 Letters seventy-two of Evelina. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Elizabeth Klett. Evelina by Fanny Burney. Letters seventy-two. Evelina in continuation. October 2. Yesterday, from the time I received your kind, though heart-piercing letter, I kept my rum, for I was equally unable and unwilling to see Lord Orville. But this morning, finding I seemed destined to pass a few days longer here, I endeavoured to calm my spirits, and to appear as usual, though I determined to avoid him to the utmost of my power. Indeed, as I entered the parlour, when called to breakfast, my thoughts were so much occupied with your letter, that I felt as much confusion at his sight, as if he had himself been informed of its contents. Mrs. Beaumont made me a slight compliment upon my recovery, for I had pleaded illness to excuse keeping my rum. Lady Louisa spoke not a word, but Lord Orville, little imagining himself the cause of my indisposition, inquired concerning my health with the most distinguishing politeness. I hardly made any answer, and for the first time since I have been here, contrived to sit at some distance from him. I could not help observing that my reserve surprised him, yet he persisted in his civilities, and seemed to wish to remove it. But I paid him very little attention, and the moment breakfast was over, instead of taking a book or walking in the garden, I retired to my own rum. Soon after Mrs. Selwyn came to tell me that Lord Orville had been proposing I should take an airing, and persuading her to let him drive us both in his faten. She delivered the message, with an archeness that made me blush, and added that an airing in my Lord Orville's carriage could not fail to revive my spirits. There is no possibility of escaping her discernment. She has frequently rallied me upon his lordship's attention, and alas, upon the pleasure with which I have received it. However, I absolutely refused the offer. Well! said she, laughing, I cannot just now indulge you with any solicitation, for to tell you the truth I have business to transact at the Wells, and am glad to be excused myself. I would ask you to walk with me, but since Lord Orville has refused, I have not the presumption to hope for success. Indeed! cried I, you are mistaken, I will attend you with pleasure. Oh! rare coquetry! cried she. Surely it must be inherent in our sex, or it could not have been imbibed at Berry Hill. I had not spirits to answer her, and therefore put on my hat and cloak in silence. I presume," continued she, dryly, his lordship may walk with us. If so, madam, said I, you will have a companion, and I will stay at home. My dear child! cried she. Did you bring the certificate of your birth with you? Dear madam, no. Why, then, we shall never be known again at Berry Hill. I felt too conscious to enjoy her pleasantry, but I believe she was determined to torment me, for she asked if she should inform Lord Orville that I desired him not to be of the party. By no means, madam, but indeed I had rather not walk myself. My dear! cried she. I really do not know you this morning. You have certainly been taking a lesson of Lady Louisa. She then went downstairs, but presently returning told me she had acquainted Lord Orville that I did not choose to go out in the Fayton, but preferred a walk, tet-à-tet with her, by way of variety. I said nothing, but was really vexed. She bade me go downstairs, and said she would follow me immediately. Lord Orville met me in the hall. I fear, said he, Miss Anville is not yet quite well. And he would have taken my hand, but I turned from him, and curtsing slightly, went into the parlour. Mrs. Beaumont and Lady Louisa were at work. Lord Merton was talking with the latter, for he has now made his peace, and is again received into favour. I seated myself as usual by the window. Lord Orville, in a few minutes, came to me and said, Why is Miss Anville so grave? Not grave, my lord, said I, only stupid. And I took up a book. You will go, said he, after a short pause, to the assembly tonight? No, my lord, certainly not. Neither then will I, for I should be sorry to sully the remembrance I have of the happiness I enjoyed at the last. Mrs. Selwyn then, coming in, general enquiries were made to orbit me of who would go to the assembly. Lord Orville instantly declared he had let us to write at home, but everyone else settled to go. I then hastened Mrs. Selwyn away, though not before she had said to Lord Orville, Pray, has your lordship obtained Miss Anville's leave to favour us with your company? I have not, madam," answered he, had the vanity to ask it. During our walk Mrs. Selwyn tormented me unmercifully. She told me that, since I declined any addition to our party, I must doubtless be conscious of my own powers of entertainment, and begged me, therefore, to exert them freely. I repented a thousand times having consented to walk alone with her, for though I made the most painful efforts to appear in spirits, her railery quite overpowered me. We went first to the pump-room. It was full of company, and the moment we entered I heard a murmuring of, that's she, and to my great confusion I saw every eye turned towards me. I pulled my hat over my face, and by the assistance of Mrs. Selwyn, endeavoured to screen myself from observation. Nevertheless, I found I was so much the object of general attention that I entreated her to hasten away. But, unfortunately, she had entered into conversation very earnestly with a gentleman of her acquaintance, and would not listen to me, but said that if I was tired of waiting, I might walk on to the