# Duty and Inclination/Chapter 34

CHAPTER XIII.
"Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along!
The birds shall cease to tune their evening's song,
The winds to breathe, the waving woods to move,
And streams to murmur, e'er I cease to love!"
Pope.
The season, though still smiling in beauty, no longer possessed charms for Oriana. The sun's brilliant rays diffused their vivifying beams—but not for her. And now deserted was the grove, so late her happy resort, while wandering with Philimore beneath the ample shade afforded by the venerable oak, and the majestic beech, or, while seated upon a bank, listening to the feathered choir, and their enchanting notes of love, in unison with their feelings, the sprightly ash fanned them by its light and quivering branches.
Sometimes, indeed, an intimate association of ideas inclined her lonely steps long to linger around her favourite haunts; but alas! no longer each external object reflected back, as formerly, the ​congenial harmony of her mind; nature seemed exhausted of her treasures, all seemed changed, all spoke the language of complaint and lamentation.
The flowers, hitherto accustomed to receive culture from her hand, no longer emitted their wonted perfume, but became withered and scattered, as by the blighting blasts of winter. Her harp was but seldom touched, except to indulge her grief with those airs that recalled Philimore to her fancy.
Those sentiments, however, with which Oriana was affected, though they checked her natural gaiety of temper, seemed to incline more to calmness and resignation, than those sad and acute feelings often preying upon her sister's heart. For with Rosilia, to the regret of the past and self-accusation, was added the contemplation of a dark futurity, seldom affording a gleam of hope to cheer and solace her disquietude.
With Oriana it was otherwise. It is true her spirits sunk at times, but she drooped like a fair flower in the interval elapsing between a passing mist, and the sun's renovating heat. She could look forward to brighter days, and indulge in the cheering prospect of seeing her present painful separation terminated by an indissoluble union with its object. Such anticipation of future ​happiness was sufficient to beguile away her solitude.
But with Rosilia the world and all its pleasures seemed retreating far away, as if she were for ever destined to forego its flattering sweets. In her survey of the future, as through a long perspective, she could see nought but perpetual seclusion; nought that could afford relief or zest, to chequer the passive state of her existence.
It was one day whilst thus affected, and her solitude was felt to be more dreary than ever, that in arranging some books upon a shelf, where had been amassed a heap of old newspapers of the preceding years' date, it chanced that, in removing them, a list of passengers, then about embarking for the East Indies, met her eye. Curiosity having induced her to run over the names, those of Edward Herbert, Major Lewis, and Walter Douglas, appeared amongst them, a cold tremor seized her, and her trembling limbs could scarcely support her.
The former, the beloved son of good Mrs. Herbert, she who had, during her helpless years when affected by illness, fondly cherished her. What must, thought she, be the feelings of that widowed parent, reflecting upon the probable length of time that may intervene before her son's return to ​England, the immense Ocean rolling between them? The same squadron, perhaps the same ship, had transported to a foreign clime with that beloved son—him whom she durst not name, she must not think of! In doing so, every pleasing vision or airy dream in which her fancy had indulged, would be withdrawn—hope would become extinct, and life a wilderness!
From that time the unceasing efforts she exerted for the suppression of her affliction, were even the cause of increasing its durability and strength. Reason and conscience were ever struggling to gain the pre-eminence over nature and sentiment; powerful opponents in the breast of Rosilia, for nature maintained its empire, uncontrolled by the suggestions of the one, and sentiment yielded not to the restraints of the other.
Thus disturbed, distracted, and divided, she became a prey to perpetual conflicts too painful to last. She insensibly languished, whilst the immolation of her unfortunate secret, in her own solitary bosom, prevented her from receiving those consolations, a participator in her sufferings might have afforded; and as her mental malady increased, its baneful influence was communicated to her frame. Often did she wish to unburthen her grief, but pride and a native dignity, conjoined with delicacy, ​a feeling naturally so sensitive in youth, but seldom existing so powerfully as with Rosilia, still closed her lips and enforced her silence.
It was in vain to persuade herself otherwise; Douglas reigned the idol of her imagination, the invariable associate of her secret thoughts. Ah! why, she would sometimes mentally ejaculate, did I not seek for his reformation? Perhaps his errors might not have taken deep root in his life, but might have sprung from the mere casualties of existing circumstances. Her refusal of him upon such grounds caused her also an apprehension that she might have become responsible for, or rather instrumental to, his future irregularities of conduct; that she ought to have made use of her ascendancy over his affections, to have reclaimed him from the past, was an idea which often sustained and aggravated her affliction; but the most ardent of her feelings was the desire to communicate the sentiments that absorbed her, the only attachment she supposed herself ever likely to feel, to the only object ever likely to call it forth. Yet it was most probable, that had such an occasion offered, she would still have shrunk from the disclosure.
Such was the unhappy result ensuing from the usual even tenor of her life. The silence of retirement, operating upon the sensibilities of her heart, ​till nature, no longer able to support such a trial, at last sunk; her whole nervous system became relaxed, a debility of frame ensued, truly alarming, attended at intervals by an abstraction, and as it were, a total suspension of idea and thought.
It was then that Oriana shone in the light of the purest female virtue; vigilant and attentive she would scarcely for a moment forsake her sister's languid couch. There bending over her, with eyes bathed in tears, she watched the progress of her beloved Rosilia's melancholy disorder; she beheld her, pale, exhausted, either in listless inanition, or haunted with the dreadful idea that mental derangement or death would terminate her sufferings!
