# Duty and Inclination/Chapter 33

CHAPTER XII.
"Unequal task! a passion to resign, For hearts so touch'd, so pierced, so lost as mine."
Pope.
However unfortunately situated as was Philimore in respect to his family circumstances prohibiting him from making an open declaration of his sentiments, yet, unable to resist the stronger passions, or of practising that self-control he had formerly, upon less trying occasions, exerted,—in engaging the daughter of his friend to hold clandestine intercourse with him, and in leading her into the unjustifiable conduct of withholding her confidence from the best of parents, Philimore cast an irretrievable stain over his hitherto unblemished character!—and so effectually did he succeed in blinding the judgment of General and Mrs. De Brooke, that they harboured not the slightest suspicion of any other sentiment prevailing in him for either Oriana or Rosilia than that which old acquaintance authorized.
​ On this account, Mrs. De Brooke, when employed in her household avocations, left the young people to amuse themselves together. The confidence she placed in Philimore gave her a satisfaction in affording her daughters an intercourse with one so moral and enlightened.
The General, influenced by the same idea, often left them to indulge in a morning's tête-à-tête with the Doctor, and often during these occasions Philimore was made the subject of their conversation. The Doctor, describing in animated terms the assistance he had already derived from his labours amongst the parishioners of the neighbourhood, failed not at the same time to extol him for the illumination which he had with so patient and affectionate a perseverance insinuated into the religious but false tenets of the Curate.
"We read, my dear sir," said the General, "that perversions of the truth, such as salvation by faith alone, predestination, and other suchlike awful heresies, have been ever attendant on the Church of Christ."
"It is unhappily the case," answered the Doctor.
"Your pious and amiable young friend," rejoined the General, "in the fair prospect he yields in his future ministerial efforts, conjoined with your own gifted attainments. Doctor, may lead you both ​to act as champions in the defence of truth, and in the propagation of the 'righteous cause' you both so warmly and zealously espouse."
"I fear," replied the Doctor, "that such defence or opposition would be of little use at the present. However, I am happy to add, that in contemplating the state of the world, as it now is, we may discover an orderly progression towards the establishment of a more enlightened and purer worship. Our active missionaries and faithful clergy are engaged in removing the rubbish."
"By sweeping away the idols," remarked the General.
"Assuredly, and by laying the foundation of the Redeemer's kingdom, in the extensive circulation of the literal Word."
"By which means, and by a superior administration, you suppose, Doctor, the superstructure of its internal sense will follow, in due time."
"The first approaches to the Lord's kingdom," rejoined the Doctor, "are made by appearances of truth, the purity of which would prove at first too dazzling; the kingdom of fear must likewise be passed through before we can arrive at the confines of the kingdom of love."
"Thus, my dear Doctor, to arrive more speedily at this happy end, it is my opinion we should blend ​patience with our activity, and promote the great cause; and while we water the celestial plant, should trust its growth to Divine agency, which alone, in His infinite goodness, can defend it against the blighting minds of the gainsayer and the worldling."
"I am in association with many who profess pure piety and religion in this country, and with all its toleration of such a variety of sects, am afforded hopes very favourable to the rise of a genuine faith; in short, the reports of our missionaries show the extent of similar community existing in almost every country."
"Truly," added the General, "we see kings and emperors are become solicitous for the success of missions."
"They are so, and instead of continuing to act in the support of error, will by degrees take the character of acting in support of truth. The warfare at present reigning, what does it seem to threaten but the extirpation, amongst those who call themselves Christians, of a blind faith and bigoted zeal?"
"And which," replied the General, "will be most assuredly overthrown."
"Let us then," returned the Doctor, "rejoice at this truly delightful prospect; let us fervently ​endeavour and devoutly pray that the kingdom of the Lord will be more and more established within us, bringing forth the fruits of righteousness, and establishing the heart and mind in the peace of Heaven."
After an interval of silence, the General resumed the conversation by saying, "The subject we have discussed, Doctor, being that of religion, recalls to my mind the opinions of a young man I once knew who was educating for the ministry, and who, in adopting some exclusive opinion was quite overjoyed in the agreeable and fascinating conceit of its being his own discovery; thus his faculties and thoughts ever recurring to the favourite idea, he could not exist at length but in the regions of imagination."
