CHAPTER IV.

For I have drunk the cup of bitterness, And having drunk therein of heavenly grace, I must not put away the cup of shame.

SOUTHEY.

Years rolled on. Lord Sotheron was more and more engrossed in public affairs, and the time at length arrived when Maria regretted those days when he was unknown, and unnoticed, but when she at least enjoyed the society of him for whom she had sacrificed every thing.

Her boys went to a public school. It was not till they had been there for some time, that Maria remarked there was a great change in Edward. His spirits, which had been constantly and exuberantly gay, were now only occasionally elevated. His temper, formerly mild and even, was now sometimes stern and morose; if his brother thwarted him, he yielded immediately, but it was with a sort of proud humility. Instead of asking the servants to mend any of the implements of his boyish amusements, and applying to them for all the various little services so often asked, and so willingly performed, he would pass whole days mending his own tools; he would walk off to the village to get his knife sharpened, and scrupulously pay for it; in short, there seemed to pervade every action, a desire not to be beholden to any one. He was tender to his mother, fond of his sister, kind to his brother; still there was something unsatisfactory in his manner.

His pursuits were solitary; he did not want the companionship of his brother; and Charles, in his turn, would say, “Oh! Edward goes his own way, so I shall go mine.” It sometimes occurred that both could not ride, or that both could not shoot, or that there was only one place in the carriage on some excursion of pleasure. On such occasions, Edward invariably said he preferred staying at home. At length the feeling that was rankling in the bosom of the elder boy was inadvertently betrayed.

Edward had seated himself next to his mother at dinner, when Charles said, laughingly, “This is too bad, Edward; you sat by mamma yesterday; it is not fair play. Come, turn out!”

With a flushed cheek, and an angry eye, the colour mounting to his very temples, he exclaimed in a tone but little justified by the occasion:—

“I won’t! I have as good a right as you to sit by my mother at least. From _this_ place you shall not turn me out.”

Charles answered, “Why, Edward, you are grown so crabbed, I don’t know what is come to you; however, I shall have merrier playfellows than you, when I get back to school.”

Maria more than suspected that Edward had learned the history of his own birth; and she also perceived that the indignant sense of honour, and the independent spirit, which if properly directed, might lead to all that is most brilliant and admirable, were likely, in Edward’s unfortunate circumstances, to spoil a disposition naturally amiable and noble.

Oh! how painfully did it then strike her, that her fault was thus visited upon her children! She saw the probability of disunion between the brothers, and it was only by true and cordial affection that their relative situations could be sweetened to either of them. She reflected deeply and bitterly upon the subject. Profiting perhaps by the errors in her own education, she had long come to the conclusion that the best mode of fitting human creatures for the world in which they are to live, and the station they are to fill in that world, is to tell them the truth upon all subjects, and to make them acquainted with the feelings and interests of their parents.

On all other topics she had done so, as much as possible; but in this instance, could she herself be the person to lay bare her own and their father’s errors? And yet, if Edward already knew the fact of his illegitimacy, it were better he should learn to view his mother with pity, than with contempt; better he should know how truly she repented her fault, than imagine she was hardened in guilt; better that Charles should learn his own superior prospects in a manner that should open and soften his heart towards his brother. And then her daughter Emily! Would it not be cruel to leave her in ignorance of her mother’s situation till she came out into the world, when the painful truth must be forced upon her in the most humiliating manner, by a thousand inevitable circumstances?

She confided her mental struggles to Mrs. Fitz-Eustace, who almost constantly resided at Stonebury, and from whom she had now no hidden thought.

Eleanor kindly offered to spare her the painful task; but she recalled to her the restraint that had chilled their intercourse, while the one subject of strong and mutual interest had been avoided; and she also reminded her, how, from the moment they had poured out their hearts to each other, all coldness, all reserve, had vanished for ever.

“How necessary is it, then, that I, and my children, should understand each other’s hearts! Yes, whatever it may cost me, I will tell them all; and if by suffering, guilt may be atoned, I shall thus, in some degree, expiate my offence, for Heaven alone can judge how keenly I shall suffer?”

Lord Sotheron had been for some time absent, nor was he likely to return. His party had lately come into power, and he was eagerly desirous of a public situation of trust, for which his talents particularly fitted him. His absences were become so frequent, and of such long duration, that Maria had lost the habit of referring her every action to him.

