IT was already late in the evening, and Ormsby and Lessington awaited in the most distressing suspence the arrival of the physician they expected; the messenger sent to him having returned, to say he would be with them as soon as possible. Rosalie, though still conscious of, and grateful for the attentions of Lessington, seemed too ill to enter into conversation or explanation of any kind. But at length in attempting to sooth and to reason with her, he prevailed upon her to say, that she should die contented, and even prefer death, if she could but see her child once more, and ask his father's protection for him. This was more than she had yet coherently said; and Lessington, who was now alone by her bed-side, made an effort to carry the conversation farther. "And why, my dear Rosalie," said he, "why do you doubt his protecting his son? Since he has taken from you, however unkind that step may have been, as far as it regards you, Mr. Montalbert had probably no other design than to take care of him, and give him a father's protection."—"Good God!" exclaimed Rosalie, "can you, my dear Sir, believe he could have been guilty of so very cruel an action, as tearing him from me, had he not determined to destroy me, and to erase all recollection of a marriage, which he probably repents, and is ashamed of?—His mother, his cruel mother, and his treacherous friend Alozzi"—she here paused a moment, unable to go on—"have prevailed on him to abandon me. Perhaps too, some newer attachment....for I can never think that they alone could influence him—some newer attachment." She could proceed no farther; the idea was too cruel to be supported; and her voice became inarticulate through the violence of her emotions.
Lessington had never heard her speak so much, and so consistently before, and greatly as he saw she was affected, he yet hoped that tears might rather relieve than injure her; he therefore ventured, after waiting a moment that she might recover herself, to go on.
"Perhaps, my dear Rosalie, neither of these causes may have occasioned the estrangement you deplore.—Perhaps,...forgive me if I seem to impute to you what you may be, and I believe are incapable of—but possible some unintentional indiscretion on your part may have been exaggerated and misrepresented.—Montalbert may have conceived himself injured by your conduct, and has rashly treated you as culpable, without hearing your justification."
Rosalie pausing a moment, as if to recollect her agitated spirits, raised herself on one arm, and with her other had taking the hand of Lessington, she said in a low, yet solemn voice, "My dear brother! as there is truth in Heaven, I was never guilty of the slightest deviation from my duty, even in idea:—Montalbert must know my heart too well to suppose it.—I long doubted of his existence; for you know how we were separated.—Yet never, Oh! no never did my heart wander from in faith and affection to him!"
"I do believe you, my poor Rosalie," said Lessington, "I sincerely believe you, though how, or even how long you were separated, I am totally ignorant."
"I have papers that will explain it to you, my William, but I feel that it must be when I am no more; then Claudine shall deliver you a small box, in which you will find a journal of my unhappy life, while I was able to keep a journal.—Yet a little, and I shall need no other justification to Montalbert.—When he finds that he has destroyed me, it is he, poor man, who will want consolation—who will be an object of pity."
Rosalie spoke slowly, and with difficulty, and in a weak, faint voice; yet her anxious father, who had glided into the room, heard her distinctly; and as she had never appeared to him so collected before, he was tremblingly solicitous for her to learn that he lived, and sought only to protect her:—Like one who sees his sole treasure half escaped from an abyss, yet knows it is not quite in safety, and dreads to see it again snatched from his uncertain grasp. So Ormsby seemed lost in the contrariety of emotions he felt: he softly approached Lessington, and in a whisper besought him to speak to Rosalie of her father. But, however carefully he uttered this, his daughter heard some words, which as every thing now hurried and alarmed her, made her hastily put aside the curtain.
