Delphi Complete Works of William Godwin 1st ed. (2022), page 165
part #1 of Delphi Classics Series
As the dawn advanced, my disorder in a great degree subsided. At breakfast I saw the parties against whom these suspicions had been insinuated. I searched for guilt in their faces. I never saw a more charming and heartfelt serenity. The brightness of heaven was in their features. I looked round the room. I involuntarily said to myself (it was the contrast only that struck me; I was far from entertaining a suspicion against my confidential friend), ‘Under the olive-tinctured skin of Gifford, beneath his scowling brow, and among the lines which time and climate have indented there, hypocrisy might hide herself; but, in the other two, there is no opacity or discoloration to intercept the passage of a thought, there is not a furrow in their cheeks for treachery to lurk in. Mary, Heaven has moulded its own image in thy features: if thou art false, oh, then Heaven mocks itself!’
To the mind already indisposed to a liberal construction, every indifferent circumstance is food for jealousy. – Had Mary left any thing behind, in removing from one room to another? Kenrick was sure to be on the alert to present it to her. Did Mary prepare for a walk in the Circus, or the adjoining fields? Kenrick’s gloves and hat were immediately forthcoming. Kenrick had a fine voice and an admirable taste in singing; Mary had never, till now, discovered any vehement propensity that way; but now she was for ever requesting him to teach her his songs, and practising them with him without end. They danced together at every interval of leisure; or rather rehearsed particular movements, in which one or the other did not think they had arrived at sufficient ease or grace; while either, as chance directed, hummed the tune to the other’s steps. In this system of conduct Gifford was for ever urging them to persevere. If at any time they observed the deep melancholy that seemed to come over me, he assured them that nothing could operate upon me as a restorative, more than the appearance of gaiety and good spirits in my wife. If I left the apartment in displeasure, he warned them against taking the least notice, or suffering the smallest change in what they did. On the other hand, he was so frequently alone with me, that they placed the most implicit confidence in his information as to the state of my thoughts and my wishes. In short, he appeared to each party the good genius of the household, so benevolent, so attentive, so perpetually on the watch to prevent mistakes, and to provide for the tranquillity and advantage of all.
I had already, previously to the horrible idea which had now been intruded upon me, and which perpetually disturbed my mind, been incautious and wicked enough to complain to Gifford of the fickle temper of my wife. It is the first word, in cases of this sort, that rends in pieces the veil, as sacred as that which modesty draws over the female form, by the intervention of which, slight misapprehensions are enabled to digest and disperse themselves in silence. Having proceeded thus far, I could not help naming to him the thoughts that beset me about Kenrick. Gifford appeared to be astonished at the bare suggestion.
He would stake his life upon the integrity of the ensign. Honesty flowed in the very blood of the Kenricks. Could I be so inattentive as not to see, how a self-acquitting conscience brightened in the countenance of his brother, and gave liberty to all his motions? He must be free enough to put me upon my guard against the vice of my disposition, and to warn me not, by ill construction, to poison what in itself was as guileless as infancy. Poor Kenrick! Was he to be the victim of my groundless guesses? He was glad I had named the matter to him, as it was of infinite consequence to check a habit of this sort in the beginning. I had married a beautiful and excellent wife, through whose means he doubted not I should be blessed with a numerous progeny. What infinite gratifications were in store for me! But all these would be forfeited, if I did not repose in her the confidence she so justly demanded. The plagues that haunted a suspicious husband, were not less numerous than the joys which waited upon a generous one; he saw in his wife the instrument of his dishonour, his bosom-serpent. He could not toy with, and open the flood-gates of affection to, his children, without fearing that a bystander, who saw what passed behind the curtain, should deride him as the most miserable of gulls.
I named to him the woman, who had given me the mysterious hint at the door of the Upper Rooms. On this intelligence he appeared to ruminate.
‘Did I know her?’
‘No.’
‘Had I the smallest guess who she could be?’
