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Memoirs of Emma Courtney by Mary Hays
Memoirs of Emma Courtney Chapter 1 No.1
Change of scene, regular employment, attention to my pupils, and the conscious pride of independence, afforded a temporary relief to my spirits. My first care, on my arrival in town, was to gladden the mind of my dear benefactress, by a minute detail of the present comforts and occupations.
She had charged me with affectionate remembrance and letters to her son. I enclosed these letters; and, after informing him (in the cover) of the change of my situation, and the incident which had occasioned it, complained of the silence he had observed towards my last letter.
-'If,' said I, 'from having observed the social and sympathetic nature of our feelings and affections, I suffered myself to yield, involuntarily, to the soothing idea, that the ingenuous avowal of an attachment so tender, so sincere, so artless, as mine, could not have been unaffecting to a mind with which my own proudly claimed kindred:-if I fondly believed, that simplicity, modesty, truth-the eye beaming with sensibility, the cheek mantling with the glow of affection, the features softened, the accents modulated, by ineffable tenderness, might, in the eyes of a virtuous man, have supplied the place of more dazzling accomplishments, and more seductive charms: if I over-rated my own merit, and my own powers-surely my mistakes were sufficiently humiliating! You should not, indeed you should not, have obliged me to arrive at the conviction through a series of deductions so full of mortification and anguish. You are too well acquainted with the human heart not to be sensible, that no certainty can equal the misery of conjecture, in a mind of ardour-the agonizing images which suspense forces upon the tender and sensible heart! You should have written, in pity to the situation of my mind. I would have thanked you for being ingenuous, even though, like Hamlet, you had spoke daggers. I expected it, from your character, and I had a claim to your sincerity.
'But it is past!-the vision is dissolved! The barbed arrow is not extracted with more pain, than the enchantments of hope from the ardent and sanguine spirit! But why am I to lose your friendship? My heart tells me, I have not deserved this! Do not suspect, that I have so little justice, or so little magnanimity, as to refuse you the privilege, the enviable privilege, of being master of your own affections. I am unhappy, I confess; the principal charm of my life is fled, and the hopes that should enliven future prospects are faint: melancholy too often obscures reason, and a heart, perhaps too tender, preys on itself.
'I suspect I had formed some vain and extravagant expectations. I could have loved you, had you permitted it, with no mean, nor common attachment.-My words, my looks, my actions, betrayed me, ere I suffered my feelings to dictate to my pen. Would to God, I had buried this fatal secret in the bottom of my soul! But repentance is, now, too late. Yet the sensible heart yearns to disclose itself-and to whom can it confide its sentiments, with equal propriety, as to him who will know how to pity the errors, of which he feels himself, however involuntarily, the cause? The world might think my choice in a confident singular; it has been my misfortune seldom to think with the world, and I ought, perhaps, patiently to submit to the inconveniences to which this singularity has exposed me.
'I know not how, without doing myself a painful violence, to relinquish your society; and why, let me again ask, should I? I now desire only that repose which is the end of doubt, and this, I think, I should regain by one hour's frank conversation with you; I would compose myself, listen to you, and yield to the sovereignty of reason. After such an interview, my mind-no longer harrassed by vague suspicion, by a thousand nameless apprehensions and inquietudes-should struggle to subdue itself-at least, I would not permit it to dictate to my pen, not to bewilder my conduct. I am exhausted by perturbation. I ask only certainty and rest.
'Emma.'
