The Wanderer.

Volume 3.

by f.a.n.n.y Burney.

CHAPTER XLI

From the time of this arrangement, the ascendance which Mr Naird obtained over the mind of Elinor, by alternate a.s.surances and alarms, relative to her chances of living to see Harleigh again, produced a quiet that gave time to the drafts, which were administered by the physician, to take effect, and she fell into a profound sleep. This, Mr Naird said, might last till late the next day; Ellis, therefore, promising to be ready upon any summons, returned to her lodging.

Miss Matson, now, endeavoured to make some enquiries relative to the public suicide projected, if not accomplished, by Miss Joddrel, which was the universal subject of conversation at Brighthelmstone; but when she found it vain to hope for any details, she said, 'Such accidents, Ma'am, make one really afraid of one's life with persons one knows nothing of. Pray, Ma'am, if it is not impertinent, do you still hold to your intention of giving up your pretty apartment?'

Ellis answered in the affirmative, desiring, with some surprise, to know, whether the question were in consequence of any apprehension of a similar event.

'By no means, Ma'am, from you,' she replied; 'you, Miss Ellis, who have been so strongly recommended; and protected by so many of our capital gentry; but what I mean is this. If you really intend to take a small lodging, why should not you have my little room again up stairs?'

'Is it not engaged to the lady I saw here this morning?'

'Why that, Ma'am, is precisely the person I have upon my mind to speak about. Why should I let her stay, when she's known to n.o.body, and is very bad pay, if I can have so genteel a young lady as you, Ma'am, that ladies in their own coaches come visiting?'

Ellis, recoiling from this preference, uttered words the most benevolent that she could suggest, of the unknown person who had excited her compa.s.sion: but Miss Matson gave them no attention. 'When one has nothing better to do with one's rooms, Ma'am,' she said, 'it's sometimes as well, perhaps, to let them to almost one does not know who, as to keep them uninhabited; because living in them airs them; but that's no reason for letting them to one's own disadvantage, if can do better. Now this person here, Ma'am, besides being poor, which, poor thing, may be she can't help; and being a foreigner, which, you know, Ma'am, is no great recommendation;--besides all this, Miss Ellis, she has some very suspicious ways with her, which I can't make out at all; she goes abroad in a morning, Ma'am, by five of the clock, without giving the least account of her haunts. And that, Ma'am, has but an odd look with it!'

'Why so, Miss Matson? If she takes time from her own sleep to enjoy a little air and exercise, where can be the blame?'

'Air and exercise, Ma'am? People that have their living to get, and that a'n't worth a farthing, have other things to think of than air and exercise! She does not, I hope, give herself quite such airs as those!'

Ellis, disgusted, bid her good night; and, filled with pity for a person who seemed still more helpless and dest.i.tute than herself, resolved to see her the next day, and endeavour to offer her some consolation, if not a.s.sistance.

Before, however, this pleasing project could be put into execution, she was again, nearly at day break, awakened by a summons from Selina to attend her sister, who, after quietly reposing many hours, had started, and demanded Harleigh and Ellis.

Ellis obeyed the call with the utmost expedition, but met the messenger returning to her a second time, as she was mounting the street which led to the lodging of Mrs Maple, with intelligence that Elinor had almost immediately fallen into a new and sound sleep; and that Mr Naird had ordered that no one should enter the room, till she again awoke.

Glad of this reprieve, Ellis was turning back, when she perceived, at some distance, Miss Matson's new lodger. The opportunity was inviting for her purposed offer of aid, and she determined to make some opening to an acquaintance.

This was not easy; for though the light feet of Ellis might soon have overtaken the quick, but staggering steps of the apparently distressed person whom she pursued, she observed her to be in a state of perturbation that intimidated approach, as much as it awakened concern.

Her handkerchief was held to her face; though whether to conceal it, or because she was weeping, could not readily be discovered: but her form and air penetrated Ellis with a feeling and an interest far beyond common curiosity; and she anxiously studied how she might better behold, and how address her.

