# The Naval Officer/Chapter XXIX

With sorrow and repentance true, Father, I trembling come to you.
Song.
I arrived at the town where poor Eugenia had breathed her last, and near to which was the cemetery in which her remains were deposited. I went to the inn, whence, after having dismissed my post-boy and ordered my luggage to be taken up to my room, I proceeded on foot towards the spot. I was informed that the path lay between the church and the bishop's palace. I soon reached it; and, inquiring for the sexton, who lived in a cottage hard by, requested he would lead me to a certain grave, which I indicated by tokens too easily known.
"Oh, you mean the sweet young lady, as died of grief for the loss of her little boy. There it is," continued he, pointing with his finger; "the white peacock is now sitting on the headstone of the grave, and the little boy is buried beside it."
I approached, while the humble sexton kindly withdrew, that I might, without witnesses, indulge that grief which he saw was the burthen of my aching heart. The bird remained, but without dressing its plumage, without the usual air of surprise and vigilance evinced by domestic fowls, when disturbed in their haunts. This poor creature was moulting; its feathers were rumpled and disordered; its tail ragged. There was no beauty in the animal, which was probably only kept as a variety of the species; and it appeared to me as if it had been placed there as a lesson to myself. In its modest attire, in its melancholy and pensive attitude, it seemed, with its gaudy plumage, to have dismissed the world and its vanities, while in mournful silence it surveyed the crowded mementoes of eternity.
"This is my office, not thine," said I, apostrophising the bird, which, alarmed at my near approach, quitted its position, and disappeared among the surrounding tombs. I sat down, and fixing my eyes on the name which the tablet bore, ran over, in a hurried manner, all that part of my career which had been more immediately connected with the history of Eugenia. I remembered her many virtues; her self-devotion for my honour and happiness; her concealing herself from me, that I might not blast my prospects in life by continuing an intimacy which she saw would end in my ruin; her firmness of character, her disinterested generosity, and the refinement of attachment which made her prefer misery and solitude to her own gratification in the society of the man she loved. She had, alas! but one fault, and that fault was loving me. I could not drive from my thoughts, that it was through my unfortunate and illicit connection with her that I had lost all that made life dear to me.
At this moment (and not once since the morning I awoke from it) my singular dream recurred to my mind. The thoughts which never had once during my eventful voyage from the Bahamas to the Cape, and thence to England, presented themselves in my waking hours, must certainly have possessed my brain during sleep. Why else should it never have occurred to my rational mind that the connection with Eugenia would certainly endanger that intended with Emily? It was Eugenia that placed Emily in mourning, out of my reach, and, as it were, on the top of the Nine-Pin Rock.
Here, then, my dream was explained; and I now felt all the horrors of that reality which I thought at the time was no more than the effect of a disordered imagination. Yet I could not blame Eugenia; the poor girl had fallen a victim to that deplorable and sensual education which I had received in the cockpit of a man-of-war. I, I alone was the culprit. She was friendless, and without a parent to guide her youthful steps; she fell a victim to my ungoverned passions. Maddened with anguish of head and heart, I threw myself violently on the grave: I beat my miserable head against the tombstones; I called with frantic exclamation on the name of Eugenia; and at length sank on the turf, between the two graves, in a state of stupor and exhaustion, from which a copious flood of tears in some measure relieved me.
I was aroused by the sound of wheels and the trampling of horses; and, looking up, I perceived the bishop's carriage and four, with out-riders, pass by. The livery and colour of the carriage were certainly what is denominated quiet; but there was an appearance of state which indicated that the owner had not entirely "renounced the pomps and vanities of this wicked world," and my spleen was excited.
"Ay, sweep along," I bitterly muttered, "worthy type indeed of the apostles! I like the pride that apes humility. Is that the way you teach your flock to 'leave all, and follow me'?" I started up suddenly, saying to myself, "I will seek this man in his palace, and see whether I shall be kindly received and consoled, or be repulsed by a menial."
The thought was sudden, and, being conceived almost in a state of frenzy, was instantly executed. "Let me try," said I, "whether a bishop can 'administer to the mind diseased' as well as a country curate?"
I moved on with rapidity to the palace, more in a fit of desperation than with a view of seeking peace of mind. I rang loudly and vehemently at the gate, and asked whether the bishop was at home. An elderly domestic, who seemed to regard me with astonishment, answered in the affirmative, and desired me to walk into an ante-room, while he announced me to his master.