In this frightful crisis of her disorder, Rosilia clinging to her mother or sister, or supported within their embrace, would utter the most wild and incoherent expressions, sometimes calling upon the name of Douglas, at others upon that of Philimore, unconscious how she pierced her sister's heart, and of the terror she occasioned her, lest she should, in her total forgetfulness and confusion of thought, betray the secret of her attachment; rousing at the same time every sentiment of compassion and alarm in her tender parents!
Six weeks thus elapsed, when, though still sunk, ​pallid, and dejected, Rosilia began gradually to revive from that afflicting malady, as also from that melancholy which had given birth to it. Her recovery was slow, and she still was subject to occasional relapses; but as her bodily health more visibly improved, her mind also became subject to a total revolution, to which succeeded a gentle calm, a placid, heavenly composure of soul, such as we can only compare to that which happy spirits feel, when in mutual association and conjunction with the blessed inhabitants of another world. Her past tumultuous feelings, like nocturnal vapours chased by the rising day, were wholly dissipated; her renewed health disposed her to be pleased with all objects around her.
The most lively of her feelings were affection and gratitude for the care and consolation chiefly bestowed by her sister during the most miserable moments of her existence. Her tears flowed at the recollection; but, like the refreshing dew of heaven, brought sweet balm to her soul; her frame had surrendered, but her mind had triumphed! Her unhappy weakness was at length subdued! No longer bound by the magic of an overwhelming fancy, she resigned herself to that destiny she could not alter. Rarely is that joy and peace surpassed ​which is perceived by those who have overcome themselves and surmounted affliction.
Oriana rejoiced at her sister's recovery; the confidence she reposed in her, even from the first commencement of her attachment to Philimore, had heightened the natural claim she held over her affections. Rosilia had ever proved herself her sweet consoler; she had sympathized in every her least pain or pleasure, and those more lively ones she had experienced whenever she received a letter from her beloved Philimore; the danger and risk attending detection from the means she made use of to obtain those letters, might seem even to enhance their value.
On account of the inconvenience of going herself to the village post-office, which was at some distance from her residence, at the appointed period, secure in the punctuality of her lover, Oriana practised many little stratagems that might enable her to send a messenger. Sometimes calling off a shepherd's lad from tending his flock, she would offer him a bribe to repair with all diligence to the village with a written paper, demanding the letter, under the feigned name by which it was addressed to her, whilst, during the interval, seated upon the turf, resembling a shepherdess of ancient fable, ​she took upon herself the attendance of the flock, and, however laborious the task, in keeping them from straying beyond the prescribed limits, yet the certain reward in view amply reconciled her to it. On these occasions, too, she would often be joined by Rosilia.
On the reception of the welcome letter, breathless with impatience, the seal was broken, the contents perused; that correspondence so cherished could alone console her for the absence of Philimore. His style was at once elegant, amusing, and instructive; at the same time fervent, impassioned, and exalted in sentiment; blameable and culpable only for being clandestine; what credit otherwise would those letters have reflected upon him, as also upon her to whom they were addressed!
The hopes of speedy church preferment began to be less frequently touched upon, and at length evaded altogether; he trusted, however, to advance in his professional career, and that a good Providence would in time crown his wishes and attachment with success. But, notwithstanding this encouraging language, moments often stole over Philimore when his conscience was far from being at rest on the subject of his passion; when he felt ​himself levelled, if not with the vile seducer, at least with the most humble of suitors.
Rosilia, during her late illness, had frequently called upon the names of Douglas and Philimore, so as to give rise to some inquiry in the minds of her parents, as to which of the two was the one preferred by her. A mental malady of such an afflictive nature as was her's, certainly must have originated in more than a common cause.
That her soul had been deeply impressed, there remained not a doubt; a more than ordinary seriousness since her refusal of Douglas, and since her residence in the country, had been very perceptible, but which they trusted time might alleviate. As it was not possible for them to discover any fresh subject of disquietude to operate on the mind of Rosilia, some suspicions naturally attached to Philimore as the cause, but which were not sufficiently grounded, as to confirm an idea of his having superseded Douglas so suddenly in her inclinations.
The second winter for passing at the Bower was approaching. Deprived of the society of the good Doctor and his amiable friend, the indulgent parents feared the continuance of such a total seclusion might produce still further distressing effects; ​and not more for Rosilia were these alarms excited than for Oriana, whom they perceived had evidently lost of late a part of her characteristic animation. It was with deep concern they saw each bury her juvenile prime, accomplishments, and merits in continual solitude.
How gladly would they have resigned one, or both alternately, to Mrs. Arden, during the winter months; they had fondly hoped she would have made the offer of having either of her nieces occasionally with her. The General could only suppose that since the demise of Sir Aubrey and Lady De Brooke, having no longer their countenance, she had been obliged to retract her former kindness to his children, in order to yield herself to the implicit guidance of Mr. Arden, who, in espousing her, might insinuate he had not espoused the cause of her family, and was in no way bound to support it.
Thus delicately situated as seemed his sister, the General relinquished the idea of his daughters receiving any advantage from her future beneficence. He, therefore, with Mrs. De Brooke, determined to afford them a change of scene, and to diversify the monotony of their existence by passing the winter in London.
News so unexpected, when communicated to the ​sisters, was received by Oriana with the greatest delight; Rosilia experienced pleasure also, but of a nature more calm, deriving its source from sympathy to her sister,—anticipating a residence in London, and consequent proximity to Philimore, might lead to a happy issue,—a final consummation of what was so devoutly to be wished for, the marriage of her beloved Oriana with the object of her choice. For herself she had no great partiality to London; the descriptions given of it by the respected Doctor Lovesworth, had not been flattering; its perpetual hurry and bustle was distasteful to her; and, above all, it was at London that Douglas had given himself to those pursuits and pleasures which had been the cause to her of so much past regret and sorrow.