الفصل الفصل 55 · A BRAVE MAN IN SORROW

. A BRAVE MAN IN SORROW

If my fair readers should be of opinion that my hero’s levity in love

is altogether unpardonable, I must remind them that all his griefs and

difficulties did not arise from that sentimental source. Even the lyric

poet who complains so feelingly of the pains of love could not forget,

that at the same time he was “in debt and in drink,” which, doubtless,

were great aggravations of his distress. There were, indeed, whole days

in which Waverley thought neither of Flora nor Rose Bradwardine, but

which were spent in melancholy conjectures on the probable state of

matters at Waverley-Honour, and the dubious issue of the civil contest

in which he was pledged. Colonel Talbot often engaged him in

discussions upon the justice of the cause he had espoused. “Not,” he

said, “that it is possible for you to quit it at this present moment,

for, come what will, you must stand by your rash engagement. But I wish

you to be aware that the right is not with you; that you are fighting

against the real interests of your country; and that you ought, as an

Englishman and a patriot, to take the first opportunity to leave this

unhappy expedition before the snowball melts.”

In such political disputes Waverley usually opposed the common

arguments of his party, with which it is unnecessary to trouble the

reader. But he had little to say when the Colonel urged him to compare

the strength by which they had undertaken to overthrow the government

with that which was now assembling very rapidly for its support. To

this statement Waverley had but one answer: “If the cause I have

undertaken be perilous, there would be the greater disgrace in

abandoning it.” And in his turn he generally silenced Colonel Talbot,

and succeeded in changing the subject.

One night, when, after a long dispute of this nature, the friends had

separated and our hero had retired to bed, he was awakened about

midnight by a suppressed groan. He started up and listened; it came

from the apartment of Colonel Talbot, which was divided from his own by

a wainscotted partition, with a door of communication. Waverley

approached this door and distinctly heard one or two deep-drawn sighs.

What could be the matter? The Colonel had parted from him apparently in

his usual state of spirits. He must have been taken suddenly ill. Under

this impression he opened the door of communication very gently, and

perceived the Colonel, in his night-gown, seated by a table, on which

lay a letter and a picture. He raised his head hastily, as Edward stood

uncertain whether to advance or retire, and Waverley perceived that his

cheeks were stained with tears.

As if ashamed at being found giving way to such emotion, Colonel Talbot

rose with apparent displeasure and said, with some sternness, “I think,

Mr. Waverley, my own apartment and the hour might have secured even a

prisoner against—”

“Do not say _intrusion_, Colonel Talbot; I heard you breathe hard and

feared you were ill; that alone could have induced me to break in upon

you.”

“I am well,” said the Colonel, “perfectly well.”

“But you are distressed,” said Edward; “is there anything can be done?”

“Nothing, Mr. Waverley; I was only thinking of home, and some

unpleasant occurrences there.”

“Good God, my uncle!” exclaimed Waverley.

“No, it is a grief entirely my own. I am ashamed you should have seen

it disarm me so much; but it must have its course at times, that it may

be at others more decently supported. I would have kept it secret from

you; for I think it will grieve you, and yet you can administer no

consolation. But you have surprised me,—I see you are surprised

yourself,—and I hate mystery. Read that letter.”

The letter was from Colonel Talbot’s sister, and in these words:—

I received yours, my dearest brother, by Hodges. Sir E. W. and Mr. R.

are still at large, but are not permitted to leave London. I wish to

Heaven I could give you as good an account of matters in the square.

But the news of the unhappy affair at Preston came upon us, with the

dreadful addition that you were among the fallen. You know Lady Emily’s

state of health, when your friendship for Sir E. induced you to leave

her. She was much harassed with the sad accounts from Scotland of the

rebellion having broken out; but kept up her spirits, as, she said, it

became your wife, and for the sake of the future heir, so long hoped

for in vain. Alas, my dear brother, these hopes are now ended!

Notwithstanding all my watchful care, this unhappy rumour reached her

without preparation. She was taken ill immediately; and the poor infant

scarce survived its birth. Would to God this were all! But although the

contradiction of the horrible report by your own letter has greatly

revived her spirits, yet Dr. —— apprehends, I grieve to say, serious,

and even dangerous, consequences to her health, especially from the

uncertainty in which she must necessarily remain for some time,

aggravated by the ideas she has formed of the ferocity of those with

whom you are a prisoner.

“Do therefore, my dear brother, as soon as this reaches you,

endeavour to gain your release, by parole, by ransom, or any way

that is practicable. I do not exaggerate Lady Emily’s state of

health; but I must not—dare not—suppress the truth. Ever, my dear

Philip, your most affectionate sister,

LUCY TALBOT.

Edward stood motionless when he had perused this letter; for the

conclusion was inevitable, that, by the Colonel’s journey in quest of

him, he had incurred this heavy calamity. It was severe enough, even in

its irremediable part; for Colonel Talbot and Lady Emily, long without

a family, had fondly exulted in the hopes which were now blasted. But

this disappointment was nothing to the extent of the threatened evil;

and Edward, with horror, regarded himself as the original cause of

both.

Ere he could collect himself sufficiently to speak, Colonel Talbot had

recovered his usual composure of manner, though his troubled eye

denoted his mental agony.

“She is a woman, my young friend, who may justify even a soldier’s

tears.” He reached him the miniature, exhibiting features which fully

justified the eulogium; “and yet, God knows, what you see of her there

is the least of the charms she possesses—possessed, I should perhaps

say—but God’s will be done.”

“You must fly—you must fly instantly to her relief. It is not—it shall

not be too late.”

“Fly? how is it possible? I am a prisoner, upon parole.”

“I am your keeper; I restore your parole; I am to answer for you.”

“You cannot do so consistently with your duty; nor can I accept a

discharge from you, with due regard to my own honour; you would be made

responsible.”

“I will answer it with my head, if necessary,” said Waverley

impetuously. “I have been the unhappy cause of the loss of your child,

make me not the murderer of your wife.”

“No, my dear Edward,” said Talbot, taking him kindly by the hand, “you

are in no respect to blame; and if I concealed this domestic distress

for two days, it was lest your sensibility should view it in that

light. You could not think of me, hardly knew of my existence, when I

left England in quest of you. It is a responsibility, Heaven knows,

sufficiently heavy for mortality, that we must answer for the foreseen

and direct result of our actions; for their indirect and consequential

operation the great and good Being, who alone can foresee the

dependence of human events on each other, hath not pronounced his frail

creatures liable.”

“But that you should have left Lady Emily,” said Waverley, with much

emotion, “in the situation of all others the most interesting to a

husband, to seek a—”

“I only did my duty,” answered Colonel Talbot, calmly, “and I do not,

ought not, to regret it. If the path of gratitude and honour were

always smooth and easy, there would be little merit in following it;

but it moves often in contradiction to our interest and passions, and

sometimes to our better affections. These are the trials of life, and

this, though not the least bitter” (the tears came unbidden to his

eyes), “is not the first which it has been my fate to encounter. But we

will talk of this to-morrow,” he said, wringing Waverley’s hands.

“Good-night; strive to forget it for a few hours. It will dawn, I

think, by six, and it is now past two. Good-night.”

Edward retired, without trusting his voice with a reply.