A few days after I had written the preceding letter, Mr Harley called on me. Mrs Denbeigh was with me on his entrance; I would have given worlds to have received him alone, but had not courage to hint this to my relation. Overwhelmed by a variety of emotions, I was unable for some time to make any reply to his friendly enquiries after my health, and congratulations on my amended prospects. My confusion and embarrassment were but too apparent; perceiving my distress, he kindly contrived to engage my hostess in discourse, that I might have time to rally my spirits. By degrees, I commanded myself sufficiently to join in the conversation-I spoke to him of his mother, expressed the lively sense I felt of her goodness, and my unaffected regret at parting with her. Animated by my subject, and encouraged by the delicacy of Augustus, I became more assured: we retraced the amusements and studies of H--shire, and two hours passed delightfully and insensibly away, when Mrs Denbeigh was called out of the room to speak to a person who brought her letters and intelligence from the India House. Mr Harley, rising at the same time from his seat, seemed about to depart, but hesitating, stood a few moments as if irresolute.
'You leave me,' said I, in a low and tremulous tone, 'and you leave me still in suspense?'
'Could you,' replied he, visibly affected, 'but have seen me on the receipt of your last letter, you would have perceived that my feelings were not enviable-Your affecting expostulation, added to other circumstances of a vexatious nature, oppressed my spirits with a burthen more than they were able to sustain.'
He resumed his seat, spoke of his situation, of the tenure on which he held his fortune,-'I am neither a stoic nor a philosopher,' added he,-'I knew not how-I could not answer your letter. What shall I say?-I am with-held from explaining myself further, by reasons-obligations-Who can look back on every action of his past life with approbation? Mine has not been free from error! I am distressed, perplexed-Insuperable obstacles forbid what otherwise'-
'I feel,' said I, interrupting him, 'that I am the victim of my own weakness and vanity-I feel, that I have been rushing headlong into the misery which you kindly sought to spare me-I am sensible of your delicacy-of your humanity!-And is it with the full impression of your virtues on my heart that I must teach that heart to renounce you-renounce, for ever, the man with whose pure and elevated mind my own panted to mingle? My reason has been blinded by the illusions of my self-love-and, while I severely suffer, I own my sufferings just-yet, the sentiments you inspired were worthy of you! I understand little of-I have violated common forms-seeking your tenderness, I have perhaps forfeited your esteem!'
'Far, very far, from it-I would, but cannot, say more.'
'Must we, then, separate for ever-will you no longer assist me in the pursuit of knowledge and truth-will you no more point out to me the books I should read, and aid me in forming a just judgment of the principles they contain-Must all your lessons be at an end-all my studies be resigned? How, without your counsel and example, shall I regain my strength of mind-to what end shall I seek to improve myself, when I dare no longer hope to be worthy of him-'
A flood of tears checked my utterance; hiding my face with my hands, I gave way to the kindly relief, but for which my heart had broken. I heard footsteps in the passage, and the voice of Mrs Denbeigh as speaking to her servant-covered with shame and grief, I dared not in this situation appear before her, but, rushing out at an opposite door, hid myself in my chamber. A train of confused recollections tortured my mind, I concluded, that Augustus had another, a prior attachment. I felt, with this conviction, that I had not the fortitude, and that perhaps I ought not, to see him again. I wrote to him under this impression; I poured out my soul in anguish, in sympathy, in fervent aspirations for his happiness. These painful and protracted conflicts affected my health, a deep and habitual depression preyed upon my spirits, and, surveying every object through the medium of a distempered imagination, I grew disgusted with life.
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Chapter 1 No.1
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Chapter 2 No.2
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Chapter 3 No.3
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Chapter 4 No.4
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Chapter 5 No.5
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Chapter 6 No.6
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Chapter 7 TO AUGUSTUS HARLEY.
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Chapter 8 No.8
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Chapter 9 No.9
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Chapter 10 No.10
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Chapter 11 No.11
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Chapter 12 No.12
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Chapter 13 No.13
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Chapter 14 No.14
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Chapter 15 No.15
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Chapter 16 No.16
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Chapter 17 No.17
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Chapter 18 No.18
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Chapter 19 No.19
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Chapter 20 No.20
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Chapter 21 No.21
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Chapter 22 No.22
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Chapter 23 No.23
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Chapter 24 No.24
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Chapter 25 No.25
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Chapter 26 No.26
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Chapter 27 No.27
01/12/2017