of Julia; and the speech took all the breath, of which she was mistress, to bring it to so handsome a conclusion.

“If your friendship,” he replied, with sudden depression of manner, “and that of your family were withdrawn, what would be left to the desolate Edmund!” A short silence ensued. “Promise me, Julia,” he recommenced, taking again the hand that leaned on his arm, and trembling as he reflected that he might yet lose all share in her regard, if his rash passion should ever be discovered; “promise me, that you never will, under any circumstances, withdraw your friendship from me.”

Julia, after hesitating a little, said—“I may, I think, make that promise, Edmund, for I am sure you never will deserve to lose it, and—even—” She stopped as if uncertain whether or not she ought to proceed.

“Do not check that kind sentence, Julia!” he exclaimed, in a tone of entreaty. “You were going to say, that you would still regard and pity the unfortunate Edmund, even if he were in fault, and condemned by strangers!”

“Well, I am sure I would, Edmund,” she replied, after a moment’s pause; “and so would Frances, and so would grandmamma,” she added, eagerly, as Edmund pressed the hand which leaned on his arm against his heart, to express his gratitude.

At this moment, Henry, who had been sent to call them in to breakfast, came up. He curled his lip as he observed Edmund let go the hand of Julia, and all three walked towards the house in silence.

“That won’t do, Captain Montgomery,” whispered Henry, as they entered, affecting a laugh.

Edmund reddened, and turning on him with a frown, said, “I request, sir, that you will spare yourself the trouble of thinking for me.”

Julia was a few steps in advance.

“On the quarter-deck, sir,” said Henry, with mock deference, “I bow to your opinions; but here, I too must request the liberty of thinking for myself, as well as feeling solicitude for a lady, towards whom I stand somewhat, though not absolutely, I am happy to say, in the situation of a brother, being one of her nearest male relatives.”

“Sir!” said Edmund, “till I request your confidence on the subject of your solicitudes, I beg I may not be troubled with the recital of them.”

This short scene passed while the various morning salutations which Julia’s appearance had called forth were going round the breakfast-table, and, consequently, entirely escaped her notice. Lord Borrowdale, starting up, on her first entrance, had given her his seat, and found, or rather made room for himself beside her.

Lady Susan, whom Frances had laughed into a belief that she had achieved a first-sight conquest of Captain Montgomery, now made room for Edmund near herself, and all the time of breakfast, simpered, dimpled, laughed, and talked to him, while he thought only of how he could, with most propriety, resent the insolence of Henry. Lord Borrowdale composed and delivered elaborate compliments to Julia on the roses she had collected during her morning ramble, directing, from time to time, rather inquisitive, and not very well-satisfied glances, towards the much too handsome companion of her walk. Lord Morven mentioned to Mrs. Montgomery how much he wished Julia and Frances to accompany Lady Morven and himself in the Italian trip they proposed making, while their new house was finishing; and added, that Julia had half-promised him, in case Lord L. gave his consent. Mrs. Montgomery shook her head, and Edmund almost smiled to think how much unnecessary misery this subject had caused him only the evening before.

The smile, however, was but languid, for of what avail was it that this source of uneasiness was removed; was not Lord Borrowdale’s admiration declared? and was it not probable that he would be approved of by all her friends? Or, if Lord Borrowdale were not in existence, he himself, at least, had no pretentions—worse than none! he was peculiarly bound by honour, gratitude, every good feeling, not even to stand the competition, had he the egregious vanity to hope that such treachery could avail him. Henry’s interference, indeed, he despised as much as he resented; and had he been capable of doing wrong, from a feeling of false pride, he would, from that moment, have paid Julia pointed attention; but his own sense of right was too strong to permit such a line of conduct. The impulse, indeed, was felt, but instantly rejected; for now that reason, which his dream for a time had banished, was restored, by seeing Julia join the circle of the proud, the gay, the titled, (which was surely her natural sphere,) honour and duty predominated even over passion. He still, however, resented the liberty Henry had taken, and immediately after breakfast sought an interview with him, which ended in that gentleman finding himself compelled to make an ample apology, though with a very bad grace.

END OF VOL. I.

LONDON:
IBOTSON AND PALMER, PRINTERS, SAVOY STREET, STRAND.