# Duty and Inclination/Chapter 55

CHAPTER XII.
"Alas! I had not render'd up my heart
Had he not loved me first."
Dryden.
We will now leave Rosilia in her sylvan retreat, enjoying the society of her parents, and that of good Doctor Lovesworth, in order to give a short retrospect of what had occurred to Oriana, previously to the late communication she had had with her sister.
For more than two years, Philimore had invariably been the beloved object of her thoughts. If ever tears had bedewed her eye, they had been occasioned by the fond recollection of Philimore. But it was not to be expected that such an intercourse could always exist in secret. Her aunt with some curiosity began at last to observe, not only the numerous letters she received, but also her ill-repressed embarrassment upon those occasions; nor, on the side of Oriana, could the change in her aunt's manners towards her escape observation; by which her situation was rendered so extremely distressing, that she conceived an anxious desire to unburthen her mind, and make to her aunt a full disclosure of all that had hitherto ​passed between herself and Philimore,—to conceal nothing, either relative to the present or the future; but to do this required the permission of Philimore.
In her next letter to him she communicated her ideas upon the subject; to which he replied, that he left her to act in any way her discretion might authorize.
And now, for the first time, it occurred to her that his style was more laconic than usual, and not dictated by that fervent warmth which had ever characterised the letters of Philimore. She re-perused it, and endeavoured to force upon herself the belief that she was mistaken:—she dwelt upon every sentence,—she weighed the force of every expression. Alas! they were not as they were wont to be. She blamed herself for the request she had urged, supposing it might be that which had offended him.
She immediately wrote a second letter, couched in language the most tender, declaring the entire resignation of her will to his in every particular, and that she would not adopt any measure, or confide their mutual secret to her aunt, unless he himself should first require it. The answer which in due time returned pleased her better; the sentences were fraught with more warmth, and dissipated the fears to which the former had given rise.
Notwithstanding the increasing reserve of her aunt, Oriana, assured of Philimore's love and constancy, felt happy,—little else had power to disturb ​her. But this state of pacific and resigned feeling was not of long duration. Those communications which had so long afforded her support, solace, and delight, began to decrease. The accustomed period for receiving these letters so dear to her, often passed, to leave upon her mind only the traces of disappointment. The next day came, and another succeeded, but neither proved more fortunate. Expectation, still the companion of her bosom, prevented her from giving way to absolute repining; to-morrow, she would think,—to-morrow my suspense and fears may have a cessation; but when the morrow came, it was only to cloud her brow with still more alarming perplexity.
Her patience at length exhausted, she wrote to Philimore, beseeching to know the cause of his silence,—expressing also the most affectionate concern with regard to his health; begging of him, if he valued her peace, to send her a few lines, which might prove satisfactory, and ease her of the distress under which she laboured. Perhaps, in the eloquent flow of her feelings, however tender and endearing, there might have been something of decision, some energy of expression, that might have piqued his self-love, and conveyed a reproach she fain had sought to avoid.
From whatever cause it sprang, the reply of Philimore, far from relieving, served only to probe her heart and produce still deeper agony. Why had he written, if, in so doing, he was to add only to her ​misery? His silence she could have better borne, than those upbraidings for her too great poignancy of feeling: was it truly Philimore who had thus written,—he who had been wont to view her slightest qualities, words, and actions, through the magnifying medium and bright colouring of partiality? It was the hand-writing, the signature of Philimore,—but, alas! the altered sentiments his hand had traced too fatally prognosticated his heart was changed. "Why should he rebuke me," she inwardly exclaimed, "for a too great ardency of attachment?—has he not excited it?—is he not the object of it?"
But when, in proceeding to read, she came to the passage,—"that, for his part, present circumstances proving so adverse, and destiny having so long opposed their union, he began to relinquish the idea of its being ever effected;"—Oriana could no longer doubt; conviction struck upon her mind, and an icy chill pervaded her; she sat like one motionless, absorbed in all the lethargy of woe. The idea that the love of Philimore had abated, when hers for him seemed in its plenitude, was a most severe aggravation of her misfortune.
