# Duty and Inclination/Chapter 35

CHAPTER XIV.
"These lips are mute, these eyes are dry;
 But in my breast, and in my brain,
Awake the pangs that pass not by,
 The thought that ne'er shall sleep again.
My soul nor deigns, nor dares complain,
 Though grief and passion there rebel!"
Byron.
It may not be uninteresting to follow awhile the fortunes of Douglas, hitherto occupying so great a portion of Rosilia's thoughts.
Unaccustomed to regulate his conduct, or to submit to disappointment in any of its shapes, we left him, at the beginning of our narrative, overwhelmed with excessive grief, a sort of tempest of the soul, caused by Rosilia's refusal; baffled in the success of his passion, and in his expectations of bliss, the misery to which he was reduced seemed permitted by Divine Providence, in order to effect the commencement of his reformation; for, all enrapt as he had been by the love of self and the world, still there happily had remained one spark, amidst the fading embers, ​which, if timely fanned, gave promise of emitting a light such as, if cherished, would continually gather strength, and, with increasing lustre, diffuse the rays of virtue over his future days.
Saddened and afflicted, overcharged with one prevailing sentiment, he repaired to the capital, and soon after embarked for India.
In the pious and timid fears of Rosilia, how blamable did she conceive herself to be for that involuntary predilection for one, whose character could not stand unimpaired the test of a virtuous scrutiny. Douglas, on the contrary, swayed by feelings widely opposite, by the ideas he entertained of the transcendant merit of the object he loved, far from seeking to abate the fire that consumed him, sought by every effort to keep it alive in all its force.
Temporary difficulties, he reflected, might have opposed him, such as his want of fortune; but what seemed to be the most probable, and, with a compunction amounting to anguish, he felt self-convicted, were the irregularities of his past life, represented, doubtless, to Rosilia, under circumstances of exaggeration. These, combined with her unconquerable timidity, he felt assured had influenced her conduct towards him, and had presented obstacles which he feared no time could ​remove. Interminable seas were about separating him from her, and yet, under every discouraging idea, he cherished his present sufferings and memory of the past, as a miser hoards his secret treasure; his, he felt persuaded, was no fugitive passion—it was a noble sentiment, it was love for a virtuous object engrafted on his heart,—such as gave energy to his feelings, and made every degrading or unworthy passion sink before his view.
He had been at one time tempted to urge his point again; he had even communicated his sentiments to a person who might have aided him, one intimately known to Rosilia, but whom he had entreated to no purpose; he had even commenced a letter to Rosilia, but he had neither decision nor resolution to send it, perhaps to meet with suppression, or if not, to bring upon him a second dismission. How stoop to solicit her compassion, ere the opportunity had been given him to merit her? He would embark with his regiment,—he would exert himself in his country's cause, no matter how remote or foreign the land upon which fate might throw him; all was alike indifferent to him, if unblessed with Rosilia!
It was by one of those strange coincidences in human events, that Douglas and the young ​Herbert, as Rosilia had imagined not unlikely to happen, met together in the same vessel.
Though known to each other, it had been only by report, never having before had a personal interview, when each surveyed the other with looks strongly indicative of emotion. The latter, with surprise and admiration! The former, as an object, for whom he had been led to imagine Rosilia might have entertained some friendship!
The countenance of Douglas wore an aspect of extreme dejection, notwithstanding his eye still retained its lustre, and his cheek was tinged with a hectic flush; in a word, he felt sensible of an oppression, both of mind and body, almost weighing him to the ground.
Impelled by curiosity, Herbert approached that side of the vessel upon which Douglas reclined for support; coming thus together, they entered into conversation, but upon topics of little import, and widely foreign to their feelings.
As accident, however, often brings to pass what we most wish to avoid, it chanced, as Herbert leaned over the side, a small miniature, suspended by a riband, fell from his bosom. It bore a striking resemblance to Rosilia, which Douglas suddenly perceiving, he was filled with emotions too powerful to resist. His thoughts became at once ​confused and dazzled; a crowd of ideas pressed upon him with vehemence; a giddiness ensued, attended by a palpitation of the heart which oppressed his breathing.
Such outward demonstrations of acute feeling, in the continual change his colour underwent, were indeed alone sufficient to elicit the deepest interest, even in the most indifferent spectator. Acquainted with his past pretensions towards Rosilia, Herbert, in restoring the miniature to its usual place of concealment, fixed upon Douglas a look so disturbed and inquisitive, that the colour, in again rushing to the face of Douglas, left it in the next moment completely pallid. His hand pressed his aching temples, he tottered a few steps, and felt himself so exceedingly unwell, that he descended precipitately to his cabin; where Herbert, naturally compassionate, would have followed, had he not feared his presence might be deemed an intrusion upon his privacy.
The form of Douglas no longer riveted his eye, but it still kept possession of his thoughts; the striking symmetry of his commanding stature, the melancholy which hung over his manly brow, all pronounced him to be the same,—the Douglas of whom his mother had so often spoken,—the impassioned, enamoured, but rejected suitor of Rosilia.