The foreigner went on her way, looking neither to the right nor to the left, till she had ascended to the church-yard upon the hill. There stopping, she extended her arms, seeming to hail the full view of the wide spreading ocean; or rather, Ellis imagined, the idea of her native land, which she knew, from that spot, to be its boundary. The beauty of the early morning from that height, the expansive view, impressive, though calm, of the sea, and the awful solitude of the place, would have sufficed to occupy the mind of Ellis, had it not been completely caught by the person whom she followed; and who now, in the persuasion of being wholly alone, gently murmured, 'Oh ma chere patrie!--malheureuse, coupable,--mais toujours chere patrie!--ne te reverrai-je jamais!'[1]

Her voice thrilled to the very soul of Ellis, who, trembling, suspended, and almost breathless, stood watching her motions; fearing to startle her by an unexpected approach, and waiting to catch her eye.

[Footnote 1: 'Oh my loved country!--unhappy, guilty--but for ever loved country!--shall I never see thee more!']

But the mourner was evidently without suspicion that any one was in sight. Grief is an absorber: it neither seeks nor makes observation; except where it is joined with vanity, that always desires remark; or with guilt, by which remark is always feared.

Ellis, neither advancing nor receding, saw her next move solemnly forward, to bend over a small elevation of earth, encircled by short sticks, intersected with rushes. Some of these, which were displaced, she carefully arranged, while uttering, in a gentle murmur, which the profound stillness of all around alone enabled Ellis to catch, 'Repose toi bien, mon ange! mon enfant! le repos qui me fuit, le bonheur que j'ai perdu, la tranquilite precieuse de l'ame qui m'abandonne--que tout cela soit a toi, mon ange! mon enfant! Je ne te rappellerai plus ici! Je ne te rappellerais plus, meme si je le pouvais. Loin de toi ma malheureuse destinee! je priai Dieu pour ta conservation quand je te possedois encore; quelques cruelles que fussent tes souffrances, et toute impuissante que J'etois pour les soulager, je priai Dieu, dans l'angoisse de mon ame, pour ta conservation! Tu n'est plus pour moi--et je cesse de te reclamer. Je te vois une ange! Je te vois exempt a jamais de douleur, de crainte, de pauvrete et de regrets; te reclamerai-je, donc, pour partager encore mes malheurs? Non! ne reviens plus a moi! Que je te retrouve la--ou ta felicite sera la mienne! Mais toi, prie pour ta malheureuse mere! que tes innocentes prieres s'unissent a ses humbles supplications, pour que ta mere, ta pauvre mere, puisse se rendre digne de te rejoindre!'[2]

[Footnote 2: 'Sleep on, sleep on, my angel child! May the repose that flies me, the happiness that I have lost, the precious tranquillity of soul that has forsaken me--be thine! for ever thine! my child! my angel!

I cease to call thee back. Even were it in my power, I would not call thee back. I prayed for thy preservation, while yet I had the bliss of possessing thee; cruel as were thy sufferings, and impotent as I found myself to relieve them, I prayed,--in the anguish of my soul,--I prayed for thy preservation! Thou art lost to me now!--yet I call thee back no more! I behold thee an angel! I see thee rescued for ever from sorrow, from alarm, from poverty, and from bitter recollections;--and shall I call thee back, to partake again my sufferings?--No! return to me no more! There, only, let me find thee, where thy felicity will be mine!--but thou! O pray for thy unhappy mother! Let thy innocent prayers be united to her humble supplications, that thy mother, thy hapless mother, may become worthy to join thee!']

How long these soft addresses, which seemed to soothe the pious pet.i.tioner, might have lasted, had she not been disturbed, is uncertain: but she was startled by sounds of more tumultuous sorrow; by sobs, rather than sighs, that seemed bursting forth from more violent, at least, more sudden affliction. She looked round, astonished; and saw Ellis leaning over a monument, and bathed in tears.

She arose, and, advancing towards her, said, in an accent of pity, 'Helas, Madame, vous, aussi, pleurez vous votre enfant?'[3]

[Footnote 3: 'Alas, Madam! are you, also, deploring the loss of a child?']

'Ah, mon amie! ma bien! amee amie!' cried Ellis, wiping her eyes, but vainly attempting to repress fresh tears; 't'a-je cherchee, t'a-je attendue, t'a-je si ardemment desiree, pour te retrouver ainsi?

pleurant sur un tombeau? Et toi!--ne me rappelle tu pas? M'a tu oubliee?--Gabrielle! ma chere Gabrielle!'[4]

[Footnote 4: 'Ah, my friend! my much loved friend! have I sought thee, have I awaited thee, have I so fervently desired thy restoration--to find thee thus? Weeping over a grave? And thou--dost thou not recollect me? Hast thou forgotten me?--Gabriella! my loved Gabriella!']

