# Duty and Inclination/Chapter 57

CHAPTER XIV.
"Oft bursts my soul beyond the bounds of life." Young.
Philimore had often heard from General De Brooke of the merits of Frederick Valpée; he had also heard of his frequent visits to the Park, as sanctioned by Mrs. Arden, and even approved of by Oriana. Flattered by the prospect of so eligible a connection in his family, the General had conceived that by openly speaking of it to Philimore, it might give decided discouragement to his hopes respecting his daughter Oriana, if he had formed any, which, from various circumstances, the General strongly suspected to be the case.
In order, however, to assure himself of no prior influence existing over the affections of Oriana, he thought proper to have a private conference with Philimore upon the subject; in which, without ceremony or preface, he asked him in direct terms whether he had not entertained views of an union with his eldest daughter, wishing to be informed of the circumstance with the candour and integrity becoming the character of a gentleman. Taken off his guard by a question so abrupt, yet, at the same ​time, not in the least equivocating, viewing deeply the consequences and unpleasant effects that might arise were he to reply by an affirmative, he hesitated not to give a positive denial, asserting that such an idea had never entered his thoughts. "Without church preferment, General," added he, "how could I think of marriage."
"Not, possibly, under your present circumstances," rejoined the General; "but I had reason for supposing, whilst in anticipation of better fortune, some understanding had taken place between you and my daughter."
"None, I can assure you, General."
"It is enough," added he, when rising to depart, he extended his hand in token of amity, fully satisfied as to the result of his visit.
Philimore is too honourable to have deceived me, thought the General; the sacredness of his profession also would not have allowed him to do so.
Few there are who would not, like the General, have thought the same;—so blind is human sight, that what often appears to man clear and convincing, nevertheless remains hidden, save to Him whose eye alone can penetrate the secret windings of the heart.
Philimore, in the most unequivocal manner, had belied himself; those lips that had ever breathed forth exhortations concerning the beauty of Truth, could yet derogate from its practice. "And why," he asked himself, in reviewing his words, "why should I have said otherwise? Though contemning falsehood, ​may there not be certain cases involving effects of an import to render it excusable, if not justifiable? To what purpose would have been the avowal of my past attachment, existing so long in secret, since, as is most probable, its promised end, that of marriage, will never be realized? Why, therefore, have aggravated or afflicted the General's mind by a confession of the truth? Would it have changed the present, or prevented the results arising in the future? would it have lightened my misery? Besides, could I have been justified in setting at variance our respective families, so long united in the bonds of peace and friendship? The General has left me satisfied, contented, happy! I alone am the sufferer, I alone have erred—and now pay the forfeit of my error."
Though by this reasoning Philimore acquitted himself of any wilful intention of wrong, it was not so easy for him to dismiss those painful intrusions which often stole upon him and embittered his peace. "Can it be possible," thought he, "that she who has allowed herself to be carried so far by me, can admit of the attentions of another?" As this afflicting idea gathered strength by recurrence, he began to think Oriana was not so innately virtuous as he had once thought her; that easiness of access which, in the beginning of his flame, he had supposed to originate in candour, he then imagined owed its birth to laxity or lightness of principle. Why encourage the attentions of Valpée? Was it not evident she did so—had not her father given him confirmation of it? What ​signified her professions of eternal affection to himself!—he had held but that share in her heart another might equally have done, provided he had tendered her an offer of his hand!
Depressed in mind and enfeebled in constitution, the repose he had formerly derived from a calm conscience by degrees forsook him. In looking forward to the future, each fair prospect fading from his view presented but a sterile and desolated waste. When he reflected how little he might reasonably indulge in the persuasion of ever accomplishing an union with Oriana, every flattering image vanished; hope seemed to wander; all seemed as but a passing dream, which had arisen to mock him! The delusion attending on terrestrial joys bewildered his thoughts. Thus a species of inanity was engendered, which produced in him a perfect indifference to every object around him.
To such sad and mournful contemplations was often united the bitter sting of compunction, of humiliation, the loss of self-esteem, and which gave to his letters to Oriana that melancholy and moroseness of style of which she had so much complained. His flame was decaying nearly to extinction, and his correspondence thence became less frequent, until at last it ceased altogether; inwardly persuaded,—but how unjustly!—that the affection of Oriana was wholly withdrawn from him, and was transferred to Valpée—the more fortunate, prosperous, and happy Valpée.