I now began to recall my scattered senses, which had been wandering, and to perceive the absurdity of my conduct; I was therefore about to quit the palace, into which I had so rudely intruded, without waiting for my audience, when the servant opened the door and requested me to follow him.
By what inscrutable means are the designs of Providence brought about! While I thought I was blindly following the impulse of passion, I was, in fact, guided by unerring Wisdom. A prey to desperate and irritated feelings, I anticipated, with malignant pleasure, that I should detect hypocrisy—that one who ought to set an example, should be weighed by me, and found wanting; instead of which I stumbled on my own salvation! Where I expected to meet with pride and scorn, I met with humility and kindness. When I had looked around on the great circle bounded by the visible horizon, and could perceive no friendly port in which I might lay my shattered vessel, behold it was close at hand!
I followed the servant with a kind of stupid indifference, and was ushered into the presence of a benevolent-looking old man, between sixty and seventy years of age. His whole external appearance, as well as his white hairs, commanded respect amounting almost to admiration. I was not prepared to speak, which he perceived, and kindly began.
"As you are a stranger to me, I fear, from your careworn countenance, that it is no common occurrence which has brought you here. Sit down: you seem in distress; and if it is in my power to afford you relief, you may be assured that I will do so."
There was in his manner and address an affectionate kindness which overcame me. I could neither speak nor look at him; but, laying my head on the table, and hiding my face with my hands, I wept bitterly. The good bishop allowed me reasonable time to recover myself, and, with extreme good breeding, mildly requested that, if it were possible, I would confide to him the cause of my affliction.
"Be not afraid or ashamed, my good lad," said he, "to tell me your sorrows. If we have temporal blessings, we do not forget that we are but the almoners of the Lord: we endeavour to follow his example; but, if I may judge from appearance, it is not pecuniary aid you have come to solicit."
"No, no," replied I; "it is not money that I want:" but, choked with excess of feeling, I could say no more.
"This is indeed a more important case than one of mere bodily want," said the good man. "That we might very soon supply; but there seems something in your condition which requires our more serious attention. I thank the Almighty for selecting me to this service; and, with his blessing, we shall not fail of success."
Then, going to the door, he called to a young lady, who I afterwards found was his daughter; and, holding the door a-jar as he spoke, that I might not be seen in my distress, said, "Caroline, my dear, write to the duke, and beg him to excuse my dining with him to-day. Tell him that I am kept at home by business of importance; and give orders that I be not interrupted on any account."
He then turned the key in the door; and, drawing a chair close to mine, begged me, in the most persuasive manner, to tell him every thing without reserve, in order that he might apply such a remedy as the case seemed to demand.
I first asked for a glass of wine, which was instantly brought; he received it at the door, and gave it to me with his own hand.
Having drank it, I commenced the history of my life in a brief outline, and ultimately told him all; nearly as much in detail as I have related it to the reader. He listened to me with an intense and painful interest, questioning me as to my feelings on many important occasions; and having at length obtained from me an honest and candid confession, without any extenuation,
"My young friend," said he, "your life has been one of peculiar temptation and excess. Much to deplore, much to blame, and much to repent of; but the state of feeling which induced you to come to me, is a proof that you now only require that which, with God's help, I trust I shall be able to supply. It is now late, and we both of us require some refreshment. I will order in dinner, and you must send to the inn for your portmanteau."
Perceiving that I was about to answer, "I must take no denial," resumed he. "You have placed yourself under my care as your physician, and you must follow my prescriptions. My duty is as much more important, compared to the doctor's, as the soul is to the body."
Dinner being served, he dismissed the servants as soon as possible, and then asked me many questions relative to my family, all of which I answered without reserve. He once mentioned Miss Somerville; but I was so overcome, that he perceived my distress, and, filling me a glass of wine, changed the subject.
If I thought that any words of mine could do justice to the persuasive discourses of this worthy bishop, I would have benefited the world by making them public; but I could not do this; and I trust that none of my readers will have so much need of them as I had myself. I shall, therefore, briefly state, that I remained in the palace ten days, in the most perfect seclusion.
Every morning the good bishop dedicated two or three hours to my instruction and improvement; he put into my hands one or two books at a time, with marks in them, indicating the pages which I ought to consult. He would have introduced me to his family; but this I begged, for a time, to decline, being too much depressed and out of spirits; and he indulged me in my request of being allowed to continue in the apartments allotted to me.
