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Capítulo VI
Consecuencias necesarias de las equivocaciones antecedentes
Mientras Arabela se lamentaba de sus infortunios, se hilvanaba Glanville los sesos para penetrar el sentido misterioso de las frases de su prima; las combinó por todos los modos posibles, sin poderlas comprender y, por último, vino a convencerse de que nada significaban o de que eran resultas de alguna nueva rareza. Buscó, no obstante, a su padre para preguntarle lo que había tratado con su prima y no le encontró. Había marchado a caballo para poner en claro la ofensa de que Arabela se quejaba. El caballero Jorge estaba en su casa de campo; alcanzó a ver al barón, saliole al paso y quiso ayudarlo a desmontar.
—Todavía conservo alguna fuerza –dijo el anciano, tendiendo con vigor su pierna derecha–. Vengo expresamente a informaros de que mi sobrina ha llevado a mal lo que la dijisteis al oído y a saber también de vos qué cosa es esta.
Jorge, que no tenía gana de reñir con el tío de Arabela, contestó que acaso se había chanceado con sobrada ligereza sobre el supuesto raptor, pero que estaba certísimo de no haber dicho cosa que la pudiera ofender. Su justificación fue tan honrada que el barón, olvidando su resentimiento, le apretó la mano y lo convidó a que fuera a reconciliarse.
Aguardaba Glanville con impaciencia la vuelta de su padre para preguntarle sobre lo sucedido entre él y Arabela, pero como no hallase en su padre su natural franqueza, quedó más inquieto. Después de cenar se determinó a pedir a Arabela unos instantes de audiencia, pero Lucía, que estaba aguardando a su ama en lo alto de la escalera, así que subió, la habló algo al oído. Arabela, a quien daba la mano Glanville, dio a este apresuradamente las buenas noches y corrió a encerrarse en su gabinete. Glanville, tan sentido de aquel contratiempo cuanto curioso de saber qué lo producía, se retiró atormentado de su imaginación. Lo que dijo Lucía a su señora fue que un correo extraordinario acababa de traer una carta de parte del caballero Jorge y que aguardaba la respuesta. Arabela tuvo desde luego mucho deseo de abrirla, pero, temiendo transgredir las leyes del heroísmo, se resolvió a devolverla.
—Vuelve esa carta –dijo al correo– y encárgale que diga a su señor que no solamente no he leído lo que me ha escrito, pero que le aconsejo que no reincida en cometer imprudencias semejantes.
Lucía escuchó con mucha atención la orden de su ama y la repitió varias veces por la escalera, para no omitir cosa alguna, mas el correo había ya partido. El caballero Jorge, instruidísimo en las fórmulas heroicas de las novelas, había mandado a su correo que pidiese una respuesta, pero que no la esperase. Lucía devolvió a su señora la carta y la dijo:
—Por esta vez no podéis menos de abrirla, porque el correo ha partido sin esperar respuesta. p. 134
—El medio de que se sirve para que me quede con la carta es ingeniosísimo… Acaso me engaño sobre lo que contiene y tengo gana de leerla; tú, ¿qué piensas de esto?
Lucía aprobó mucho aquel deseo curioso, y Arabela, haciendo como que cedía a las importunidades de su confidenta, rompió la nema y leyó lo que sigue:
El infeliz y desesperado Belmur a la divina Arabela
Vuestro señor tío me ha informado de la desgracia en que he incurrido de desagradaros y no es dudoso que la desesperación va a arrancarme presto una vida que os había dedicado. El delincuente que se atrevió a adoraros, señora, no murmura ni se queja de su castigo: reconoce la justicia y se somete con resignación.
Expíe, por lo menos, mi muerte, ¡oh, Arabela divina!, mis ofensas y tenga yo la satisfacción de esperar que esos ojos hermosos que me han mirado con desprecio derramarán algunas lágrimas sobre mi tumba: si conservareis la memoria de mi delito, dignaos también de acordaros que me costó la vida. Mi única felicidad es la de atreverme a creer que, dejando yo de existir, dejaréis vos de aborrecer al desventurado Jorge Belmur.
Suspiró muchas veces Arabela leyendo la carta, pero la pobre Lucía no pudo contenerse de llorar.