"And in those of self-love, with all its train of evils, I fear," replied the Doctor; "this followed as the natural consequence,—the ideas possibly confined but to one article of faith, giving to that one a total precedence, to the exclusion of every other; this is the rock on which they split who do so."
"I doubt it not," continued the General, "and that was the cause which led to the ruin,—that fatal moral ruin in this unhappy young man it was my sorrow to witness."
"God send he has since," devoutly ejaculated ​the Doctor, "seen his error before it became too extensive to retreat."
"Alas," said the General, "no intercessions, no influence, no persuasions of mine have been of avail; those of yourself or Philimore, had you been acquainted with the object, might have been so. As, for example, in the case now before us, the change wrought in that man, the Curate, in so short a time, is astonishing!"
"Perverse, and obstinately bent upon adhering to his own opinions," added the Doctor, "he has now, from having been led to discern his errors, become, in the hands of Philimore, a mild and docile spirit."
"Excellent young man!" exclaimed the General, "had I a fortune to bestow on my daughters, I would willingly give one of them to him; but devoid even of a certain competency, as is also Philimore, if I judge right, he will be too discreet to think of marriage in my family."
"Most undoubtedly," replied the Doctor; "deficient in such pretensions, he could never think of aspiring to a union with one of the Misses De Brooke."
"Affluence, my good friend," returned the General, pleased to find he agreed with him, "may ​not be an absolute requisite in the married state, but that a sufficiency is, my own experience has but too well verified."
Little did he recollect how quickly, in the sensitive period of youth, when the heart of either sex is sensible of a congenial harmony, the judgment becomes entangled by the delusions of love;—thus, in that beautiful solitude, thrown upon each other for society, partaking of the same recreative amusements, rural sports, and intellectual pleasures, Oriana and Philimore yielded to the persuasive force of a mutual affection, and abandoned themselves to its guidance, little conceiving what regret, what contrition, was to follow!—of which the General, with that credulity natural to him, remained in perfect ignorance, and the more so, from the full persuasion he entertained that Philimore was far too honourable to seek to win upon the affections of one of his daughters, unsanctioned by the joint concurrence of their mother and himself.
How widely was he deceived in respect to Philimore as well as Oriana, who, living but in the consciousness of being beloved, suffered the voice of duty and of prudence to slumber, falsely seeking to exculpate herself with the notion that, guided by Philimore, she could not err! If he who ever walked in the path religion prescribed, whose ​whole life had been but one system of virtue, if he could reconcile and recommend to her the practice of secrecy, why should she hesitate? why cause him to mistrust her affections by opposing his wishes?
Thus Oriana sought to banish from her mind those inward and friendly monitors that might have whispered other thoughts and reflections more to her credit—that however wise and virtuous the man, when professing the attachment of a lover, no concessions whatever are to be made to him inconsistent with the purest morality, and that dignity of conduct to be expected from the pious, sensible, and well-instructed woman! Contrary to which, however, with Oriana it seemed as if no other regret intruded than the difficulty of confining her feelings to the compass of her own bosom, accustomed as she had been to lay them open to her sister, whose sympathy seemed so necessary to her, that, availing herself of an interval of free communication with Philimore, she obtained his consent to make Rosilia the confidant of their secret.
Thus unavoidably was Rosilia called upon to bear a part in the deception practised upon her parents. To betray a confidence reposed in her was very foreign to her disposition; but to use every argument affection could dictate, to bring ​Oriana back to a sense of her duty, and the path she had swerved from, she conceived to be incumbent upon her. But still, following the dictates, the guidance, and councils of her lover, Oriana maintained that her principles were correct and her intentions pure; her attachment for Philimore was solely founded on his virtues, and sooner than relinquish him she would relinquish existence!
"You will not lose him, my dear Oriana," replied Rosilia; "it will not lessen you in his esteem and approbation, by telling him candidly that you feel much pain from the reserve and dissimulation he has bound you to practise; on the contrary, if Philimore is so correct and virtuous as we think him, your thus acting will tend to strengthen rather than diminish his affection. He cannot but admire the principles of duty which influence you; and finding you thus totally averse from any further secrecy, it will doubtless prompt him instantly to come forward and make an open declaration of his sentiments to our parents."