The amazement, not unmingled with some degree of apprehension, which she expressed on seeing a stranger, was a proof of how little remembered of what had passed before: Ormsby, unable to command his emotion, sobbed aloud. As stooping over her, he took her pale and emaciated hands; "Rosalie!" cried he, "dear representative of the most beloved, and most injured of women—Speak to me—Speak to, and acknowledge your unhappy father!" The look with which she regarded him alarmed Lessington, who said, "My dear Rosalie, your mother has left with Vyvian papers, in which it is declared, that before your marriage she discovered to you the mystery of your birth, and why it was that you passed as the child of my parents, while your own were concealed.—Recollect, my sweet friend, all that your dear mother said to you; and then you will at once understand how it is that your father, who very lately arrived from the East Indies, now hastens to claim the only treasure his fate has left him." All the particulars indeed that her mother had related at that moment returned to her mind: her heart acknowledged the dear tie that was now offered to it; she raised her languid frame, and would have thrown herself into the arms of Ormsby, but her strength failed her—she was only able to pronounce, "My father," before she sunk down in the same state of weakness which had often appeared so alarming—but before Ormsby or Lessington could conjure how they should repair the imprudence they had thus been guilty of, the physician they expected arrived.
It was hardly possible that he could come at a more unfavourable time to judge of his patient: he found her indeed in a state, which, as the reason of her violent and extraordinary emotion could not be entirely explained, gave him an opinion of her danger, even beyond the truth; and when he retired with her father and Mr. Lessington, he expressed such fears as to the event of her illness, that Ormsby, half frantic, could hardly be prevented from setting out for London immediately, and bringing down, at any expence, the most eminent physician, who could be prevailed upon to take the journey. Lessington saw that this would answer no purpose, since if Rosalie was in so hazardous a state, as she was believed to be, it would be too late to expect relief from assistance that was to come so far. He thought it better to engage the gentleman now with them to remain all night, and to await the event of the morning; and this with some difficulty he accomplished.
The fever which preyed upon Rosalie, and which had originated solely in anguish of mind, increased during this miserable night; but it seemed no longer to affect her intellects: amid variety of pain, her senses were so clear, that she repeated to Claudine what she had said relative to the box which was to be given to her friends. She told her too, that it was her father who was below, and that she had never seen him before, but forbore any other explanation. Ormsby and Lessington, who could neither of them sleep, and who did not indeed attempt going to bed, had visited her room several times during the night, and flattered themselves from these symptoms that she was amending: but when Dr. G. saw her at an early hour of the morning, he thought the fever higher, and the whole house was in consternation and despair.
It was towards noon—the physician was gone, having promised to return in the evening. Ormsby and Lessington, as the suffering patient was apparently sleeping, had walked out to relive their fatigued and anxious spirits by the air, and having remained on about half an hour, they were met, just as they entered the house, by Claudine: who, with expressions of great joy in her countenance, told them, in her broken English, "That Mr. Walsingham was come; Le bon Walsingham, l'excellent Ami de sa chere Maitresse;" for all that, and more his generosity to her, had made him appear to Claudine. Claudine therefore was very much surprised and mortified to find, that the intelligence she was eager to communicate was so far from giving pleasure to either of the gentlemen, that they advanced towards the parlour, where she had told them Mr. Walsingham was, with evident marks of anger in their countenance and manner.
The letter they had seen addressed to Rosalie, impressed them with the most unfavourable idea of the person they were going to meet: Ormsby, shocked at his arrival, which seemed a confirmation of fears in regard to the conduct of his daughter, which had been a while suspended by fears for her health, was tempted to affront him even on the first moment of meeting him; and it was with difficulty he was diverted from this petulance by Lessington, who said, as they were entering the house, "I own I cannot see, my good Sir, what we shall gain by preventing an explanation from this young man, which he will certainly not give us, if we directly insult him: whereas, if there is any mistake in all this (as I cannot but believe there is), a little coolness may serve, if not to make us easy, at least to produce such an explanation as will direct our resentment. Above all things, it seems to me necessary to avoid every thing like violence in this small house, if you would not endanger yet more the life of your daughter."
Ormsby felt the reasonableness of this remonstrance, and checked his own feelings as much as possible, though his countenance and air expressed them but too forcibly. If these gentlemen were astonished at his appearance, after such a letter as he had written, they were still more so, to find him a young man of a very different appearance to what they had figured to themselves the writer of so impertinent a letter must be.