Influenced by such ideas, the name of Oriana, ​once so dear to him, was then never breathed from his lips, never sounded on his ear, but it brought with it the most excruciating throb to his heart. His wishes were to forget, if possible, that she had ever lived for him. Viewing the subject in this light, he considered himself as a beacon to the unwary to avoid running into the indulgence of passion!
Time thus crept on; when, as if awaking from some harassing dream, how sudden was the surprise of Philimore!—Valpée no longer frequented the Park; he was gone; he was no longer basking, the favoured lover, in the smiles of Oriana! Had she refused him? had she declined his offered hand? was it for him, for his sake, she had thus acted?
Such were the ejaculations of Philimore, whilst the conviction stole upon him how much he had wronged her. But though the memory of former joys in part revived, and with it the charm her letters, full of lively repartee and tender sentiment, had conveyed, yet in those moments of apprehension and remorse which frequently stole over his mind, he accused himself of having seduced away her affections, of having stolen her from her family, and of having marred the lustre of her worldly interests, if not her happiness. But for him, alas! she might have been the honoured, the cherished, and the admired bride of Valpée, whose merits and worth he had heard so highly extolled!
Frequent attacks of the pleura rendered his life ​doubtful, and he wisely considered, that did mortality overtake him sooner than he might be aware of, to what would Oriana be exposed—admitting her fidelity to him existed in that fulness her language had painted! In the idea that it might be so, how acute was the anguish thus conveyed! how greatly did he lament that he had not in the earlier stage of his attachment exercised over his affections and inclinations a due command, ere he had involved the destiny of the hapless Oriana with his own! Had he during that fatal season of health and strength, hope and joy, made a timely sacrifice of his feelings, and not have allowed their bright infatuation to dazzle his judgment, what a weight of misery would have been averted, not more from Oriana than himself!
In such afflicting reproaches day succeeded to day, and scarcely was a smile seen to illumine the countenance of the wan and faded Philimore. How truly did the words of the poet apply to his peculiar case, "Day followed day, and night the night: our life is but a chain of many deaths!" A lethargic indolence took possession of him; his studies were neglected; and he who had been remarked for the order and neatness of his apparel, the circumspection of his habits, and agreeable cheerfulness of manners, stood a monument of woe! no trace of his former self visible; constantly pursuing the same unmeaning, dull, monotonous round; half the day in a negligent dishabille; sad and silent; filling always the same seat, in the same corner, occupied apparently with a ​book, whilst in truth his mind was far absent from its contents, ruminating over his sorrows,—those of Oriana,—the unhappy lot to which he had reduced her, so forcibly described in those letters, the tender anxiety for his health, and apprehensions of his lost affections, had drawn from her pen.
In his self-condemnation, Oriana had borne her share, for the yielding disposition she had shown him; but though, no longer accusing her of favouring Valpée, she was comparatively restored to his favourable estimation, yet how could he renew his correspondence, and answer her letters in the manner she wished?—having already discouraged her affections, how could he persuade himself to revive hopes which would assuredly prove fallacious? It was a consideration of moment, and the reflection he gave to it decidedly marked out the plan he should in future adopt, but which, if carried into effect, must indeed harrow up his soul; and hence he invoked the Deity for strength and resolution to enable him with consistency to pursue it.
Feeling as he did a deep sense of compassion for the situation of Oriana, brought upon her by himself, dire necessity urged him to the dreadful sacrifice of extinguishing in her breast the love she bore him; he must endeavour to persevere in that cruel coldness he had already shown; by an affected indifference he must give rise in her to a supposition of his inconstancy, and unworthiness of being linked with her in the bonds of conjugal union! Dictated by such dark, ​cheerless, and solitary meditations were those epistolary replies to Oriana which had sa much tortured and aggrieved her.