Those vows he had pledged of never-ceasing constancy, were they all forgotten?—vows breathed forth in moments when his whole being seemed dissolving into tenderness,—moments never to return,—was it to be so? A ray, such as appears in the dawn of hope, reflected for a moment upon her benighted soul. The congeniality of their minds, talents, and ​dispositions, still she was assured existed, must exist for ever; mutual sympathy alone, in despite of the contrariety of their adverse destiny, had been the cement which had knit their hearts together. So incorporated with her existence had seemed the love of Oriana for Philimore, that she had imagined it to be the same in him; and, as her natural disposition inclined her to dispel the murky clouds of sorrow, she endeavoured to imbibe consolation from the idea, that even love, arising from a pure sense of mind, might not be exempt from occasional vicissitude.
Though her supposition was by no means incorrect, yet she was far from thinking that, whilst she was blaming Philimore for his inconstancy, he, on his part, blamed her for an over-condescension,—for a deficiency in that dignity naturally to be looked for in a woman of virtue and character,—and to which, in his self-reproaches, he attributed the lengths he had been carried; and, when under ideas such as these, her influence weakened, and sometimes altogether ceased. It little entered into her reflections, that the flame of Philimore had been susceptible of decay,—because the torch of love had burnt too rapidly,—ere friendship, respect, and esteem had been rendered more secure, permanent, and complete.
If soothed for a time, as the suggestions of hope vanished, Oriana sunk into a state of still greater despondency. So much did she regret the past, that ​to compose herself was impossible,—until the first impulse of despair subsiding, a calm and settled melancholy succeeded, resembling submission, but which, in fact, was sapping the foundation of her existence.
Her declining health could not pass long unnoticed by her aunt, and the concern she felt on that account revived the former apparent kindness she had borne her niece. Pleased and encouraged at finding herself restored to favor, Oriana no longer hesitated to make an avowal to her aunt of her long and secret intercourse with Philimore, stating every circumstance, with the exception of the many private meetings held at the house of their mutual friend Miss Morris, and more particularly dwelling, with tremulous emotion, on Philimore's late change of conduct.
Having finished, her aunt, as may be supposed, could not forbear manifesting some indignation, that a clandestine love affair should have been so long carried on under her roof. Somewhat appeased, however, by the pleadings and intercessions of her niece, added to the confidence she then, though at so late a period, reposed in her, she w as inclined to pass it over.
Oriana also submitted, for her aunt's perusal, all the letters she had received from Philimore, which, with the exception of a few of later date, invariably portrayed the warm effusions of his soul; combining sentiments calculated to enlarge the understanding ​and improve the heart. In returning the letters, Mrs. Arden used such arguments as she thought might best allay the sorrow of Oriana.
"You must endeavour, my dear," said she, "to cast this Philimore from your thoughts, unhappily too long engrossing them; and, however apparently worthy of them in the beginning of your attachment, at the present proving himself by no means so. Try to recover, and be yourself again. It is but to make the effort, and believe me, that which, in the present state of your wounded feelings, you think so exceedingly grievous, will, if you allow yourself calmly to reflect upon it, appear altogether in another light. This unfortunate partiality you have entertained, I see plainly now, is that alone which has stood between you and Frederick Valpée in his late visit here. I fear, by his abrupt departure, he may conceive you have been playing the coquette. Mr. Arden and myself have been at a loss to know to what cause to attribute such coolness in your conduct as you manifested towards him; it was certainly calculated to mar your real interests; but since the truth is discovered, I would advise you, when next Mr. Valpée comes, should he be prevailed on to renew his visits here, to receive him with more unequivocal testimony of your esteem."
Oriana tacitly acknowledged the truth of all her aunt had advanced. Frederick Valpée was truly much regarded by her. Had her thoughts been undecided,—had Philimore never proffered her his ​affections,—Valpée would inevitably have filled that place in her heart, then so deeply occupied by the now inconstant Philimore.
Valpée, a perfect connoisseur in the art of music, had often, in his invitations to the Park, sent his flute; and in its accompaniments to her piano or harp, hung over her delighted by the harmonious sounds it produced. She herself, also, had felt the charm; and, forgetful of Philimore and his prior claims, had unconsciously indulged in the playful raillery and agreeable vivacity inspired by the moment, until conscience would whisper that she was the affianced bride of another.