‘None upon earth.’
‘It was strange! very strange! It was not easy to imagine what end she could have in view. An unknown could not have planned to begin with a step of this sort, to alienate my affections from my wife, that she might afterward fix them upon herself? What enemies could Mrs Fleetwood, or could Kenrick, have at Bath, where nobody knew them, and where, in every respect, their appearance was such as to engage all hearts in their favour?’
‘Be silent! Gifford!’ interposed I. ‘I cannot bear this methodical and coldblooded reasoning! I am sure my wife is innocent! Are you going to turn the enemy of her good name, and of my peace, at once?’
‘You are right, sir, quite right, in the confidence you thus generously repose. It does my heart good to see you take the thing so wisely!’
‘Who was this woman? Her warning voice pursues me for ever.’
‘Never mind who she was. There are people in the world, whose grand pleasure is malignity; whose delight it is to disturb the peace of families; who never witness a scene of happiness, without a wish to crush it. This anonymous accuser is one of them. Let not your noble mind be disturbed by such hateful trash!’
‘Oh, Gifford, what a life is mine! Why did I marry? I know, – I think, I ought to mistrust nothing between your brother and Mrs Fleetwood. Yet my sick imagination is for ever busy, shaping the attitudes and gestures which this monitor of mine saw, or pretends to have seen. Was it with hands, with eyes, or with lips, that they communicated their souls? Was the fire of lust in their glances? or did their smiles betray a conscious guilt? Did he thrust his arm about her waist, or with sacrilegious fingers invade the transparency of her bosom? – Pity me, Gifford! pity me! It is not enough that the act of lewdness has not been perpetrated; if Mary has for one instant wished that the tie which makes her mine had never been, the warrant of our divorce is gone forth in the tribunal of souls. Why are she and the ensign so continually together? why so familiar, so mutually pleased with each other?’
‘It is the proof of their innocence! Guilt is ever on the alarm!’
‘Is there no such thing as brazen, unfeeling guilt?’
‘Be tranquil, sir! I will speak to my brother. You shall not hereafter be offended in the same way.’
‘What will you say to him? Will you bid him pursue a guilty purpose with more prudence and caution? No; let me at least see their proceedings genuine and unforced! Otherwise I shall never be able to form a just conclusion, and shall be secretly more tormented than ever.’
What Gifford did in the affair I know not; but the evil grew worse, as I now perceive was always the case, when this pernicious confidant undertook for the cure. I must, however, be ingenuous enough to confess, that it would not have been easy for the young people so to have acted, as to have given me tranquillity. If they were familiar and sportive, I was distracted. Did they at any time appear more grave and less confidential? It was still worse. I believed they discerned the state of my mind, and were only playing a more treacherous game.
About a week after, the question again arose of their going to the Rooms. As soon as I was aware of this, my mind was distracted by a variety of plans. Should I forbid the scheme? Should I go myself, and watch their behaviour? How should I act? I had recourse to my oracle.
Gifford said, ‘By all means give way to their purpose. If you interpose, you will occasion much disturbance, and a discovery of your jealous thoughts. If you cannot dismiss these thoughts, go yourself, and watch their actions. If, on the other hand, you can adopt the generous confidence you so lately professed, this is the favourable moment to resume yourself, and discard such pernicious cares.’
‘I will go myself!’
‘There is, however, a difficulty in that. How can you be sure that their conduct will not be quite different, when they see that your eye is upon them?’
‘Gifford, you are my friend. Undertake this office for me. You may even witness their behaviour, at the same time that they shall not be aware of your presence.’
‘I, sir! I be a spy upon them! I play the eaves-dropper, and watch for intelligence from eyes! I enter into a plot against my brother! Where did you ever perceive in me the qualifications fitting me for so base a part?’