​ The miniature, which in youthful pride he carried about him, might seem a highly finished likeness from life itself, and yet it was but a copy of an original taken of Mrs. De Brooke when about the age of Rosilia, and which then bore to the daughter, as it had formerly to the mother, a near resemblance. From the affection she felt for her young friend, Mrs. Herbert had borrowed the picture of Mrs. De Brooke with the view of gratifying herself with a copy of it. A celebrated artist, with whom she was acquainted, had readily conferred upon her this favour.
Delighted with the performance, and the fulfilment of her wishes, upon returning the original to Mrs. De Brooke, she showed the copy to her son, who contrived to make it his own, by getting it set in gold; and from which time, giving way, through the tender recollections of the past, and the ambititious views of his mother, to a presumptuous delusion and ill-founded hope, it had thus become the companion of his bosom.
The extreme agitation betrayed by Douglas at its sudden exposure to his sight, clearly evinced the strong rivalship existing between them; and when Herbert contemplated in Douglas something to his juvenile conceptions surpassing the generality of mortals, he was struck with amazement that a man of such striking elegance, in the ripened flower and ​vigour of age, should have sued to her who was also the fair idol of his own awakened fancy, in vain. It appeared to him as if nature had formed them for each other, that inclination on the part of each had united them, but that the contrarieties of human life had opposed to separate them.
In thus reflecting, how slender seemed his pretensions, how arrogant the hope of one day obtaining that hand which had been refused a Douglas! His mother's ambition, and overflowing fondness for him, had buoyed him up with hopes, the fallacy of which now lay exposed before him. In the dispirited state of his mind, he thought Rosilia might be no longer what he once knew her; that in growing to years of maturity, while her personal charms had become more strongly developed, those of her mind might have lost; and she perhaps no longer retained that sweetness, that softness, which in her tender years she lavished upon him as her playmate, when his young heart, throbbing with affection, became bewitched by her endearments.
Since those days, though few had been his opportunities of seeing her, when he did so, he little conceived her mild yet discouraging manners, calculated as they seemed to diminish his expectation of success as a suitor, arose from imperfections ​entirely his own,—an obvious dearth of mental attainment consequent on a defective education.
With Douglas, how differently would she have felt and acted, could she have been a witness of the misery into which he was plunged, caused by the powerful ascendancy she maintained over his heart; and, above all, could she have formed an idea of how much that heart had already become refined and elevated by the virtuous and ennobling sentiments with which she had inspired it; far from combating, as she had done, to subdue her partiality at the expense of peace and health, she would not have hesitated to have thrown herself upon his generous protection, in uniting herself to his destiny, and following his fortunes even to the remote clime to which he was then steering.
The hurry of embarkation, together with the agitated state of his mind, precluded Douglas from taking timely remedies to allay the fever which had attacked him, and which then raged with such violence, bordering on a state of frenzy, and pervading every fibre of his being; having attained this alarming height doubtless by the fresh excitement he was thrown into at the display of the fatal miniature, the resemblance of the beautiful Rosilia, in the possession of Herbert.
Subdued by the languor and lassitude of his ​frame, while his mind was the prey of a thousand torturing conjectures, none possibly bearing much affinity to the truth, Douglas reappeared not on the deck; and thus several hours elapsed, until the time at length came which summoned the officers to their repast. All were assembled at the convivial board, Douglas alone excepted; all called upon his name, when Herbert, who till then had not been heard to speak, informed them that Major Douglas had, in the morning, shown symptoms of illness, which might be the cause of his not appearing. Upon hearing this, the Surgeon was sent by the Colonel to inquire into the truth of the case.
Apparently suffering under bodily and mental anguish, his throbbing head reclining on his feverish hand, Douglas, as a mighty branch hewn down, exhibited a spectacle of the utmost interest: his quick pulsation and strong breathing indicated that he was under the subjugating power of illness.
Equally humane as he was skilful, the Surgeon assisted him to rise; then supporting him to his hammock, there, pale and extended, he became an object of universal concern. Turning to those whom curiosity or compassion had gathered around, the Surgeon begged of them to leave him, their presence occasioning an obstruction to the free admittance of air, which, together with rest and ​quiet, was indispensable towards the amendment of his patient.
Alas! he little thought how useless was such a precaution; for, though all was still without, had he the power of allaying those violent commotions within—those perturbations of the heart, wanderings of imagination, and deep workings of thought, totally baffling his endeavours, as beyond the powers of his art to calm?
The chill succeeding to intervals of burning heat, soon announced that Douglas was seized by a fever of the most acute kind, a disease always attended by extreme danger:
"Where now, ye lying vanities of life,
Ye ever tempting, ever cheating train,
Where are ye now? And what is your amount?
Vexation, disappointment, and remorse!"