Walsingham, unconscious of any offence, and rather supporting he should be received as the friend and protector of Rosalie, (for Claudine had explained who these gentlemen were) was immediately repulsed by the angry countenance of the elder gentleman, and the cold and distant bow of the other. He advanced, however, and in that graceful manner which his habitual dejection rather made more interesting, he expressed the extreme concern he felt at hearing of the indisposition of Mrs. Montalbert. Yet how much satisfaction it gave him, (and he bowed to Ormsby as he spoke), to learn that she was happy in the tender attentions of a father. "If you know me, Sir," said Ormsby, "you ought to know and to feel, that your presence here is an insult which must deserve the deepest resentment of injured honour. Are you come, Sir, to overwhelm with shame my unfortunate daughter in her last hours? Are you come to triumph over a miserable family, whom you have ruined in their fame, and in their happiness?" All the passions of an injured father, combined in the bosom of Ormsby, who trembling, and for a moment deprived of breath, gave Walsingham (as he stood petrified by such an address), time to say—
"Am I come, Sir, with this design? am I come with any design injurious to the peace and honour of Mrs. Montalbert? Certainly not. You must greatly have mistaken me, if you suppose it." Ormsby, by a motion of his head and hand, expressed what he could not at the moment find words to utter: while Lessington, taking advantage of this involuntary silence, said, "After such a letter, Sir, as that with which you have affronted Mrs. Montalbert, and, though her, all her family, all her friends, you must suppose....."
"A letter, Sir," interrupted Walsingham, "a letter from me? and insulting Mrs. Montalbert? That is a charge which I own I am not prepared to answer. I have most certainly never written to Mrs. Montalbert since I had the honour of seeing her last."
Ormsby, naturally violent, yet subdued by time and trouble, was so overcome, that he had thrown himself half suffocated into a chair. Lessington, more master of himself, continued to speak for him.
"The letter, Sir, however, that we received, can admit of no excuse: you have seen or heard of Mr. Montalbert?"
"Pardon me, Sir, I have done neither—I did not even know he was in England."
The countenance of Walsingham underwent a visible change as he said this; Lessington failed not to remark it, but imputed it to emotions very different from those that Walsingham felt while he continued to speak.
"No, Sir, I did not even know Mr. Montalbert was come to England; but as it appears that he is, may I request the favour of a direction to him? You will also oblige me by showing me the letter, which I am supposed to have written to his wife, if she is, as I fear, too ill to admit of my applying to her for it personally."
The emotion of Walsingham increased; he turned very pale, and his lips trembled.
"I have not got the letter," said Ormsby, "nor has my daughter ever seen it; Mr. Vyvian has taken it with him to Brighthelmstone, where your servant told us you were to be found, in order to demand an explanation."
"My servant!" exclaimed Walsingham, more and more surprised; "there is certainly some strange mistake in all this. Pray, Sir, with what name was it signed?" Lessington then answering it was "S. Walsingham." Walsingham began immediately to suspect the truth; but when Lessington explained to him the contents of this letter, and that they evidently alluded to a demand of satisfaction, which the writer of it had received from Montalbert; and when he also said that Vyvian had left them the preceding evening in the full determination to have a meeting with Mr. Walsingham, all the mischief which might happen between Montalbert, Vyvian, and his gay, fashionable cousin (from whom he now easily understood the letter came), occurred in an instant to his mind. He saw that the death of one of them, perhaps of more, was likely to follow from the mere mistake of a name. He saw the extreme concern which Rosalie might feel, if any evil should happen even to a stranger, whose offence towards her was at least palliated by ignorance; but should Montalbert or Vyvian be wounded, or fall, the consequences to her must be still more dreadful.
All this no sooner struck Walsingham, than he explained as clearly as he could the nature of his apprehensions to Lessington, who saw at once they were too well grounded, for Walsingham described his relation as rash, haughty, and violent; one who could be much more likely to retort any affront with interest, than to enquire the ground on which it was given. Ormsby and Lessington were also well assured that Vyvian was irritable, proud, and impatient; and though neither of them were personally acquainted with Montalbert, they had no reason to believe, from all they had heard of him, that he was by any means of a calmer disposition. A collusion then between these three, or even any two of these fiery spirits, could hardly fail of producing some fatal event.