‘I thank you, Gifford! You have now told me all. I perceive plain enough that you know a great deal more than you have confessed. It is very well! I have no friend! I am the veriest wretch on earth! – If you did not believe them guilty, would you not eagerly embrace this opportunity for their vindication, which would afford you a prospect, if your opinion corresponded with your professions, of becoming the ambassador of peace to all?’
‘By my soul, I believe them innocent! I never will harbour a thought to the contrary. And, to convince you of my sincerity, I will undertake the office you propose!’
The party took place in the manner which was thus previously settled. I waited with impatience for the breaking up of the assembly. When they came home, I hurried Gifford to my private apartment. This was a thing that happened so frequently, as to have no tendency to excite notice.
We drew near to the table, and I looked in his face. I never saw dejection so powerfully expressed. His visage was colourless; his eyes averted with a mournful air; his hands hung down, as languid and incapable of motion.
‘What have you seen? What have you observed?’
He spoke not.
‘I need not ask you; I read it all in your countenance.’
‘No, nothing. Let us talk of it to-morrow morning.’
‘This hour! this instant! This is the moment of my fate. Gifford, by your eternal salvation I adjure you, do not trifle with me!’
He then proceeded to relate a most artful tale. It contained most of those particulars which my diseased imagination had before presented to my thoughts. It contained every thing of impropriety that could be supposed to pass before a public assembly. When Kenrick and Mary caught his eye, and perceived for the first time that he was in the Rooms, he owned that their faces were immediately overspread with the deepest crimson. Yet every circumstance seemed to come from the relater with unwillingness, and to be softened and qualified by the guardedness of his manner. From time to time he interposed that this was nothing, that it was mere giddiness and want of reflection, that all was meant in innocence. He concluded in a more earnest and impassioned tone:–
‘And now I have discharged the most painful office of my life. Your character, my dear sir, engages all my partialities; I feel the warmest gratitude to you as my benefactor. But never, never will I be put upon such a task again. What had I to do, to turn spy and accuser upon my brother? For God’s sake, sir, let my name never be mentioned in this business! I shall never forgive myself for this act of undue complaisance.’
By all these expressions he contrived to fix upon my mind the serious nature of the discoveries he had made. He proceeded:–
‘Forget for ever the conversation of this evening! It ought never to have existed. You have obliged me to repeat trifles the most frivolous and contemptible. I have sacrificed every thing to the faithful performance of my task. Yet, in spite of all the pains I have taken to bring these trifles down to their true level, I can see that you misconstrue every thing. Things make so different a figure, when brought regularly together in a narrative, from what they made as they actually passed. If you had yourself been present, you would have thought nothing of them. You are greatly moved. Do nothing rashly! Give the whole a dispassionate examination! If you make any conclusions to the disadvantage of my brother or Mrs Fleetwood, it is your own fault! Such conclusions have no support from me! I will stake my soul on their innocence!’
Ten times during the narrative of Gifford I felt impelled to seek the criminals, believing that such impudent neglect of all decorum could lead to nothing less than the immediate perpetration of guilt. Once he withheld me by force, and succeeded in soothing my tumultuous passions. A second time, when I had almost reached the parlour-door, I was called back by my own reflections, and said to myself, ‘Whatever is done in a case of this sort, must be done with deliberation and solemnity.’ Afterward, I met Mrs Fleetwood’s woman in the gallery, who appeased my passions by informing me, in answer to my enquiries, that her lady was gone up to her chamber, and that the ensign was alone in the supper-room.
I saw Mary no more that night. When I came to the chamber in which we rested, she was already asleep. I went softly and drew back her curtains. There was a sweet tranquillity in her countenance; her head reposed gracefully upon her snow-white arm. She looked, as one might conceive the archetype of her sex to have looked, before guilt or fear found entrance into the world.