—Mi amada señora –dijo articulando trabajosamente–, el corazón tengo pasado de pena y no alcanzo cómo podéis leer con tanto sosiego una carta como esa; perdonadme si os echo en cara vuestra insensibilidad. Se os da poco, a lo que veo, de que se muera por vos… no quisiera yo, por cuanto tiene el mundo, hallarme con una conciencia tan cargada como la vuestra.
—Es cierto que mi beldad ha producido funestísimos efectos. El triste Hervey fue víctima de su pasión y de sus intenciones pérfidas, el delincuente Eduardo está reducido a ser incesantemente atormentado por su mismo despecho; mis gracias han encendido una pasión que ofende, a un mismo tiempo, a la naturaleza y a las leyes, y, finalmente, el desventurado caballero Jorge, convencido de su crimen, se vota a la muerte, esperanzado de excitar, a lo menos, mi compasión cuando ya no exista. ¿Y qué parte tengo en estas desdichas? Quisiera ser menos hermosa, pero, pues una fatal necesidad quiere que tales cosas acontezcan, menester es consolarme.
—¿Conque dejaréis morir al pobre caballero Jorge? –preguntó Lucía con mucho enternecimiento.
—Como no puedo darle esperanzas, preciso será que muera, si insiste en amarme.
—Pero, ¿no pudierais mandarle que viviese, como lo hicisteis con el señor Hervey y con el señor Glanville, que ambos os obedecieron?
—Si le mandara vivir, sería también necesario permitirle que me amase, pero esto es imposible, Lucía: con que no hay medio para mejorar su suerte.
—Vos sabéis lo que conviene hacer, pero yo, que soy una ignorante, creo que es mejor salvar que destruir, porque esto se dice en aquel libro que se llama la Biblia; por cierto, que algún día tendréis que responder de la vida de ese señor, si la pierde por no recibir algunas palabras blandas de vuestra parte.
—No puedo negar –replicó Arabela sonriéndose– que, si tu intercesión no es elocuente manifiesta, a lo menos, una sinceridad que me obliga: meditaré sobre lo que me dices y, si fuere posible salvar al caballero sin lastimar mi reputación, lo haré.
Chapter VIII
Which contains some necessary consequences of the foregoing mistakes. A soliloquy on
a love letter.
While Arabella passed her time in her closet, in the most disagreeable reflections, Glanville was racking his brain to find out the meaning of those mysterious words she had uttered at leaving him. He examined them twenty times over, but could not possibly penetrate into their sense; but supposing at last that they really meant nothing at all, or were occasioned by some new flight of her imagination, he went to find out his father, in order to know what had passed between him and Arabella.
Sir Charles, however, was not to be found. He had ordered his horse to be made ready, under pretence of taking a little ride after dinner; and, passing by Sir George’s house, alighted to pay him a visit.
The young baronet, being at home, received him with great politeness; and Sir Charles, whose peculiar disposition was to be nicely tenacious of everything which he imagined had any relation to the honour of his family, took the first opportunity to question him concerning the confusion his whisper had occasioned in Lady Bella, adding that she had confessed he had given her reason to take ill what he had said to her.
[263] Sir George, who was by no means willing to quarrel with the uncle of Arabella, received the old gentleman’s remonstrances with a great deal of calmness; and, finding Arabella had not discovered the purport of that whisper which had offended her, he told Sir Charles that the confusion he saw in her countenance was occasioned by his rallying her upon the fright she had been in upon Mr. Glanville’s account. He added some other particulars* that entirely taking away all inclination in Sir Charles to pursue the matter any farther, they parted upon very good terms, Sir George promising, very soon, to return his visit at the castle.
Mr. Glanville, upon his father’s return, being impatient to know what he had said to Arabella, enquired with so much precipitation, concerning the conversation they had had together that Sir Charles, unwilling to tell him the truth, and not having time to consider of an answer, evaded his question in such a manner that Mr. Glanville could not help making some observation upon it; and, comparing this circumstance with what Arabella had said, though he could not comprehend the meaning that seemed to be concealed under their behaviour, he immediately concluded, there was some mystery which it concerned him to find out.
Possessed with this opinion, he longed for an opportunity to talk with Arabella alone. But he was not so happy to obtain one; for, though that fair one presided at the tea-table, as usual, and also appeared at supper, yet she so industriously avoided all occasions of being alone [264] with him, though but for a moment, and appeared so reserved and uneasy that it was impossible for him to speak to her upon that subject.p. 173
As soon as it was time to retire, having resolved to request the favour of a few moments’ conversation with her, in her own apartment, and when he had, as was his custom, handed her upstairs, instead of wishing her a good night at her chamber door, he was going to desire permission to enter it with her, when Lucy, coming to meet her lady, whispered her in the ear, upon which Arabella, turning towards him, gave him a hasty salute, and hurried into her apartment.