Admitting the probability of her sister's remarks, and particularly as with respect to her prevailing desire, that of still strengthening and rendering more secure the attachment of Philimore, after some further persuasion on the part of Rosilia, Oriana decided to conform to her opinion. As a ​conference on such a subject might be too painful to sustain, it was agreed upon that the best mode of proceeding would be for Oriana to explain herself to Philimore by letter, which she might find means of delivering to him at their next interview.
Having complied with this arrangement, Oriana waited the decision, her thoughts being constantly occupied with anxious impatience upon the subject. A whole day had elapsed without the appearance of Philimore; a second passed, neither was Dr. Lovesworth visible; the next came, and still neither the guests, nor news of them arrived. The space of these three days seemed to Oriana an age.
The General was about taking a walk to the Hermitage to inquire after his friends, when Mrs. De Brooke proposed accompanying him with her daughters, as she was sometimes in the habit of doing. Nothing could have been more in concurrence with the wishes of Oriana; yet it was with tremulous footsteps she entered with her parents and sister the Doctor's library, where they found him and Philimore together, each occupied in reading.
The first salutation of welcome over, and inquiries made on either side—"I have kept the ​house these few days," said the Doctor, "in order to induce my young friend to do the same; because about four days since he took an inclination to ramble during the whole of the meridian sultry heat, and did not return till evening, so exhausted and weary, as to appear to me, by one day's indiscretion, to have entirely lost the benefit he had previously reaped from his sojourn amongst us."
"It was the day," thought Oriana, "that he received my letter!"
Although Philimore summoned up sufficient command to speak with tolerable composure, yet she observed a striking alteration in his countenance.
Leaving the Doctor to support the conversation alone, he rose, and flung himself into a seat immediately behind those whose scrutiny he was so anxious to shun, but which exactly faced the sisters; when, abandoning himself to the utmost despondence, his countenance became like alabaster, his eye fixed in vacuum, and had not one deep suffocating sigh escaped him, it might have been imagined that every sense and pulse was suspended,—that the despair of mind, induced by Oriana's letter, operating upon his physical organs, had chilled the genial current of his veins—"She could no longer suffer herself to hold intercourse with him unsanctioned by her parents!" Could such ​be the language of affection? Philimore had asked himself. Surely not; this, with similar sentiments her letter breathed, were widely opposed to those she had hitherto expressed, and which her actions had manifested towards him. "How greatly have I deceived myself," thought he, "in imagining I was beloved!" And what then remained for him but to leave the country, to quit the Hermitage, the rejected lover of her whose image was too deeply engraved on his heart ever to be erased!
Such had been the tenor of his reflections since he had perused the letter of Oriana; no wonder then that, when she with her family entered the Doctor's library, such a visible alteration was perceived; it was then that a crowd of conflicting images suddenly rushed upon his brain: he was the next moment absorbed; the whole chain of idea, thought, and recollection faded, and he exhibited a picture of mental stupor and abstraction, dreadful for Oriana to contemplate! producing in her, as from magnetic attraction, correspondent emotions, which with the utmost difficulty she restrained. In following her natural dictates, she would instantly have revoked every sentence of that cruel letter which, by the advice of Rosilia, she had written.
Roused from that lethargy of intense sadness by ​her parents taking their leave of the Doctor, Philimore, hastily striding across the apartment, fled from the possibility of observation or intrusion. Leaving him in quiet possession of the Hermitage, Dr. Lovesworth proposed walking back with his friends to the Bower.
Suffering under the most painful solicitude, no sooner had Oriana arrived at home, than she intimated a wish to prolong with Rosilia her walk, to which her mother readily acquiescing, freed from further restraint or opposition, she yielded herself to those overpowering feelings which with such afflictive efforts she had controlled.
"Let us hasten back, Rosilia," she exclaimed; "let us delay not a moment; did you not observe the state of Philimore? 'twas dreadful, 'twas horrid to behold! I must see him! it is agony—insupportable agony! to know, that he is even now suffering under the stings of that barbarous letter which, by your advice alone, I was prevailed upon to write; indignant at which he has already, perhaps, taken his resolution, and will leave us."
Breathless with the celerity of her pace, unmindful of what her sister uttered, whether meant in soothing, or entreaty to check her precipitancy, she stopped not but to sound the bell which was ​to give her admittance into the Hermitage, and to the library she had left.
It was vacant. The empty chairs, so recently occupied, continued in the centre of the apartment. The Doctor's book lay open upon the table. No trace or vestige was seen of Philimore. As if bereaved of intellect, that child of nature and of impulse was still gazing in mute anguish at those objects before her, when the image which had been then present to her fancy only, stood revealed in his material and embodied form. She would have presented him her hand in token of what she meant to utter, but overwhelmed, she sunk trembling into the chair in which Philimore had sat, when exhibiting to her a spectacle of woe and despair. Melted into an excess of tenderness, compassion, and love, tears fast dropping from her eyes, she sought utterance—but in vain.
To the feelings of surprise, which had at first seized upon Philimore on again beholding Oriana, succeeded a sense of bliss, a rapture unbounded! It was impossible for him to misinterpret the silent but expressive language he witnessed; the condescension granted him was eloquence itself, and spoke to his heart a language not to be mistaken, and the forcible appeal to his feelings ​hurried him into actions of the most extravagant joy! With animated fervour, with arms extended, he ran first to one sister, and then to the other,—so wildly agitated in his movements that an uninformed spectator might not have known which was the object to whom his faith had been plighted.
Abashed, intimidated, Rosilia became sensibly alive to the nice and delicate situation into which sympathy for her sister had thrown her. She advanced towards the door, followed by Oriana, whilst, with the most impassioned energy, Philimore still endeavoured to detain them, till recalled from that state of excitement to which the intensity of his feelings had momentarily abandoned him, urged by their repeated entreaties, with reluctance he suffered them to depart.
Expecting every moment the return of the Doctor, prudence hindered his accompanying the sisters further than to the outward gate, which opening for them to pass, after many adieus to Oriana, and promises of meeting daily, he stood immoveable, transfixed to the spot, until those snow-white vestments he gazed after, disappeared from his sight. Then, as if awakening from a trance, he fled to the privacy of his chamber, there to pass in review the powerful and successive changes his ​feelings had undergone in the short space of a few hours: that interchange of thought, hope, sentiment, and affection, he had indulged in with Oriana, which during his recent sorrow he had imagined flown for ever, he now saw not only renewed but strengthened, even confirmed, beyond what his most sanguine expectations could have conceived. He had endured a trial the most severe; but the termination of it had assured him, by the most unequivocal testimony, how ardently his affection was returned; the traces of which were not slightly, but deeply and indelibly imprinted on his heart.
In the midst of this happy conviction and enthusiasm of feeling, he was interrupted by the voice of the Doctor, who, as he descended to meet him, took from his pocket a letter, and said, "Philimore, I am the bearer of news to you; and from your father; if I mistake not, this handwriting is his."
It was as he supposed; and the eye of the son glanced rapidly over the contents of his father's letter; his fears were verified—it contained a mandate for his immediate return to London. The clergyman who had officiated during his absence, could not possibly, consistent with his other employments, renew his engagement.
​ Philimore, in order that it might speak for itself, delivered the letter to his friend, who, after its perusal, expressed his regret. "This letter of yours," added he, "conveys a hint to myself which I shall profit by:—the accustomed season is approaching when I renew my parochial duties in London; and, therefore, I shall avail myself of your going hence to enjoy your company on the journey."
There now remained to Philimore but an interval of short duration to pass near the mistress of his affections. He had mutually agreed with the Doctor, it being the last evening of their stay, to spend it at the Bower; impatient to be there, Philimore started on his walk at an earlier hour than his friend; the thoughts which occupied him gave celerity to his motions, and he soon found himself within the precincts of that beautiful cottage, containing all that his soul held most dear. He stopped to contemplate it,—the thought rushed into his mind that perhaps he did so for the last time in his life! His eyes might never again range over that enchanting spot, to which he was soon to bid adieu, perhaps for ever!
