CHAPTER XVI.
"He gazed, he saw; he knew the face
Of beauty, and the form of grace!
It was Francesca by his side,
The maid who might have been his bride."
Byron.
After Dr. Lovesworth had paid the last duties and tribute of sorrow due to the memory of his deceased young friend, and had experienced the consolation of seeing that his exertions to restore peace to the afflicted parents had not been entirely fruitless, he returned to Wales, again to enjoy the retirement of his own quiet but circumscribed dwelling, where, to avoid further detail, we find it convenient unceremoniously to transport him.
On hearing his recital of the death of Philimore, the De Brookes could not restrain their tears. Few possessed the power of acting as a mediator, of calming the feelings, and gaining upon the confidence so much as Dr. Lovesworth; and charged as he had been by his dying friend, as also by Oriana, to disclose the circumstance of their long and secret intercourse, he thought the present time would be the most favourable for the occasion.
When he had ceased to speak, the General, with silent surprise, dwelt upon the determined negative he had received from Philimore in answer to the questions he had put to him on the subject of his apparent attachment to his daughter, now so fully revealed by Dr. Lovesworth, but upon which, from motives of deep concern and delicacy to the memory of the deceased, the General passed slightly over, bearing in mind the maxim of treading lightly on the ashes of the dead; he confined himself to the observation, that it was what he had long suspected, but feared to countenance; that had he possessed a fortune to have bestowed on Oriana, Philimore was the man to whom he would have rejoiced to have given her; even as it was, he expressed much regret that he had not been timely acquainted with their mutual attachment and desire of union; which, far from opposing, he might have been led, upon finding that the young people had set their hearts upon each other, to have promoted.
"But, my good Doctor," added this kind father, "we must refer all things to Omnipotent agency, as you would teach us the decrees of Providence are just. Had my daughter espoused this deserving object of her choice, she might, in having been left an early widow, had more bitter anguish to surmount than that with which she is tried at the present moment."
"It was chiefly on account of his father," replied the Doctor, addressing the General, "that Philimore persevered in so rigidly keeping the secret of his attachment, having been once told by him, in the language of worldly dictatorial authority, that he would sooner follow him to the grave than that he should see him marry without fortune. Miserable man! he little conceived that it was thus to happen, or gladly would he have revoked the harsh, unnatural sentence! He now calls upon Oriana a thousand times a day; he lives but in her presence; she has become his idol; every letter she has penned to his son is cherished by him more than words can express. So merciful are the dispensations of the Supreme, that in taking the son to himself,—in this event we behold that which could alone have touched the heart of the father, in a manner to withdraw him from a world of which he has been hitherto so fond."
Deeply sympathising in the distress of her beloved sister, Rosilia much lamented that she was not at the Bower, in order that she might, by participating, lessen and soothe her sorrow.
In taking his leave the Doctor said, that his late unexpected absence from the Hermitage had left him much to do, that he had a long circuit to make around the neighbourhood, and many visits to pay.
"Will you pardon the intrusion, Doctor," said Rosilia, recollecting her little favourite, "and allow me to accompany you, even so far as the cottage where we discovered the dear little Rose?" which was the name of the child in whom Rosilia felt so tender an interest.
The Doctor assuring her that her company would greatly tend to the agreeableness of his walk, they accordingly set off together.
As soon as they had entered the cottage, the little girl, who could already walk alone, no sooner saw Rosilia than she joyfully threw herself into the arms extended to receive her. It had been agreed by the Doctor, that whilst he pursued his morning's avocations, she would remain to pass an hour or two with the child, until he called to take her up, and conduct her home.
Not less innocent, but still more lovely than her blooming charge, Rosilia delighted to ramble with her through those pleasant meadows and beautiful winding alleys adjacent to the cottage; sometimes she chased her round the garden, and sometimes, seated in a rustic recess, taught her to pronounce some words, and to form her lisping accents into an articulation more intelligible; while Rose, often weary of the task, would stray away, and after a short interval playfully return, her little hands being laden with flowers, fresh and glowing as herself, whilst, with frolic humour in her face, she tossed the rich profusion into the lap of her sweet instructress. To please the charming child, Rosilia would twine them into a wreath, which she would encircle around the curly head or snow-white bosom of the beautiful infant.
Having been thus employed, and fatigued from exercise, they returned to the cottage. Her thoughts and affections still occupied by her infant playmate, Rosilia requested the nurse to continue her employment outside, while the inside of the cottage was left solely in possession of herself and Rose, whom the better to accommodate, Rosilia seated herself upon a small stool in the centre of the floor, when the child in playfulness slipped from her head the combs which confined her hair, and instantly those silken tresses, falling to the ground, spread luxuriantly like a sable veil around her. Amused by the sight, the sportive child stood laughing, and again approaching twisted her fingers through the rich infoldings.