Glanville, no less vexed at this disappointment than perplexed at that whisper, which had caused such a visible emotion in Arabella, retired to his own room, tormented with a thousand uneasy suspicions, for which he could not exactly assign a cause; and wishing impatiently for the next day, in which he hoped to procure some explanation of what at present greatly perplexed him.
In the meantime, Arabella, who had been informed by Lucy, in that whisper, who was eager to let her know it that a messenger had brought a letter from Sir George, and, late as it was at night, waited for an answer, was debating with herself whether she should open this billet or not. She had a strong inclination to see what it contained; but, fearful of transgressing the laws of romance, by indulging a curiosity not justifiable by example, she resolved to return this letter unopened.
[265] “Here,” said she to Lucy, “give this letter to the messenger that brought it; and tell him, I was excessively offended with you for receiving it from his hands.”
Lucy, taking the letter, was going to obey her orders, when, recollecting herself, she bid her stay.
“Since Sir George,” said she to herself, “is no declared lover of mine, I may, without any offence to decorum, see what this letter contains. To refuse receiving it will be to acknowledge that his sentiments are not unknown to me; and, by consequence, to lay myself under a necessity of banishing him. Nor is it fit that I should allow him to believe I am so ready to apprehend the meaning of every gallant speech which is used to me; and to construe such insinuations as he took the liberty to make me, into declarations of love.”
Allowing, therefore, the justice of these reasons, she took the letter out of Lucy’s hand; and, being upon the point of opening it, a sudden thought controlled her designs, she threw it suddenly upon her toilet; and, looking very earnestly upon it.
“Presumptuous paper!” said she, speaking with great emotion to the letter. “Bold repository of thy master’s daring thoughts! Shall I not be blamed by all who hereafter will hear or read my history if, contrary to the apprehensions I have, that thou containest a confession that will displease me, I open thy seal, and become accessary to thy writer’s guilt, by deigning to make myself acquainted with it? And thou, too indiscreet and unwary friend, [266] whose folds contain the acknowledgment of his crime! What will it advantage thee or him if, torn by my resenting hand, I make thee suffer for the part thou bearest in thy master’s fault; and teach him, by thy fate, how little kindness he has to expect from me! Yet, to spare myself the trouble of reading what will, questionless, greatly displease me, I will return thee, uninjured, into thy master’s hands; and, by that moderation, make him repent the presumption he has been guilty of!”p. 174
Chapter IX
Containing a love letter in the heroic style, with some occasional reasonings by
Lucy, full of wit and simplicity.
Our fair heroine, having ended the foregoing soliloquy, took up the letter, and gave it to Lucy, who had, all the time she was speaking, observed a profound silence, mixed with a most eager attention.
“Here,” pursued she, “carry it to the person who brought it; and bid him tell his master that, lest I should find anything in it which may offend me, I have chosen not to read it. And if he is wise, he will profit by my concern for him, and take care how he hazards displeasing me a second time by an importunity of this kind, which I shall not so easily pardon him.”
Lucy, who had taken particular notice of this speech, in order to remember every word [267] of it, when she repeated it again, went conning* her lesson to the place where she had desired the servant to wait her coming; but he was gone, such being indeed his master’s orders; for he was apprehensive that, following the custom of the ladies in romances, Arabella would return his letter; and therefore, to deprive her of an opportunity of sending it back that night, he ordered his man to say, he waited for an answer; but, as soon as he conveniently could, to come away without one.
Lucy, in a great surprise at the servant’s going away, returned to her lady with the letter in her hand, telling her she must needs read it now, since the person who brought it was gone.
“It must be confessed,” said Arabella, taking the letter from her, with a smile, “he has fallen upon an ingenious device to make me keep it for this night; and since, haply, I may be mistaken in the contents, I have a mind to open it.”
