# Duty and Inclination/Chapter 62

CHAPTER XIX.
"The selfish heart deserves the pains it feels;
More gen'rous sorrow while it sinks exalts,
And conscious virtue mitigates the pang."
Young.
The nurse of little Rose having much desired the satisfaction of spending a few weeks with her mother, Mrs. Melbourne during the interval not wishing to put her into the hands of a stranger, with the consent of Douglas had allowed the child to accompany her. When, therefore, the time being more than expired for their remaining absent, and when, in company with Mrs. Melbourne, Douglas went to bring her home, in the anticipated delight of seeing his child, to shorten the interval, pursuing on foot a by-path leading direct to the cottage, he little dreamed how great was the surprise awaiting him.
The long-lost, loved Rosilia was to be shortly restored to his sight; but what concern was mingled with the ecstasy of his feelings, to behold her on a sudden environed by the shades of death! And whilst his eyes intently gazed upon her, all doubt as to that object he had seen before was instantly dispelled! It ​was not one resembling Rosilia, but it was Rosilia herself, of this he felt assured, who, in passing, had been accidentally thrown in his way in Baker-street, whilst supported on crutches; none other but she, in the momentary glance he had caught of her, could have had the power of conveying that charm to his soul, and of calling from him the rapturous exclamation he had uttered.
He little thought that, in acting the part of a tender guardian to his child, she had become as equally dear and necessary to her as a mother. That beloved girl who had formerly impressed her image upon his heart, re-animating from a temporary suspension of thought and motion, appeared before him, invested with the most enchanting graces, replete in goodness, in all that could render her lovely and ravishing to his sight! He had once offered himself a candidate for her hand, he had aspired to her affections, but had met with repulse, the cause of which existed with herself alone; conscious he had possessed the ability of rendering himself acceptable, otherwise, to her parents.
How greatly had he suffered, how cruel had been his disappointment! but it was from thence his pride and vanity had received their first check. It was truly to Rosilia, then, he owed that sense of his own unworthiness, that deep compunction, which had effected a change so salutary, and that secret calm of a self-approving conscience he now possessed. Such considerations, added to the first early and vivid ​impressions awakened in her favour, gave her a complete ascendancy over him. How, therefore, did his heart throb with emotion when, during his stay at the Hermitage, Dr. Lovesworth, in his general praises of the De Brookes, paused to recount more particularly the virtues of Rosilia!
Douglas had frequent opportunities of seeing and conversing with her; but those short intervals of happiness only increased the regret he endured when no longer cheered by her presence. So much true respect united in his admiration and tenderness, that Rosilia felt herself encouraged to a perfect confidence in him, visible in her whole appearance, the attention given to his discourse, the spontaneous remark, the gentle and sweet smile; insomuch that Douglas, in acquiring humility, must have lost his former penetration, into what might gratify his vanity, not to have discovered the nature of Rosilia's sentiments towards him.
The dear Little Rose had returned with her nurse, for the express purpose of acquiescing with the desire of Rosilia, who had wished to have her near her; and the day arrived when she was not only destined to part with that sweet child, but, as she imagined, the father also, and that perhaps for ever. She endeavoured to conceal the oppression of her heart, and succeeded tolerably well until the hour arrived that was to put her courage to the severest trial: her emotions were obvious.
The searching eye of Douglas seemed riveted upon ​her, as if reading her inmost thoughts. She could not support that gaze, succeeded by one of such melting tenderness—a look that might have spoken volumes, and might have relieved her of every disquietude short only of language itself; it would have told her that he lived but in her. He asked himself, "Is it the parting from my little Rose that occasions such affectionate regret?" Powerful as were his own feelings, almost tempting him to throw himself at her feet, and make a full acknowledgment of his unvaried and never-ceasing love; yet his recollections of Harcourt, and circumstances therewith connected, the certainty of his expected arrival in England, restrained his utterance, threw a sort of spell over him, enchained by a species of self-command insupportably agonizing.
"Tell me, thou syren Hope, deceiver, say,
 Where is the promised period of my woes?
Full three long lingering years have roll'd away,
 And yet I weep, a stranger to repose."
He flung himself into a chair. The benign Dr. Lovesworth observed the internal conflict in both, but most in Douglas, and felt almost persuaded as to the cause; but delicacy forbad his interference.
"My good Doctor," at length said Douglas falteringly, "I am not quite so well to-day, and though I may appear whimsical in not having sooner yielded to your entreaty, yet I will do myself the pleasure of spending another day with you."