On a sudden the door opened, and ere Rosilia could arise, or perceive who entered, a voice exclaimed, "My child," Rosilia was not unacquainted with those accents; they penetrated her soul. She raised her head, uttered a faint sigh, and fell senseless at the feet of Douglas!
Every nerve agitated to excess by the strong pulsations of his heart, for an instant he stood bewildered, devouring with ardent eyes the object before him; in the next, he called aloud for assistance, he raised the fainting Rosilia, he knelt by her side, he supported her in his trembling arms. She continued motionless. His eyes darting rays of inexpressible anguish wandered over that countenance, though pale and inanimate, still beautiful and touching,—that countenance no time, no change, no event had power to erase from his soul!
A carriage drove to the door, the nurse of Rose flew to meet it, and a lady alights. Upon entering the cottage, what a scene does she witness!—Douglas bending over a young creature so singularly interesting; Rosilia just recovering from a fainting fit, her locks dishevelled, partly straying and partly infolding her lovely form. With tenderness and compassion she lends her aid in applying restoratives, and Douglas, resigning to her his charge, steps back, a feeling of delicacy prompting him to retire; but, as if affected by some secret talisman, he remained fixed to the spot.
Expressive of the tenderest sympathy, Rosilia's inquiring eyes fell upon his faded countenance; its sudden transition from white to red, indicative of the strong emotions he laboured under, was even unnoticed by her, so deeply absorbed was she in comparing the past to the present circumstances, and realizing in the being before her the frequent vision of her imagination. Her silent eloquence, her steady look, were insupportable to his feelings; and that rapturous gaze he had but for one moment indulged in, was succeeded by a depression, an overwhelming sensation: hope, so long extinct within him, had suddenly awakened, presenting images as blissful as they were fugitive: he trembled, and dreaded again to encounter those melting eyes, which spoke, as he conceived, at once so flattering and so dangerous a language; for, notwithstanding every circumstance had insinuated the powerful interest she felt for him, yet a heart like his, long acquainted with sorrow, no more in thoughtless confidence yields to the bright impression, lest disappointment should again succeed, and diffuse its blasts of chill despondency!
The attention of Rosilia, as also that of Douglas, were at last diverted from each other by the cries of Rose, who, held in her nurse's arms, was struggling to get from her. Douglas taking the child, pressed her fondly, and then consigned her to the lady, who was no other than Mrs. Melbourne. The impatient child, however, not yet satisfied, endeavoured to climb upon Rosilia, who was seated near. Perceiving they were no strangers to each other, Mrs. Melbourne said, "I am come with Colonel Douglas to see my god-daughter, and intend, with his permission, taking her back with me."
These few words recalled to Rosilia her scattered ideas, and revealed to her at once the truth. That child, for whom she had imbibed so great an affection, was the child of Douglas, who, after more than three years' absence, had returned to his country, a widower, and with the rank of Colonel. He had been very ill, and it had been expected he would have followed his deceased wife to the tomb. Even now his altered appearance indicated how much he had suffered.
Thus, in rapid succession, passed the thoughts of Rosilia, who, endeavouring to assume placidity, once more essayed to express her thanks to Mrs. Melbourne for her kind attentions, and Douglas heard again those sweet accents that had been wont to fall upon his ear as the flowing of gentle breezes.
Meanwhile his affectionate child flung her arms in fond endearment around the neck of Rosilia, who returned her caresses. Beneath that humble roof, Douglas, reclining against the opposite wall, with wrapt contemplation beheld the lovely pair. The soft charms of his child, her flaxen ringlets, her azure eye, formed a pleasing contrast to the rich profusion and ripened lustre of Rosilia's beauty.
She was now more than twenty, but that juvenile innocence, that sweet simplicity of manner, which had so much fascinated him during the dawn of his attachment, still remained. The privations she had since encountered, the sorrows she had overcome, had blended with her meek humility an air of dignity. Her whole deportment, though irresistibly attractive, yet manifested that her virtue, established on the firmest base, could surmount and triumph over every latent weakness of her breast. The reflection did not awe him,—it did not lessen his admiration of her, but it chastened and controlled his passion; while respect, esteem, or some influence still more powerful, seemed to call into action every interior bias of his soul,—every thought, idea, and sentiment combined seemed to attract him closer to her—to unite his heart to hers in the indissoluble links of the purest and most perfect love.