By degrees such a restriction awakened; and though, to do her justice, her heart with its affections might have been firm and constant to its vows, yet ever absent from their object, the jocund turn of her disposition led her indiscriminately to indulge in her humour. Thus, from the repartee and wit of which she was mistress, arose a fondness for the company of the other sex, and she never could deny herself the gratification of endeavouring to attract their attention. With regard to Valpée, while this prevailing desire lay hidden from herself, she felt a wish he would make her an offer of his hand, which in refusing, thought she, will be more highly estimated by Philimore; and what an indubitable proof shall I give him of my preference,—my unalterable and exclusive partiality! She hoped also, if such an offer and refusal should occur, it would be the means ​of bringing him to a more decided and immediate result.
Valpée, however, had not made up his mind to address her, having without any such éclaircissement returned to his paternal seat; when the thoughts of Oriana, as usual, became wholly centred in Philimore. If betrayed by him, how wretched would become her existence! Alas! at the moment of such a reflection, she trod upon the brink she dreaded.
Her mortification and disappointment we have already described. Sensibly touched by the renewed kindness of her aunt, the confidence she had reposed in her proving so much more fortunate than she had dared to anticipate; she determined on communicating to Philimore the step she had taken, judging that, as it so essentially regarded him, it might tend to revive his fading hopes. As a last effort, she would try to rekindle in his heart a latent spark of the affection he had vowed for her, perhaps not yet wholly extinct.
Having sent her letter, she trembled for its fate! She scarcely allowed herself to hope, seeming as if on its issue depended the happiness or misery of her future life. It might restore her Philimore, or deprive her of him for ever! When labouring under the acute and painful feeling of suspense, thought seems ever active to multiply and aggravate every detail that may still farther oppress the heart. And thus was it with Oriana.
​ During the time, however, that must unavoidably elapse ere she could receive an answer, she employed her mind in reviewing, as far as she was enabled, with an impartial judgment, every part of her conduct from the first early dawning of her attachment to the present unfortunate moment. If she had indulged in gaiety or even raillery with others, it had never estranged her heart from him to whom she had betrothed herself. Thus, though she could find no positive cause for censuring her own conduct as far as it related to Philimore, she yet would, if possible, have willingly justified his by every suggestion in her power.
She had ever evinced the utmost generosity and candour towards him; never had she either disguised or concealed her sentiments: he had shared in all her tenderest emotions and dearest wishes; no maxim of a cold-hearted prudence had restrained her; she had poured forth her feelings before him in their fullest extent, and had ventured, without reserve, to tell him how much he was beloved! Alas! thought she, a greater caution in the development of my feelings might have secured me his permanent regard.
The injured virtuous, in the extremity of woe, have still one consolation left, derived from the reflection that their sufferings are unmerited. As to her undiminished constancy, Oriana felt that she was irreproachable; she bitterly, however, condemned herself for the want of self-control,—for the little ​resistance she had practised in abandoning herself to the implicit guidance, direction, and honor of the man she loved, supposing him altogether incapable of error. She trembled as the retrospect of past scenes rushed upon her mind,—at the ruin and desolation they might have involved, in consequence of allowing herself to be swayed by Inclination, unsanctioned by Duty, reason, or judgment. And this was the nature of her reflections: "The loss of Philimore, so cherished by me, is the chastisement which Providence inflicts for the deception I have practised on my parents!"
After a due interval, the reply of Philimore was received. With a beating heart Oriana fled to her apartment, there in secret to ascertain her doom,—to learn whether Philimore would once again bestow on her the sweet soothings of consolation and of hope; or whether, indeed, he was lost to her for ever! She broke the seal, and her eyes, though nearly dim with emotion, traced those well-known characters, but no longer, as formerly, were they pressed to her lips, or folded upon her bosom.
Short was the epistle, and, like the preceding ones, redolent of indifference. "He saw, no prospect of an alliance, and, therefore, urged her to resign herself to the decrees of that Providence, whose ways, though inscrutable, are merciful and just." But why was no kindred feeling of sympathy or regret mingled with his exhortations,—so cold,—so laconic;—saying nothing of himself, or of his health,—and ​expressing no concern or interest in the communication she had made to her aunt?
Such was the cool reply of Philimore to the unhappy Oriana, whose affections had been all in all to him, and which he once would not have exchanged for a mitre or a diadem!