How soul-reviving was the glance he next caught ​from Rosilia's uplifted eloquent eye, containing all of human loveliness, and in its celestial grace apparently so full of anxious solicitude for himself; yet, however vivifying its effect, it could not disperse those mournful images, crowding upon his ideas, arising from the singularity of his untoward destiny—that strange fatality intervening between him and happiness, encompassing him by a reserve so myeterious, and so wholly foreign to his natural character: "Time," thought he, "will discover what I now feel myself bound in honour to conceal."
If Douglas had been less open to compassion, sympathy, and humanity; had he been, on the contrary, wholly absorbed in his own self-interests and gratifications, his heart might still have vibrated to a sense of joy; prompted by his ardent sentiments, he might have offered himself a second time to Rosilia, been accepted, and thus have insured to himself the hand of her so much beloved. But no, placing himself in the situation of Harcourt, he generously entered into the nature of his feelings; he was acquainted with his enthusiastic character, and, above all, he had received his friendly confidence: the fervent soul of his friend had been poured into his bosom, and his last parting exclamation on the shores of India had been, "Should you meet with the object of my idolatry, speak to her of me, use your interest for me."
Such words continuing to sound upon his ears, what, therefore, remained for him but a total ​passiveness of character and to teach himself submission to the irremediable decrees of an all-wise Providence?
A thousand times the following morning Rosilia asked herself the question, "I wonder if he will really go?" Her father had walked to the Hermitage, and she looked for his return with a wistful impatience. She bent her eye constantly towards that little pathway where he would first appear on his approach to the house. She saw him at last coming, accompanied by the Doctor; her heart told her that Douglas was gone, and its beatings increased as they drew near; she would fain have flown to meet them, but her timid fears restrained her. She heard the accents of her father—
"Douglas is gone!" said he; "I was just in time to see him ere he departed."
It was sufficient,—she had heard aright; and Rosilia sat for some time plunged in the deepest meditation: at length, arousing from her reverie, that innate pride of what was due to herself, that keen susceptibility, refinement, delicacy she possessed, alternately prevailing, suppressed the sigh; the conflict had been severe: yet that thoughts of her would sometimes cross the soul of Douglas she felt a persuasion beyond the possibility of doubt,—the conviction of which arose from the faithful recollection of every look, word, gesture he had unconsciously bestowed upon her. Perhaps, when he returned from Scotland, he might be again led to visit the Hermitage. However, uncertain as was every supposition she ​formed upon the probabilities of the future, every consideration on her own account was laid aside by the claims her beloved Oriana held upon her affection.
She received a summons from her parents to participate in the perusal of a letter, which had just reached them, from her sister. Anxiously desirous for the unrestrained indulgence and sympathies of home, Oriana had expressed herself accordingly; at the Park, in order to make her company agreeable, she felt herself constantly under the trying necessity of suppressing her real feelings: but, above all, she longed to embrace her dear parents, to throw herself into their arms, and solicit their entire forgiveness for the past; to be cheered and soothed by the dear companion of her happier hours.
After discussing the point, the General determined to set off for London without delay, that he might not only take charge of Oriana himself, but render his personal thanks acceptable to Mr. Arden and his sister, for the kindness they had manifested towards his child, in having so long afforded her their protection, and also for their ready compliance in again yielding her to his wishes.
It was at the period of the year when the Doctor usually left his Hermitage; those attached friends therefore agreed to travel together; and after taking a temporary farewell of the loved inmates of the Bower, the General, accompanied by the Doctor, proceeded on his journey.
Mrs. De Brooke and Rosilia were consequently ​left in complete solitude, with but little other resource than that derived from each other's company.
The time, however, did not pass heavily; on the contrary, it was usually varied by a succession of avocations, either pleasurable or useful, and the anticipation of a happy and speedy reunion.
The house stood in a situation so embowered, solitary, and remote from others, that when evening closed in, Mrs. De Brooke and her daughter, had they not reposed their security on the usual tranquillity of the neighbourhood, might have felt their courage forsake them; and the more so as at that time they happened to be deprived of an indoor man-servant—a circumstance chiefly regretted by them on account of a desire they entertained to make an excursion to the residence of Mrs. Boville.
In tête-a-tête with each other during the hour of twilight, the dusky shades of approaching night throwing upon all objects a sort of fearful solemnity, Mrs. De Brooke was informed that a young man had come to offer himself as a servant.
"It is very à propos" said she to her daughter, "should he be found to suit, on account of the excursion we were meditating."
Being shown into the apartment, Mrs. De Brooke questioned him very minutely relative to his capacities, and whether he was an experienced driver. He was a young man of good appearance, seemingly about the age of twenty-five. Mrs. De Brooke felt a prepossession in his favour. He produced several ​certificates, all of which bore testimony to his merits, and she accordingly hired him.