"When, in imagining herself no longer beloved," thought he, "she will have exhausted the first tumult of grief, pride and indignation will proportionately arise and diminish the strength of her attachment; for few are the women who, like her, can in reality, when put to the trial, bend to the vicissitudes of life. She will doubtless experience some agonizing throbs, but she will regain her wonted spring; content, gaiety, and happiness will again be hers. Were I, as formerly, to express myself in the glowing language of love, and were I to paint my real state,—a prey to sorrow, a frame fast verging to the grave,—here, in this chamber, should I constantly behold her, friends, family, the opinions of the world, all, all contemned for my sake; no power could restrain her. I that know her heart, can judge of her actions, can behold her as she is, the creature of impulse! I should have the misery of seeing her falling hourly a victim to the passion which my selfishness sought to inspire her with. Oh! what a trial to darken still more heavily the latter moments of my life! If any solace can arise to me henceforward, it will be in the consciousness of having done my duty—done what I could, and all that remained for me to do, while an inhabitant of this earth, that of sparing Oriana the prolongation of a deeper grief, and that of restoring her to herself and to her family! Ere that moment ​when these conflicts, combats, and denials to which my frame is unequal, when death will have closed the scene of my mortal existence,—ere that moment Oriana will have ceased to attach interest to my name, she will have ceased to love, to think, or speak of Philimore!"
Thus under the strict fulfilment of a duty so severe, but which he conceived incumbent upon him to retrieve the past, Philimore insensibly became detached from his miseries, the ties of earth slackened, and his thoughts often soared to rest upon the substantial realities of another life. Such exalted moments, however, could not at that time endure without occasional relapses into sorrow; but as they principally arose from a contemplation of past error, in connection with Oriana, while all of material enjoyment vanished from his view, those of a higher, more interior, and unearthly character succeeded, and gained the ascendancy in his mind.
His correspondence with Oriana had totally ceased, yet after some period had thus elapsed, he felt the most ardent desire to renew it,—to pour into her bosom those new, sacred, and powerful feelings which influenced him; to make her a participator in those sublime thoughts so frequently engrossing him; to communicate with her in a style of sentiment, idea, and reflection wholly different from the past; to hear her in return express the language of patient submission and resignation to the Deity.
An intercourse so free from passion, so pure and ​celestial, would have bestowed upon him one of the greatest indulgences his soul was then capable of receiving, suspended as it was between the separate atmospheres, visible and invisible, by an equilibrium so slight. To see her, to enjoy her presence the short time it was permitted him to live, was again one of the dearest wishes upon which his affections dwelt.
Alas! such a blessing he must forgo! That which in other circumstances would have infused delight into his soul, he must, under this fatal dispensation of Providence, reject,—and reject with all the appearance of harsh and cold indifference! He must conceal from her even that which would tend to vindicate and justify him in her eyes! He must conceal from her the gradual dissolution of his frame! all that would renovate her past sympathy and affection! The task thus begun, however difficult, must be yet consistently pursued; he must be contented to appear unfeeling, ungrateful, selfish, in order to teach Oriana the useful and practical lesson of suppressing those impulses, arising but as exhalations from her natural affections, which, if not duly subjugated to the will of the Supreme, might in the end prove in her destructive to the confirmation of more essential, steady, and lasting principles.
Such being the views by which he was then actuated, if, from flattering incitements operating upon his warm temperament, he had been betrayed from the strict path of rectitude, he retraced it with the ​most fervent, contrite, and pious zeal. The most profoundly religious principle and a desire of repairing the past, could alone have given stimulus to such a line of conduct as the one Philimore so sublimely formed, to sever those links formerly uniting him to her—the chosen and beloved friend of his heart. And here the man we first described returns upon the view in the full saintly energy of his character, the internal principle bearing rule and governing every inferior one; bringing subjection and obedience into that order which stamps upon the soul, as it were, its Maker's seal; proves it to be immortal,—a form and substance born for the inheritance of eternal bliss in the regions above.
In one of Oriana's visits to London with her aunt, she was accidentally made acquainted with the declining health of Philimore, and though all communication with him had long since ceased, and she had succeeded in reconciling her mind in some degree to it, yet she could not, in that trying hour to himself and family, deny herself the consolation of calling at his house. Her wishes being expressed, her aunt, who did not desire to oppose her, set her down at the corner of the street leading to the abode of the Philimores, telling her she would call to take her up again upon her leaving town. Oriana had thus a few precious hours at her disposal, and profited by them in the manner we are about to relate.