Thus impressed, and fearing to meet the eye of some inquisitive or roving stranger who might intrude upon his reflections, he left the open path to ​plunge into a thicket, and pursue a narrow, winding alley, which he thought might lead him to the Bower, but which from its frequent breaks and deviations inclosed him in a sort of labyrinth: at last, finding himself in a more open space, as he took his course by the side of a thickset hedge, he fancied he heard on the other side a rustling amidst the branches; looking through a small opening, he indistinctly perceived a female, endeavouring to disentangle her robe, which had been caught by the briars. He feared to speak, under the supposition it might not be Oriana, but with breathless impatience awaited the issue; her efforts having succeeded, she leaped nimbly from her place of confinement; the light and sylph-like form, displayed grace in every motion, when, with a sudden and violent force tearing down the hedge, he exclaimed, for it was she, "Oriana, Oriana! fly me not! 'tis thy Edmund!"
At the sound of those well-known accents, precipitately turning, she flew to meet him, at the same time warning him that her mother and sister were not distant, the accident of her robe being entangled having detained her behind them.
"I leave the hermitage to-morrow," exclaimed Philimore; "I beseech you to grant me one moment's conference ere I depart."
​ The look of anxiety and suspense accompanying these few words, penetrated the heart of Oriana, and excited in her emotions, nearly equal to his.
"Stay, do not leave me, I conjure you!" he again exclaimed.
Her mother and sister having probably reached home, and finding she had nothing to apprehend from detection, she conducted him to a spot more distant from the cottage; Philimore, in the interval, ejaculating, "Every instant of time is precious! tomorrow,—good heavens!—tomorrow, and I shall be far from you;" here articulation failed him.
They proceeded to the little thicket in which Philimore had found himself previously to seeing Oriana, whose strength, from the tumult of her feelings, failing her, she sunk on a mossy bank, while he, endeavouring to compose himself and to reassure her, dwelt upon the distress in which he was plunged on account of the cruel mandate he had that morning received from his father, and spoke with tender eloquence of the deprivation he was about to sustain in the loss of her society.
Oriana, on her part, confiding and affectionate, sought not to disguise the pain such afflicting tidings created; neither could any notions of discretion, nor policy, nor even that just pride and ​dignity which she owed herself, teach her to suppress the utterance of that impelling and predominating sentiment which possessed her—the fear of being forgotten!—the fear lest the spell she then held over her lover mighty by absence, be dissolved. It was true he was then before her, breathing nought but love, pouring into her ear the effusions of a soul that seemed to live but for her: and yet, hesitating, her heart palpitating with emotion, nearly unconscious of what she said, she frequently repeated, "You will forget me! absence will cause you to forget me!"
"Forget you!" he replied, in tones impassioned; "you may as easily believe that the operations of nature will be suspended, as to imagine that I shall ever cease to love you! That sacred affection, which I now call Heaven to witness, uniting our souls in one, has become my life, and acts upon me as the sun upon creation."
Rising from her seat, inexpressibly affected, Oriana moved a few paces forward; but drawing her gently towards him, with eyes and hands uplifted towards the West, where the sun was sinking below the horizon in all its effulgent splendour, with the most emphatic utterance Philimore added, "Were the beams of that glorious orb withdrawn, all nature would instantly languish." In the next ​moment, turning upon her his soul-melting eyes, he rejoined with vehemence, "In like manner, were your affections withdrawn from me, I should cease to live; I should become at once destitute of all that can animate, refresh, or invigorate my existence."
He paused, overpowered by the energy he had thrown into his speech. Oriana, though still troubled, felt sensibly revived; he was about proceeding, but she urged the necessity of returning without delay to the cottage, before her too long absence might occasion somebody to come in quest of her.
Guided by her advice, they strolled gently on; in the mean time, by alternate persuasions, entreaties, and soothings, Philimore gained from Oriana the promise of maintaining a secret correspondence with him. It was from such a resource only, he assured her, that he could derive consolation, by which the pangs of separation could be alleviated. Though she had made some few objections relative to the danger and difficulty of carrying on such, without the hazard of discovery, yet without such an indulgence, Oriana, on her part, had felt how insupportably each day would pass. Yielding herself therefore implicitly to his wishes, finding that having allowed herself ​to be carried so far, and that the least practice of resistance was beyond her strength, one error producing another, she determined for the future to be swayed by no other judgment than that of her beloved Philimore.