During the whole period between his coming into and quitting the room, a sort of panic had seized Rosilia, who was not given to forbode evil, but was, in this instance, terrified by the idea that he might be one of a gang of robbers, and had presented himself at so late an hour with the intent only of gaining entrance into the house, and, as the dead of night advanced, of admitting his comrades. The rapidity and singular vivacity of his remarks, the large open eye, rolling upon her, the continual motion of his person, the foot advancing, then retreating,—were these gestures the effect of timid awkwardness, so often witnessed in his class upon their first recommendation of themselves? The bold and daring look contradicted the suggestion; and whenever Rosilia's eye, in spite of herself, strayed to where he stood, she was sensible of an inward shudder: "How precipitate," thought she, "has my mother been to engage him at such an hour!"
Her fears thus prevailing, she communicated them to her mother as soon as the object of them had retired, who not in the least participating in them, they gradually subsided; but for an interval only, for, when retired to her chamber, during the hours of repose, every sound intimidated her; the growling of their faithful dog, or a halfsuppressed bark, brought the looks of the new domestic again before her sight.
​ Her apprehensions were only dispersed by the early dawn, and rising, as was her custom, to breathe the fresh air of her garden, she a thousand times blamed herself for the unjust alarms she had allowed to conquer her better reason.
About two hours after breakfast the carriage, according to order, was punctually at the door, and the new driver in attendance, with a mien less appalling than on the preceding evening: assisted by his arm, Rosilia sprung joyously into the carriage that was to convey her to Grove Place, where Mrs. Melbourne, the friend of Douglas and the godmother of his child, resided.
After a few hours, ride they reached the habitation of Mrs. Boville, who, with her sister Mrs. Melbourne, received them with the greatest demonstrations of pleasure. The little Rose, immediately upon seeing Rosilia, recognised her friend of the cottage, and, springing to meet her, sought by a thousand playful caresses to show her joy, which was equally participated on the part of Rosilia, endeared to her, even ere she could have formed the faintest supposition to whom she belonged. How doubly engaging—what an attractive spell bound her now that her parentage was no longer hidden—revealed under such touching and interesting circumstances! The tender embrace she was wont to bestow, was now accompanied by a sensation of the heart so deep, so acute, as even to affect her to tears.
Mrs. Melbourne good-humouredly declared "she ​was jealous of her god-daughter's fondness for Rosilia;" adding, "she truly believed the child felt for her a greater preference than for herself;" upon which Rosilia, raising the little cherub upon her lap, again clasped her to her bosom, and whilst still bending over that pledge of past affection, lent an attentive ear to the pride and pleasure with which Mrs. Melbourne expatiated upon the virtues of the father.
A pause ensuing, Mrs. De Brooke inquired the cause of his so suddenly leaving India, at a moment when, being appointed to the staff, his situation was so honourable and lucrative; and whether it had sprung from the pernicious effects of the climate upon his constitution, which appeared to have so much suffered.
Rosilia recollected to have put the same question upon her first meeting with Douglas at the cottage, and remembered the emotion he had then betrayed; for which reason she listened with greater curiosity to the account given by Mrs. Melbourne, who, however, being in total ignorance of the associations of ideas connected with the wound he had received in defence of Harcourt, and his repairing to England in consequence, had not the power to convey to Rosilia any conception of the nature of those deep conflicts he was necessitated, upon Harcourt's account, to endure for her sake. The friendship and the rivalship existing between Harcourt and himself, the painful and delicate situation in which he found himself placed, called for the ​suppression of a passion which he gloried in, and which he conceived ennobled him. No wonder his emotions, as witnessed by Rosilia, became at times too powerful to conceal.
Mrs. Melbourne gave the relation of Douglas as she had heard it from her husband the Colonel, and which being entirely connected with the day of the repression of the insurrection, she dwelt forcibly upon the valour of Douglas, the exploits he had performed, and finally, the cause which had led to the wound he had received, reflecting upon him such infinite credit, and magnanimity, equalled only by the humanity and friendship which actuated the deed.
"Colonel Melbourne," said she, in continuation, "did not leave the field until he was assured Douglas still breathed, and was taken to his tent. The general conduct of Douglas had invariably procured him the esteem of every one; but his bravery on this day, and the fatal consequences to himself likely to result from it, spread amidst the troops and officers in command the most intense enthusiasm and adoration of him. Never did any one submit to more protracted sufferings with greater patience, as the surgeon informed me, and to which alone he attributed his recovery, assisted by the change of climate. Thus I have explained the cause of his return to England, which had you asked him, he doubtless would not have given himself, as he modestly throws a veil over his best actions. No one is more silent respecting ​himself than Douglas, and yet no one is more universally admired."
Had Mrs. Melbourne, during the course of her relation, occasionally raised her eyes to those of Rosilia, she would have found, by the tears glittering in them, and by the glowing colouring of her cheeks, how deeply her words had sunk into her heart.