'Juste ciel!' exclaimed the other, 'que vois-je? Ma Julie! ma chere, ma tendre amie? Est il bien vrai?--O! peut il etre vrai, qu'il y ait encore du bonheur ici bas pour moi?'[5]

[Footnote 5: 'Gracious heaven! what do I behold? My Juliet! my tender friend? Can it be real?--O! can it, indeed, be true, that still any happiness is left on earth for me!']

Locked in each other's arms, pressed to each other's bosoms, they now remained many minutes in speechless agony of emotion, from nearly overpowering surprise, from gusts of ungovernable, irrepressible sorrow, and heart-piercing recollections; though blended with the tenderest sympathy of joy.

This touching silent eloquence, these unutterable conflicts between transport and pain, were succeeded by a reciprocation of enquiry, so earnest, so eager, so ardent, that neither of them seemed to have any sensation left of self, from excess of solicitude for the other, till Ellis, looking towards the little grave, said, 'Ah! que ce ne soit plus question de moi?'[6]

[Footnote 6: 'Ah!--upon me can you, yet, bestow a thought?']

'Ah, oui, mon amie,' answered Gabriella, 'ton histoire, tes malheurs, ne peuvent jamais etre aussi terribles, aussi dechirants que les miens! tu n'as pas encore eprouve le bonheur d'etre mere--comment aurois-tu, donc, eprouve, le plus accablant des malheurs? Oh! ce sont des souffrances qui n'ont point de nom; des douleurs qui rendent nulles toutes autres, que la perte d'un Etre pur comme un ange, et tout a soi!'[7]

[Footnote 7: 'True, my dear friend, true! thy history, thy misfortunes, can never be terrible, never be lacerating like mine! Thou hast not yet known the bliss of being a mother;--how, then, canst thou have experienced the most overwhelming of calamities! a suffering that admits of no description! a woe that makes all others seem null--the loss of a being pure, spotless as a cherub--and wholly our own!']

The fond embraces, and fast flowing tears of Ellis, evinced the keen sensibility with which she partic.i.p.ated in the sorrows of this afflicted mother, whom she strove to draw away from the fatal spot; reiterating the most urgent enquiries upon every other subject, to attract her, if possible, to yet remaining, to living interests. But these efforts were utterly useless. 'Restons, restons ou nous sommes!' she cried: 'c'est ici que je te parlerai; c'est ici que je t'ecouterai; ici, ou je pa.s.se les seuls momens que j'arrache a la misere, et au travail. Ne crois pas que de pleurer est ce qu'il y a le plus a craindre! Oh! qu'il ne t'arrive jamais de savoir que de pleurer, meme sur le tombeau de tout ce qui vous est le plus cher, est un soulagement, un delice, aupres du dur besoin de travailler, la mort dans le coeur, pour vivre, pour exister, lorsque la vie a perdu toutes ses charmes!'[8]

[Footnote 8: 'Here, here let us stay! 'tis here I can best speak to thee! 'tis here, I can best listen;--here, where I pa.s.s every moment that I can s.n.a.t.c.h from penury and labour! Think not that to weep is what is most to be dreaded; oh never mayst thou learn, that to weep--though upon the tomb of all that has been most dear to thee upon earth, is a solace, is a feeling of softness, nay of pleasure, compared with the hard necessity of toiling, when death has seized upon the very heart, merely to breathe, to exist, after life has lost all its charms!']

Seated then upon the monument which was nearest to the little grave, Gabriella related the princ.i.p.al events of her life, since the period of their separation. These, though frequently extraordinary, sometimes perilous, and always touchingly disastrous, she recounted with a rapidity almost inconceivable; distinctly, nevertheless, marking the several incidents, and the courage with which she had supported them: but when, these finished, she entered upon the history of the illness that had preceded the death of her little son, her voice tremblingly slackened its velocity, and unconsciously lowered its tones; and, far from continuing with the same quickness or precision, every circ.u.mstance was dwelt upon as momentous; every recollection brought forth long and endearing details; every misfortune seemed light, put in the scale with his loss; every regret seemed concentrated in his tomb!