But who is she, who with looks of tender anxiety, bends sometimes over that couch of sickness; who, upon those visits to the suffering invalid, is accompanied by another, a female friend as charitable as herself; and who shares in her attention to one insensible to all passing around him?
Miss Airey, then about nineteen years of age, had early lost her parents, she was destitute of fortune, and every tie in life, with the exception of that denved from the friendship of Mrs. Melbourne, the ​former intimate companion of her deceased mother; from which cause, united to the sympathy her forlorn situation inspired, the daughter shared in her regard. Mrs. Melbourne was the wife of the Lieutenant-Colonel, then in command of the regiment on its passage to the East Indies, and to which Douglas had been recently appointed Major.
Fond of change and novelty, and rather than be deprived of that gaiety of life induced by associating with the military, and devoting herself to a less animated circle at home, Mrs. Melbourne had preferred accompanying her husband abroad; an occurrence of which she readily availed herself to select for her companion on the voyage the young Ellina, who, by so favourable an occasion, she conconceived might form for herself in India a matrimonial settlement, which might raise her from that adverse destiny which had hitherto attended her. If, from her partiality to the world and its pleasures, Mrs. Melbourne might be accused of thoughtlessness, her benevolence and generosity might secure to her respect and esteem,—as witnessed in the humane attentions bestowed on the interesting orphan, whom she considered in a manner committed to her charge.
The fever affecting the unfortunate Douglas, ​far from abating, seemed rather to increase its violence. In a complete state of inanition he lay stretched on his hammock, to all appearance as insensible to pain as to existence, and perfectly unconscious of the distress and alarm he caused his fair attendants. The eleventh day had passed, and the physician pronounced the disorder at its crisis; every moment might terminate the life of his patient, unless some more favourable symptoms were immediately perceptible.
Herbert, being informed of Douglas's danger, no longer felt the spirit of rivalry or competition. "Unhappy fatality!" exclaimed he, "if he perish, 'tis a victim to Rosilia's cruelty!" The miniature, which in boyish pride he had suspended from his neck, was withdrawn, carefully enfolded, and deposited in a place of safety.
In such near proximity with the invalid, though all had been emulous of showing him attention, perhaps none were more truly affected by the critical situation of the unhappy Douglas than Miss Airey. She stood motionless, scarcely breathing, her eyes fixed upon his pallid countenance, his almost lifeless features still strikingly exhibiting the contour of manly beauty, mingled with an expression of patient woe, most touching to a mind of sensibility. The stern hand of death, she doubted ​not, was about to rob the world of one of its brightest ornaments.
Lofty and commanding as the proud cedar, had Douglas been uplifted in his own esteem; but as the winds sometimes rage among and prostrate its spreading branches, so had keen sorrows pang upon the heart of Douglas laid low its towering haughtiness! Had'st thou been there, Rosilia, occupying the place of Ellina, no longer could'st thou have traced the healthful hue, the sparkling eloquence of eye, the boasting air, the imperious display! Alas! thou would'st have seen a change, to have called forth every tender and compassionate feeling of which thy nature was capable!
The feelings of Ellina were strained to their utmost: she heaved an involuntary sigh; but what was her astonishment upon hearing that sigh re-echoed,—she started,—Douglas turned towards her, opened his long closed eyes, and fixed upon her a look of deep inquiry. Her whole frame trembled; while the exclamation burst from her, "My God! he will then live!"
Douglas endeavoured to raise himself, but fell back upon his pillow. Ellina had vanished, but the traces of her countenance were still visible to his mental sight. Was it a seraph sent as a messenger of pardon for his past transgressions, and to ​conduct his soul to the blessed mansions of Elysium? Like one awaking from a deep sleep, confused images haunted his fancy.
Ellina having reported the pleasing intelligence to the Surgeon, he immediately left them to attend his patient, absolutely refusing to answer the many questions she seemed disposed to make him. The quickness of his pulse had abated, and he respired with more facility; still it was essential that his mind should be kept as easy and tranquil as possible; the slightest relapse was to be dreaded, as likely to produce the most fatal consequences.
Thus prohibited from speaking, it occurred to him that if it was no dream, nor the effects of an excited imagination, certainly the fair creature, whom he could scarcely believe to be a delusive shadow, would again present herself; nevertheless, hours, and even days, passed, and she no more appeared; now that he was recovering, natural delicacy forbade her to approach his cabin.
As by degrees his convalescence became more confirmed, one or other of his brother officers took a seat by his side. All in their turn felt desirous of being admitted to him, Herbert excepted; who saw the propriety of keeping himself at a distance, lest his presence might revive impressions in their nature most painful to each.
​ Herbert also, though not excessively diffident of himself, could not but be sensible of his inferiority when comparing himself with Douglas, preventing his feeling that equality which might otherwise have led him to seek his company; partaking, as he had done, of that general deep interest excited upon beholding the settled melancholy of a countenance exhibiting traces of a lofty soul, of nobleness, and grandeur! Such being the splendid qualities which Herbert, in common with his comrades, ever in his mind associated with Douglas.