I threw myself into an easy chair, and sat for some time in horrible musings. My mind vibrated between discordant and opposite judgments. Sometimes I said, ‘No, Mary, thou canst not be guilty! Guilt cannot incorporate with a demeanour like thine. Was ever any thing so artless, so simple, so heartfelt, as all thy accents? The very playfulness of thy temper is the pledge of thy integrity. Can guilt be so sweetly frolic? Can guilt smile so like an angel?’
Again, my ideas took an opposite beat. ‘Yes,’ said I, ‘this is the very character of the world in which I live. Storms, and tempests, and volcanoes are all beautiful or majestic. Destruction smiles on us from every side. Nature herself is the great parent-hypocrite, deluding us onward from the cradle to the grave. Her daughters do but inherit the same treacherous smiles, and tempt us to damnation!’ – Furious with these imaginations, I burst away from the bedchamber, and returned to the apartment where I had listened to the conversation of Gifford.
‘I will not injure,’ thought I, ‘the ill-starred daughter of Macneil, unless I had proofs that rose to demonstration. – Why do I inherit the guardianship of this desolate orphan? – Yes, Mary, I feel that my fate is for ever involved with thine! The sacred rite that joined us at the altar was a decree upon my life. Without thee, without thy affection, I must cease to be. – Then I am dead already!
‘One thing, however, I can do. I can separate thee, and this youth, the disturber of my peace. It is madness to keep him here. As long as he remains, his most innocent actions – God grant they indeed be innocent! – will fill my brain with images of frenzy. Would he were removed to the furthest island of the Indian sea! Would he were merged in the caverns of the ocean! – When he is gone, my respiration will no longer be choked. My judgment will be sound and free; and I shall make a true estimate of the past.’
CHAPTER X
I INVENTED AN errand for the ensign to the estate of Macneil in Westmorland. I had received proposals for the purchase of it; and, not being myself inclined to the journey, I requested Kenrick to take the business on himself. I further stated it as my pleasure, that he should set out by one or two o’clock of this very day.
I communicated my plan to the ensign as soon as he rose. He listened to it with that deference and desire to oblige, which characterised all his actions; but I could see that he was not delighted with the expedition.
‘And shall I return to Bath, my dear sir, when I have finished the business in Westmorland?’
‘No: after that, I have some employment for you in Merionethshire. By that time your leave of absence will have expired.’
I watched the countenances of Mary and Kenrick at the breakfast-table. I could see that he had informed her of my plan. All parties were unusually blank.
‘And so, my love,’ said she, after some minutes’ general silence, ‘we are going to lose my cousin?’
‘It is necessary, my dear. A business has occurred in which he can be of great use to me.’
‘I am sorry, methinks,’ resumed Mary, ‘that it is so sudden. I had counted upon a visit of two months. Edward (that was his name), I hope you will not forget us!’
‘Never will I forget the pleasure I have experienced at Bath, or this dear fireside, while I have life!’
In conversation like this, frankly demonstrating the sincere regard they entertained for each other, passed the time of breakfast. I withdrew early, and desired Kenrick to hold himself in readiness. When I called him in, and had given him the necessary directions, I held out my hand to him (though with an ill grace), because nothing had passed between us that entitled me to part with him in anger. He took it with both his.
‘My dear uncle,’ – thus he delighted to call me: in his playful and familiar moments he gave my wife the appellation of aunt; a circumstance, trifling in itself, yet strongly indicative of the innocence of his thoughts, – ‘My dear uncle, it breaks my heart to leave you thus. I can see I have offended you; all your motions prove it. What a foolish, hair-brained fellow am I! I wonder when I shall grow discreet and sober like my brother. I have done something heedless and disrespectful, or I have said something that I ought to cut out my tongue for. I am always getting into scrapes, and displeasing my best friends. If you could see my heart, I am sure you would not be angry with me. That has always acknowledged you for the best of men; nothing disobedient or unfaithful has ever harboured there. Dear uncle, forgive me! Now I am going away, I cannot offend you. I only wish to carry your love with me. I only wish you to say one word, to enable me to forgive myself.’