Emily was thirteen, and Edward fifteen; when Maria one morning summoned them all three to her dressing-room. Her cheek was pale, her eye, though sad, was resolved. She called each to her side, and she imprinted upon each smooth open brow, a fervent kiss. Then clasping her hands, she uttered:—

“May God bless you, my children, and strengthen you and preserve you in that innocence which is the only thing to be truly and earnestly prayed for! May He in his mercy bless you! My children, the blessing of a mother is good for the souls of her children, let that mother’s errors be what they may. Come nearer, dears. Let me hold your hands; and you must promise you will still love me. I am going to confess to you, my children, the error;—yes, I will utter the word—the crime of my youth. I was a married woman when I first knew your father. But he to whom I was married did not care for me; perhaps it was my fault he did not—I will not throw any blame on him. My heart was desolate! Your father saw me unhappy, and he pitied me—he loved me. I forgot my duties, forgot the vow I had breathed at the altar, in the sight of God; I left the husband I had sworn to love, and gave the love which was his due to another. This is a dreadful, a heinous sin, my children, and this sin did your mother commit! But you have been early taught to read your Bible, and you have there learned that there is more joy in Heaven over one repentant sinner, than over ninety and nine just men who need no repentance. Oh, blessed words! How many thousand thousand times have I read, and re-read ye! Ye alone have preserved me from sinking under the load of my guilt. Yes, my children, I have repented; deeply, earnestly, bitterly, unceasingly. I may truly say, my sin is ever before me. Oh! if repentance can find mercy at the throne of Heaven, let it find mercy at your hands, my children! Pardon, pardon your erring mother!” and worked up beyond her powers of endurance, she threw herself on her knees at their feet.

They rushed to her, they kissed her, they raised her to the sofa, they soothed her, they wept over her, they lavished on her every most touching expression of affection, they assured her of their love, their respect, their veneration.

“Stop! stop! beloved ones. Do not let your tenderness to me blind you to the reality of my sin. Love me! Yes, love me still, but I must not let that love confound in your young minds the distinctions between virtue and vice. I am not yet come to the end. I have to tell you how the errors of the fathers are visited upon the children.

“Even you, my Emily, know that unless parents are solemnly married according to the law of the land, the children do not inherit their name or their property, and alas! alas! you, Edward, came into this weary world, before my former marriage was cancelled. Upon your head are my sins visited. Yes: and upon yours Charles, and yours Emily, for you have a mother, whom you must not honour, for whom you must blush before the world.”

“Oh, mamma, mamma,” they cried at once, “we love you, we honour you! Oh! that we could prove how much we love you,—better than ever!”

“Thanks, thanks! my own dear, innocent, good children! And would you really do all you can to sooth my anguish, to lessen the keenness of my remorse?”

Edward exclaimed, “Oh, mother, don’t talk so—any thing—every thing!”

“Then listen, Edward! I have remarked your altered manner. I felt certain that at school you had heard some of the circumstances of your birth, and I resolved that from my lips you should all learn the truth, the whole truth. It was, if possible, more painful to imagine you hearing your mother scornfully spoken of, than to be my own accuser. Oh! my boy! if you knew the agony of self-accusation that racked me, when I saw you thus reserved and melancholy, you would have thrown off your gloom. I know you would! Oh! Edward, in pity to your penitent parent, be once more your gay, ingenuous self. You know how dear you are to every one in this house. You need not wrap yourself up in solitary pride. If my children should not love each other, then am I punished indeed!” And she pressed her hands tight over her eyes, as if to shut out the horrid picture.

Edward burst into tears, threw his arms round Charles, and gave him a warm, and heart-felt fraternal kiss.

“And you, Charles, who have bright prospects before you, as far as worldly prosperity tends to happiness, think whose fault deprives your brother of these advantages, and for my sake love him, Charles, more dearly than brother ever loved brother.”

“That I will indeed, mamma,” cried Charles.

“My Emily! If you would honour your mother, prove to the world that she could guide your mind to the strictest virtue. Let your conduct be such as in some measure to redeem my fame!”

The effect of this scene upon her children was such as to repay Maria for all it had cost her. The brothers were inseparable. Edward became cheerful, and he willingly accepted all the little kindnesses that Charles omitted no opportunity of offering him. In Charles, there was a tone of deference to his elder brother, which was very winning, and which went straight to the generous heart of Edward.