Six o'clock, and seven, had tolled unheeded, during this afflicting, yet soothing recital; but the eighth hour striking, when the tumult of sorrow was subsiding into the sadness of grief, the sound caught the ear of Gabriella, who, hastily rising, exclaimed, 'Ah, voila que je suis encore susceptible de plaisir, puisque ta societe m'a fait oublier les tristes et penibles devoirs, qui m'appellent a des taches qui--a peine--m'empechent de mourir de faim!'[9]

[Footnote 9: 'See, if I am not still susceptible of pleasure! Thy society has made me forget the sad and painful duties that call me hence, to tasks that s.n.a.t.c.h me,--with difficulty,--from perishing by famine!']

At these words, all the fort.i.tude hitherto sustained by Juliet,--for the borrowed name of Ellis will now be dropt,--utterly forsook her. Torrents of tears gushed from her eyes, and lamentations, the bitterest, broke from her lips. She could bear, she cried, all but this; all but beholding the friend of her heart, the daughter of her benefactress, torn from the heights of happiness and splendour; of merited happiness, of hereditary splendour; to be plunged into such depths of distress, and overpowered with anguish.

'Ah! que je te reconnois bien a ce trait!' cried Gabriella, while a tender smile tried to force its way through her tears: 'cette ame si n.o.ble! si inebralable pour elle-meme, si douce, si compatissante pour tout autre! que de souvenirs chers et touchans ne se presentent, a cet instant, a mon coeur! Ma chere Julie! il est bien vrai, donc, que je te vois, que je te retrouve encore! et, en toi, tout ce qu'il y a de plus aimable, de plus pur, et de plus digne! Comment ai-je pu te revoir, sans retrouver la felicite? Je me sens presque coupable de pouvoir t'embra.s.ser,--et de pleurer encore!'[10]

[Footnote 10: 'Ah, how I know thee by that trait! thy soul so n.o.ble! so firm in itself; so soft, so commiserating for every other! what tender, what touching recollections present themselves at this instant to my heart! Dearest Juliet! is it, then, indeed no dream, that I have found--that I behold thee again? and, in thee, all that is most exemplary, most amiable, and most worthy upon earth! How is it I can recover thee, and not recover happiness? I almost feel as if I were criminal, that I can embrace thee,--yet weep on!']

Forcing herself, then, from the fatal but cherished spot, she must hasten, she said, to her daily labour, lest night should surprise her, without a roof to shelter her head. But Juliet now detained her; clung and wept round her neck, and could not even endeavour to resign herself to the keen woes, and deplorable situation of her friend. She had come over, she said, buoyed up with the exquisite hope of joining the darling companion of her earliest youth; of sharing her fate, and of mitigating her hardships: but this softening expectation was changed into despondence, in discovering her, thus, a prey to unmixt calamity; not alone bowed down by the general evils of revolutionary events; punished for plans in which she had borne no part, and for crimes of which she had not even any knowledge;--not only driven, without offence, or even accusation, from prosperity and honours, to exile, to want, to misery, and to labour; but suffering, at the same time, the heaviest of personal afflictions, in the immediate loss of a darling child; the victim, in all probability, to a melancholy change of life, and to sudden privation of customary care and indulgence!

The task of consolation seemed now to devolve upon Gabriella: the feelings of Juliet, long checked by prudence, by fort.i.tude, by imperious necessity; and kept in dignified but hard command; having once found a vent, bounded back to nature and to truth, with a vivacity of keen emotion that made them nearly uncontrollable. Nature and truth,--which invariably retain an elastic power, that no struggles can wholly subdue; and that always, however curbed, however oppressed,--lie in wait for opportunity to spring back to their rights. Her tears, permitted, therefore, at length, to flow, nearly deluged the sad bosom of her friend.

'Helas, ma Julie! soeur de mon ame!' cried Gabriella, 'ne t'abandonne pas a la douleur pour moi! mais parles moi, ma tendre amie, paries moi de ma mere! Ou l'a tu quitte? Et comment? Et a quelle epoque?--La plus digne, la plus cherie des meres! Helas! eloignee de nous deux, comment saura-t-elle se resigner a tant de malheurs?'[11]

[Footnote 11: 'Alas, my Juliet! sister of my soul! abandon not myself to sorrow for me! but speak to me, my tender friend, speak to me of my mother! where didst thou leave her? And how? And at what time? The most precious of mothers! Alas! separated from us both,--how will she be able to support such acc.u.mulation of misfortunes!']