The generous mind and excellent heart of Walsingham were never more conspicuous than at this moment. Without seeming to advert to the challenge, which it was certain Montalbert had sent to his cousin, while intending it for him—without any menace, or even hint of his resentment, he expressed nothing but a wish to go immediately in pursuit of the parties, and endeavour to prevent a meeting, from which so much was to be dreaded. It was not till after a severe struggle, however, that he could determine to quit the house, not only without seeing Rosalie, but without enquiring after her health, or the circumstances which had deprived her of it so suddenly. Claudine had told him enough to convince him that Montalbert had been actuated by jealousy, and he supposed the object of that jealousy was himself.—A thousand painful thoughts crowded upon his heart—the husband of Rosalie was returned:—No doubt, therefore, remained of his existence; and it became more than ever prudent for the ill-starred Walsingham to stifle the growing affection which must now be utterly hopeless.—But so much did that affection partake of his noble spirit, that the happiness and the peace of Rosalie were infinitely dearer to him than his own, and he flew to save the husband, whose life was between him and those hopes which, in despite of reason, he had at times indulged.
If his talk was in this respect painful, it was hardly less so in what related to Mr. Ormsby; though the matter of the letter was cleared up, he saw, that the father of Rosalie regarded him as one who had been the cause of Montalbert's estrangement from her; that long and disagreeable explanations must take place, and that he could hardly hope to be received even as the friend of her to whom he felt such painful partiality.—Ormsby, while he anxiously hastened his departure, treated him with coolness, almost with incivility; but Lessington, with milder manners, was more ready to believe that no blame could attach to the conduct of Rosalie in regard to him. Walsingham saw enough to give him great fears on her account; and with a heart penetrated by sorrow, he set out post to overtake Vyvian, and, if possible, meet Montalbert, who, from the substance of his relation's letter which Lessington repeated to Walsingham, was, he concluded, either at Brighthelmstone, or in its neighbourhood, waiting the rendezvous which he had demanded.
The wild indiscretion of Claudine had communicated to her mistress the arrival of Walsingham; and though her regard for him was as pure and innocent as that which she felt for either of those whom she had learned to consider as her brothers, yet she suffered extremely when she found he was gone, and had not seen her: not only because she was sure it would give him pain, but because it convinced her that the generous protection he had offered her had been the cause of his becoming suspected by those who ought to have felt the greatest obligation towards him; and because she dreaded lest he should be involved in farther difficulties on her account.—She did not indeed know how near he already was to the dangers she apprehended for him.
Ill as Rosalie was, however, she was not so enervated in mind as in body; and after hearing from Claudine an account of Walsingham's departure, and all she had collected or fancied of the conversation while he stayed, she summoned resolution enough to determine upon putting into Lessington's hands the account she had kept of every event, from her arrival at Naples to the moment when she so unexpectedly met with a friend and protector in Walsingham, and was delivered almost by a miracle from her hopeless confinement. During her voyages she had also made memorandums of every occurrence, and since her residence at Eastbourne she had returned to her journal, and related the events of her life, monotonous as they were, in the flattering hope that Montalbert might one day go over them, and that they might bear testimony to her unceasing attachment to him, and to her duty.
In the effusions of an ingenuous and unadulterated mind there is always a simplicity of character, which at once evinces the truth of whatever relates. Though Rosalie though not of that, she yet felt, that if once Montalbert could be prevailed upon to read her narrative, all that had befallen her would be explained.—Shocked as she was at his cruel conduct towards her, and despairing ever to see him more, she had directed that these papers might not be delivered till after her death, which she believed to be nearly approaching; but as from what Mr. Lessington had said to her, from the sudden appearance of Walsingham, his departure without seeing her, and from all that Claudine had told her, of the manner and countenance of Mr. Ormsby, Rosalie had but too much reason to think the generous friendship of Walsingham towards her might endanger his life, she rallied her feeble and fainting spirits to consider how it was possible to avert the dreaded evil. She saw this could only by done by her putting into the hands of Lessington these proofs of Walsingham's disinterested friendship, and leaving him to act as she knew his own prudence and sense would dictate.