One fine winter’s morning Mrs. Fitz-Eustace and Maria were watching the two noble boys, as with keepers, dogs, and guns, they were before the windows preparing for a shooting expedition. They were talking and laughing joyously with each other, and Maria turning to Mrs. Fitz-Eustace with tearful, but beaming eyes, exclaimed, “I was right, dearest mother, was I not, to tell them every thing? Painful as it was, it has had the desired effect. Oh! how can parents who have nothing to blush for, maintain a causeless and mysterious reserve towards their children! Perhaps many a prodigal might have been prudent and thoughtful, if he had known how, for his sake, his parents were struggling to keep up a decent appearance in the world. Confidence produces confidence, and children would have the habit of communicating each feeling as it arose, and while it was yet capable of being checked, or guided aright.” And as she spoke, she thought if she had felt that tender, fearless, confidence in her parents, perhaps her mother might have read the guilty secret of her heart, and have guarded her against its fatal consequences.

The office which Lord Sotheron had so eagerly sought was given to another, and there appeared in the papers a paragraph alluding to the disappointed hopes of a certain noble earl, and the necessity that morality should be upheld by the private, as well as the public, character of those in high official situations.

This paragraph met the eye of the two persons to whom it could give the most acute pain. It crushed, it humbled Maria to the very dust. She felt she was, in truth, a blight upon her husband’s prospects, and she sunk under the painful conviction.

Lord Sotheron returned to his home, humbled also, but soured and embittered. He was angry with himself for having condescended to solicit, indignant with ministers for having refused, and estranged from Maria, whom he looked upon as the clog which must ever prevent his rising in the career for which he felt himself formed. Hitherto, although neglectful, he had never been unkind; indeed, on any occasion of illness or distress, he had been attentive and devoted; she had flattered herself that, although often dormant, his affection for her was still all there. But ambition, like the love of gambling, when once it possesses the mind, gradually swallows up all other feelings, and he was now captious, sullen, he spoke sharply to her, seemed bored with what she said, and occasionally implied that she could know nothing of what was going on in the world. She suffered in silence. This was not a case in which open communication would be of any avail. When did a discussion ever call back to life extinct affection? Affection once extinct, what material had she to work upon? There were moments when she thought it hard _he_ should be the person, in manner, if not in words, to reproach her for her error. At least that error was mutual, and she remembered the arguments, the entreaties, the vows, the oaths he had employed to lead her to the very step for which he now despised her. But oftener, far oftener, she found excuses for him in that heart where he was so dearly cherished; she reflected how galling it must be to a proud and eager temper to have sued in vain; she looked back with tenderness and gratitude to the many proofs of affection he had given her in former times, and she pitied rather than resented his present irritation.

Mrs. Fitz-Eustace remarked with sorrow the altered temper of her son, but her health, which had been of late declining, had in some measure communicated its languor to her mind. She was gradually fading away, but so gradually, that it was not till she was very near her end, that her son began to take alarm.

Extreme in every thing, he was angry with her for not having warned him of the state of her health. He reproached her for having allowed her sickness to creep on without calling their attention to the alarming symptoms of which she was herself aware. She gently smiled, and told him death had no terrors for one, for whom life had no charms.

“If I had seen you happy—” she added, “but as it is, I look forward almost with impatience to the moment of re-union with him from whom my heart has never for one moment been severed.”

As Walter and Maria knelt by their mother’s death-bed, as she blessed them both with her faint sweet voice, their hearts once more opened to each other, and they mingled tears of sorrow which to Maria were not wholly devoid of sweetness.

As she gazed on the marble brow and the closed lids of that placid countenance, she envied the spirit that was at rest, the heart that was not torn by a thousand conflicting feelings, and she longed to be laid in the quiet grave beside her. Alas! she had not yet exhausted the varied sufferings awaiting one

“Who, loving virtue, but by passion driven To worst extremes, must never, never more Honour herself——”

Yet Maria had been more fortunate than many under the same circumstances. She had not been deserted by him for whom she had sacrificed every thing; on the contrary, he had made every reparation in his power. She had been kindly received by his family, she enjoyed rank and riches, her children were dutiful and affectionate, no adventitious circumstances aggravated her wretchedness.

The miseries described in the preceding narrative are simply those to which every erring woman is liable.