Lucy did not fail to confirm her lady in this design, and Arabella, making as if she yielded to the importunities of her confidante, opened the letter, which she found as follows:
The unfortunate and despairing Bellmour to the divine Arabella:
Madam,
Since it is, doubtless, not only with your permission, but even by your commands that
your uncle, Sir Charles Glanville, comes to pronounce the sentence of my death, in
the [268] denunciation of your anger, I submit, madam, without repining at
the rigour of that doom you have inflicted on me. Yes, madam, this criminal, who has
dared to adore you with the most sublime and perfect passion that ever was,
acknowledges the justice of his punishment; and, since it is impossible to cease
loving you, or to live without telling you he does so, he is going voluntarily to
run upon that death your severity makes him wish for, and the greatness of his crime
demands. Let my death then, O divine Arabella, expiate the offence I have been
guilty of! And let me hope those fair eyes that have beheld me with scorn when alive
will not refuse to shed some tears upon my tomb! And that, when you remember my
crime of loving you, you will also be pleased to remember that I died for that
crime; and wish for no other comfort in death, but the hope of your not hating, when
he is no more,
The unhappy Bellmour.
Arabella, who had read this letter aloud, sighed gently at the conclusion of it; but poor Lucy, who was greatly affected at so dolorous an epistle, could not restrain her tears; but sobbed so often, and with so much violence, as at length recalled her lady from the reverie into which she was plunged.
“What ails* you?” said she to her confidante, greatly surprised. “What is the cause of this unseemly sorrow?”p. 175
“Oh madam!” cried Lucy, her sobs making a frequent and unpleasing interruption in her [269] words. “I shall break my heart to be sure. Never was such a sad mournful letter in the world. I could cry my eyes out for the poor gentleman. Pray excuse me, madam; but, indeed, I can’t help saying you are the most hard-hearted lady I ever knew in my born days. Why, to be sure, you don’t care if a hundred fine gentlemen should die for you, though their spirits were to haunt you every night! Well! I would not have what your ladyship has to answer for, for all the world!”
“You are a foolish wench!” replied Arabella, smiling at her simplicity. “Do you think I have any cause to accuse myself, though five thousand men were to die for me! It is very certain my beauty has produced very deplorable effects. The unhappy Hervey has expiated, by his death, the violence his too-desperate passion forced him to meditate against me. The no less guilty, the noble unknown Edward, is wandering about the world, in a tormenting despair, and stands exposed to the vengeance of my cousin, who has vowed his death. My charms have made another person, whose character ought to be sacred to me, forget all the ties of consanguinity; and become the rival of his son, whose interest he once endeavoured to support; and lastly, the unfortunate Bellmour consumes away in a hopeless passion; and, conscious of his crime, dooms himself, haply, with more severity than I desire, to a voluntary death, in hopes, thereby, of procuring my pardon and compassion when he is no more. All these, Lucy, as I said before, are very deplorable effects of my beauty, but [270] you must observe that my will has no part in the miseries that unfortunate beauty occasions; and that, though I could even wish myself less fair, in order to avoid giving so much unhappiness to others, yet these wishes would not avail; and since, by a fatal necessity, all these things will happen, whether I would or no, I must comfort myself under the uneasiness which the sensibility of my temper makes me feel, by the reflection that, with my own consent, I contribute nothing to the misfortune of those who love me.”
“Will your ladyship, then, let poor Sir George die?” said Lucy, who had listened very attentively to this fine harangue without understanding what it meant.
“Questionless, he must die,” replied Arabella, “if he persists in his design of loving me.”
“But, pray, madam,” resumed Lucy, “cannot your ladyship command him to live, as you did Mr. Hervey and Mr. Glanville, who both did as you bade them?”
“I may command him to live,” said Arabella. “And there is no question but he would obey me if I likewise permit him to love me; but this last not being fit for me to do, I see no way to prevent the sad resolution he has taken.”
“To be sure, madam,” returned Lucy, “your ladyship knows what you ought to do better than I can advise your ladyship, being that you are more learned than me. But, for all that, I think it’s better to save life than to kill, as the Bible book says; and since I am sure your ladyship is a good Christian, if the gentleman [271] dies for the want of a few kind words, or so, I am sure you will be troubled in mind about it.”
“It must be confessed,” said Arabella, smiling, “that though your solicitations are not very eloquent, they are very earnest and affecting; and I promise you I will think about it. And if I can persuade myself I am doing no wrong thing by concerning myself about his preservation, I will dispatch you tomorrow morning with my orders to him to live, or at least to proceed no farther in his design of dying, till he has further cause.”
Lucy, being extremely glad she had gained her point, called in her lady’s other women, who, having assisted her to undress, left her in her closet, to which she always retired for an hour before she went to bed.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME