The Wanderer; or, Female Difficulties (Volume 3 of 5). Burney Fanny

The Wanderer; or, Female Difficulties (Volume 3 of 5)

      CHAPTER XLI

      From the time of this arrangement, the ascendance which Mr Naird obtained over the mind of Elinor, by alternate assurances 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 nobody, 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 compassion: 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 destitute than herself, resolved to see her the next day, and endeavour to offer her some consolation, if not assistance.

      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 chère patrie! – malheureuse, coupable, – mais toujours chère 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.

      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 tranquilité precieuse de l'ame qui m'abandonne – que tout cela soit à toi, mon ange! mon enfant! Je ne te rappellerai plus ici! Je ne te rappellerais plus, même si je le pouvais. Loin de toi ma malheureuse destinée! 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 à jamais de douleur, de crainte, de pauvreté et de regrets; te reclamerai-je, donc, pour partager encore mes malheurs? Non! ne reviens plus à moi! Que je te retrouve là – où ta félicité sera la mienne! Mais toi, prie pour ta malheureuse mère! que tes innocentes prières s'unissent à ses humbles supplications, pour que ta mère, ta pauvre mère, puisse se rendre digne de te rejoindre!'2

      How long these soft addresses, which seemed to soothe the pious petitioner, 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

      'Ah, mon amie! ma bien! ameè amie!' cried Ellis, wiping her eyes, but vainly attempting to repress fresh tears; 't'aì-jè chercheè, t'aì-jè attendue, t'aì-jè si ardemment desireè, pour te retrouver ainsi? pleurant sur un tombeau? Et toi! – ne me rappelle tu pas? M'a tu oubliee? – Gabrielle! ma chère Gabrielle!'4

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

      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

1

'Oh my loved country! – unhappy, guilty – but for ever loved country! – shall I never see thee more!'

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!'

3

'Alas, Madam! are you, also, deploring the loss of a child?'

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!'

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!'