On the seventh morning, he came to me, and after a short conversation, informed me that business would require his absence for two or three days, and that he would give me a task to employ me during the short time he should be gone. He then put into my hand a work on the sacrament. "This," said he, "I am sure you will read with particular attention, so that on my return I may invite you to the feast." I trembled as I opened the book. "Fear not, Mr Mildmay," said he; "I tell you, from what I see of your symptoms, that the cure will be complete."
Having said this, he gave me his blessing, and departed. He returned exactly at the end of three days, and after a short examination, said he would allow me to receive the sacrament, and that the holy ceremony should take place in his own room privately, well knowing how much affected I should be. He brought in the bread and wine; and having consecrated and partaken of them himself, agreeably to the forms prescribed, he made a short extempore prayer in my behalf.
When he had done this, he advanced towards me, and presented the bread. My blood curdled as I took it in my mouth; and when I had tasted the wine, the type of the blood of that Saviour, whose wounds I had so often opened afresh in my guilty career, and yet upon the merits of which I now relied for pardon, I felt a combined sensation of love, gratitude and joy—a lightness and buoyancy of spirits, as if I could have left the earth below me, disburthened of a weight that had, till then, crushed me to the ground. I felt that I had faith—that I was a new man—and that my sins were forgiven; and, dropping my head on the side of the table, I remained some minutes in grateful and fervent prayer.
The service being ended, I hastened to express my acknowledgments to my venerable friend.
"I am but the humble instrument, my dear young friend," said the bishop; "let us both give thanks to the almighty Searcher of hearts. Let us hope that the work is perfect—for then, you will be the occasion of 'joy in heaven.' And now," continued he, "let me ask you one question. Do you feel in that state of mind that you could bear any affliction which might befall you, without repining?"
"I trust, Sir," answered I, "that I could bear it, not only cheerfully, but thankfully; and I now acknowledge that it is good for me that I have been in trouble."
"Then all is right," said he; "and with such feelings I may venture to give you this letter, which I promised the writer to deliver with my own hand."
As soon as my eye caught the superscription, "Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed I; "it is from my Emily."
"Even so," said the bishop.
I tore it open. It contained only six lines, which were as follows:—
"Our mutual kind friend, the bishop, has proved to me how proud and how foolish I have been. Forgive me, dear Frank, for I too have suffered much; and come as soon as possible to your ever affectionate
       "EMILY."
This, then, was the object of the venerable bishop's absence. Bending beneath age and infirmity, he had undertaken a journey of three hundred miles, in order to ensure the temporal as well as eternal welfare of a perfect stranger—to effect a reconciliation, without which he saw that my worldly happiness was incomplete. I was afterwards informed, that notwithstanding the weight of his character and holy office, he had found Emily more decided in her rejection than he had anticipated; and it was not until he had sharply rebuked her for her pride and unforgiving temper, that she could be brought to listen with patience to his arguments. But having at length convinced her that the tenure of her own hopes depended on her forgiveness of others, she relented, acknowledged the truth of his remarks, and her undiminished affection for me. While she made this confession, she was in the same position before the bishop, that I was when I received her letter—on my knees, and in tears.
He gave me his hand, raised me up, "And, now, my young friend," said he, "let me give you one caution. I hope and I trust that your repentance is sincere. If it be not, the guilt must rest on your head; but I trust in God that all is as it should be. I will not, therefore, detain you any longer: you must be impatient to be gone. Refreshment is prepared for you: my horses will take you the first stage. Have you funds sufficient to carry you through? for it is a long journey, as my old bones can testify."
I assured him that I was sufficiently provided; and, expressing my thanks for his kindness, wished that it was in my power to prove my gratitude. "Put me to the test, my lord," said I, "if you possibly can."
"Well, then," replied he, "I will: when the day for your union with Miss Somerville is fixed, allow me to have the pleasure of joining your hands, should it please God to spare me so long. I have removed the disease; but I must trust to somebody else to watch and prevent a relapse. And believe me, my dear friend, however well-inclined a man may be to keep in the straight path, he gains no little support from the guidance and example of a lovely and virtuous woman."
I promised readily all he asked; and having finished a slight lunch, again shook hands with the worthy prelate, jumped into my carriage, and drove off. I travelled all night; and the next day was in the society of those I loved, and who had ever loved me, in spite of all my perverseness and folly.
A few weeks after, Emily and I were united by the venerable bishop, who, with much emotion, gave us his benediction; and as the prayer of the righteous man availeth much, I felt that it was recorded in our favour in Heaven. Mr Somerville gave the bride away. My father, with Talbot and Clara, were present; and the whole of us, after all my strange vicissitudes, were deeply affected at this reconciliation and union.