For the first time for months she knocks for admittance at that house where she had formerly spent ​some of the happiest moments of her life. No longer the voice of content, pleasure, and gaiety breathed in the enlivening glee or spontaneous laugh; no sound of former merriment meets her ear; all within is silent, still, and sad. She is shown by a servant, whose countenance wears the aspect of sorrow, into that parlour where the family had been wont to assemble, and greet her with the tones of welcome. What a foreboding contrast! no one was then visible! She seats herself in melancholy expectation of the coming of Mrs. Philimore, who, upon entering, extends her hand as usual, and though clouded by grief, kindness beams from her countenance.
After a painful pause, Oriana tremblingly asks after the invalid. The mother's reply faithfully portrayed the real state of her son, and extinguished every hope of his recovery; the doubt being only as to whether the awful summons were near or distant.
Oriana felt influenced by the strongest desire once again to behold Philimore; and yet she scarcely dared suggest the wish. The mother, as if by intuitive anticipation, said in rising, "I will tell Edmund you are here; it might cheer and revive him to behold one whom—" but without stopping to finish her speech she retired, and the agitation of Oriana redoubled at every instant.
Might there exist a possibility of refusal she dreaded to think of. Contrary, however, to this suggestion which had obtruded itself, Mrs. Philimore advanced to meet her, and, with a smile of ​satisfaction, said that Philimore rejoiced to hear of her being in the house, and awaited her coming with a pleasure she had not witnessed in him during a period of many months.
What were the mutual feelings of either, when Philimore and Oriana met, after all that had passed between them, may be easier conceived than described. Philimore attempted to rise, feeble and languid; the effort seemed beyond his strength; upon perceiving which, to prevent his further exerting himself, Oriana sprang forward, and they were instantaneously clasped in each other's arms.
Vainly endeavouring to stifle her emotions, when disengaged from the embrace of Philimore, Oriana sunk into a chair and wept. Philimore wept also; but it was the soul that wept, and such tears, whensoever shed, spring not from human weakness, but from causes infinitely more profound and exalted.
Worn by the mental struggle so long sustained, added to the incessant and intolerable suffering his frame underwent, Philimore exhibited to the eyes of Oriana but the spectre of his former self. Forgetful of his injurious treatment, the wrongs she had endured, the grief that had consumed her, compassion was then the sole feeling that absorbed her. Mild, kind, and benign had ever been the expression of Philimore's countenance, but there was now shed a ray around him such as rarely adorns humanity; it impressed upon Oriana's mind the conviction that his spirit was passing away to realms more in ​harmony with its state than it was possible this lower one could ever henceforward be to him. The time was when, had such an idea entered her mind, it would have been torture indescribable and agony the most intense; but then, subdued as was the usual warmth of her temperament, an awful suspension seemed to hold her feelings in control.
Never had she breathed a reproach to Philimore for his late apparent unkindness towards her, yet her heart having tacitly done so, she then in the same silent language accused herself of having listened to its dictates. Overwhelmed by a sense of inferiority, while before one whose presence seemed almost supernatural, she not only acquitted him, but was active also in justifying him.
"Edmund," said she, with streaming eyes and a voice scarcely audible, "tell me how or in what way I have offended you."
"Never, my Oriana!" he exclaimed, deeply touched on his part, "never! you have never offended me, nor aught diminished in my estimation from the first moment I beheld you."
He paused; he essayed to explain himself. A few broken sentences was all he uttered, and it was all she required. Those few words spoke volumes to satisfy her, and to compose her; she blessed her Philimore—she invoked heavenly blessings upon his head. The shortness of his breathing, the acute anguish he was enduring, seemed to render explanation doubly painful, and she entreated him to say no ​more. He had said sufficient to assure her of the justness of his proceedings, and the religious principles by which he had regulated his conduct in this instance. That interview, so dearly wished for on both sides, continued without interruption until Oriana was summoned to attend her aunt.
Mr. and Mrs. Philimore had never remained wholly blind to their son's attachment; and though from the maternal indulgence of the latter she might have given it her sanction, her wish to do so was repeatedly checked by the absolute discountenance it met with from her husband; and this opposition from his father being well known to Philimore, presented a difficulty which rendered secrecy the more important; when therefore, from the increasing wasting of his frame, he felt assured reserve might be dispensed with for the future, he informed his father of every circumstantial detail attending the infancy, rise, and progress of his attachment; when, alas! the past being beyond the power of paternal solicitude to recall, the most bitter regrets accompanied the reflections of the unhappy sire.