The appearance of Douglas was greatly altered; that animating brilliancy which, as a playful meteor, had before invested him, was no longer visible; his eyes no longer sparkled with the ostentatious beams of pride and vanity. Nevertheless, his countenance was illumined, was strongly marked; a deep reflection,—a composure, like that which springs from calm of conscience, bespoke a mind at last subdued and at rest with itself, after having been long subjected to the influence of irregular feeling, and tossed by tumultuous passions.
The rational part of his nature, or that dignity of thought which prompts to virtue, had entirely established its empire over him,—had taught him to curb and restrain those strong propensities of his nature, which, for want of being directed to their due order, had so frequently led him, during the earlier part of his life, into the commission of error, and the perversion of his fine understanding.
Acute bodily sufferings, but recently endured from a deep and dangerous wound, had given to him an emaciated appearance, serving the more forcibly to mark the bust-like cast of his expressive features, whilst the slight languor visible in his lofty, slender, but perfect form, gave a still higher interest to the exquisite grace, the elegance which characterized his whole deportment. The spring of his days had just passed, and, though but turned of thirty, he appeared as if in the meridian of his summer.
Having resumed his self-command, Douglas inquired of Rosilia very particularly after every individual of her family; to which replying, and feeling by degrees a calm delight pervade her, as if in the presence of one whose soul was purified, and who seemed to regard her with a chaste tenderness, with looks and accents of conciliating softness, Rosilia asked how long he had returned from India.
"But a few months since," was the answer; and which entirely accorded with the idea which had struck her, that it was certainly Douglas whom she had seen on crutches, when passing on quickly to the house of Mrs. Belmour, and whose exclamation, so flattering, had sounded in a voice so familiar to her ear.
She then asked whether it was the pernicious effects of the climate which had induced him to leave the country.
"No; not so," was his hasty reply.
He was about adding, he had been wounded, but his voice faltered,—an association of thought, in connection with his wound and Harcourt, who, like himself, was the warm and fervent lover of Rosilia, and consequently his rival, had suffused with crimson the cheeks of Douglas, and might well denote some deep and distressing feelings possessed his mind.
Regretting to have put the question, Rosilia changed the subject; when Mrs. Melbourne remarked, that, as she resided in the neighbourhood, it would give her great pleasure to extend her acquaintance to the General and Mrs. De Brooke.
Scarcely had she finished speaking, when Doctor Lovesworth entered from his morning's ramble for the purpose of conducting Rosilia to her home. Recognising in him a friend she had formerly known, Mrs. Melbourne hastily left her seat to meet him, whilst surprise and pleasure were expressed by the Doctor. Not having seen each other for some time past, they were mutually delighted at this unexpected meeting. With much affection in his looks, the Doctor inquired after Mrs. Boville, the esteemed relict of his excellent father; adding, that the long sickness and ultimate dissolution of a young clerical friend having greatly absorbed his mind, had prevented him from paying her of late his usual respects.
Wishing to indulge in a conversation more enlarged than was then convenient, Mrs. Melbourne pressed the Doctor to return with her to Grove Place, the country habitation of Mrs. Boville.
"You must consent," said she, "and allow me the pleasure of giving her this agreeable surprise, in the addition of her good son Lovesworth's company, upon our return," In which invitation Douglas, though a stranger to the Doctor, cordially joined.
Mrs. Melbourne next solicited of Rosilia the favour of setting her down in her carriage at the Bower, which would afford her an introduction to Mrs. De Brooke and the General, after which she would return to the cottage, in order to take up the Doctor, Colonel Douglas, and the little Rose. This point being duly adjusted, Douglas offered to conduct Rosilia to the carriage, whose heart, as he raised her hand, beat responsive to his; but scarcely was she seated when the cries of his child called the attention of Douglas. Lavishing upon her a thousand fond caresses, he raised her to the carriage window, struggling and extending her little hands to Rosilia; he next opened the door, and beheld with rapturous agitation the delight the act afforded her; the child looked innocently back and laughed: again taking her in his arms, Rosilia returned his bow, when rolling swiftly along the carriage was presently out of sight.
Mrs. De Brooke and the General were surprised to find a neat but elegant equipage stop at the door, whence Rosilia alighting, entered the room, introducing Mrs. Melbourne. The first civilities having passed, they mutually lent a gratified attention to the topics discussed by their new visitor: having been induced to take some refreshment, Mrs. Melbourne excused herself for not prolonging her stay, on account of those who awaited her return to the cottage; having also some miles to make ere they should reach home to a late repast.
No sooner had Mrs. Melbourne withdrawn than Rosilia largely expatiated to her parents upon the altered appearance of Douglas, and during the recital she endeavoured to command herself: her varied colour, panting bosom, and laboured breathing betrayed the afflicting emotions by which she was agitated, on which account, as soon as she could retire, she fled to her own apartment, there to give free and unrestrained vent to the feelings she could not control.