milleners with the Miss Watkins, two young ladies I had seen at Mrs. Beaumont's, who were going with her. I accepted the offer very readily, and away we went, but we had not gone three yards before we were followed by a party of young men, who took every possible opportunity of looking at us, and as they walked behind, talked aloud in a manner at once unintelligible and absurd. Yes! cried one, to certainly she, mark but her blushing cheek. And then her eye, her downcast eye, cried another. True, oh most true! said a third. Every beauty is her own. But then, said the first, her mind, now the difficulty is to find out the truth of that, she will not say a word. She is timid, answered another, mark but her timid air. During this conversation we walked on silent and quick, as we knew not to whom it was particularly addressed, we were all equally ashamed and equally desirous to avoid such unaccountable observations. Soon after we were caught in a shower of rain, we hurried on, and these gentlemen following us, offered their services in the most pressing manner, begging us to make use of their arms. And while I almost ran in order to avoid their impertinence, I was suddenly met by Sir Clement Willoughby. We both started. Good God! he exclaimed. Miss Anvil! And then, regarding my torment with an air of displeasure, he earnestly inquired if anything had alarmed me. No, no! cried I, for I found no difficulty now to disengage myself from these youths, who probably, concluding from the commanding air, Sir Clement, that he had a right to protect me, quietly gave way to him and entirely quitted us. With his usual impetuosity, he then began a thousand inquiries, accompanied with as many compliments, and he told me that he arrived at Bristol but this morning, which he had entirely devoted to endeavours to discover I lodged. Did you know, then, said I, that I was at Bristol? Wood to heaven! cried he, that I could remain in ignorance of your proceedings with the same contentment you do of mine. Then should I not for ever journey upon the wings of hope to meet my own despair, you cannot even judge of the cruelty of my fate, for the ease and serenity of your mind incapacitates you from feeling for the agitation of mine. The ease and serenity of my mind. Alas! how little do I merit those words! But, added he, had accident brought me hither, had I not known of your journey, the voice of fame would have proclaimed it to me instantly upon my arrival. The voice of fame? repeat to die. Yes, for yours was the first name I heard of the pomprom, but had I not heard your name, such a description could have painted no one else. Indeed, said I, I do not understand you. But just then, arriving at the milleners, our conversation ended, for Miss Watkins called me to look at caps and ribbons. Sir Clement, however, has the art of being always at home. He was very soon engaged, as busily as ourselves, in looking at lace ruffles. Yet he took an opportunity of saying to me, in a low voice, How charmed I am to see you looking so well! I was told you were ill, but I never saw you in better health, never more infinitely lovely. I turned away to examine the ribbons, and soon after Mrs. Selwyn made her appearance, I found that she was acquainted with Sir Clement, and a manner of speaking to him convinced me that he was a favourite with her. When their mutual compliments were over, she turned to me and said, Pray, Miss Anvil, how long can you live without nourishment? Indeed, mum, said I, laughing, I have never tried. Because so long, and no longer," answered she, You may remain at Bristol. Why, what is the matter, mum? The matter! Why, all the ladies are at open war with you, the whole pump-room is in confusion, and you, innocent as you pretend to look, are the cause. However, if you take my advice, you will be very careful how you eat and drink during your stay. I begged her to explain herself, and she then told me that a copy of verses had been dropped in the pump-room, and read there aloud. The beauties of the wells, said she, are all mentioned, but you are the Venus to whom the prize is given. Is it then possible, cried Sir Clement, that you have not seen these verses? I hardly know, answered I, whether any body has. I assure you," said Mrs. Selwyn, if you give me the invention of them, you do me an honour I by no means deserve. I wrote down in my tablets, said Sir Clement, the stanzas which concern Miss Anvil this morning at the pump-room, and I will do myself the honour of copying them for her this evening. But why, the part that concerns Miss Anvil, said Mrs. Selwyn, did you ever see her before this morning? Oh, yes," answered he. I have had that happen as frequently at Captain Mervyn's—too, too frequently. Added he in a low voice, as Mrs. Selwyn turned to the milliner, and as soon as she was occupied in examining some trimmings, he came to me, and almost whether I would or not, entered into conversation with me. I have a thousand things," cried he, to say to you, and pray, where are you? With Mrs. Selwyn, sir. Indeed! then for once chance is my friend. And how long have you been here? About three weeks. Good heaven! what an anxious search have I had to discover your abode since you so suddenly left town! The term again to Madame Duvall refused me all intelligence. Oh, Miss Anvil, did you know what I have endured—the sleepless, restless state of suspense I have been tortured with! You could not, all cruel as you are, you could not have received me with such frigid indifference. Received you, sir? Why, it's not my visit to you. Do you think I should have made this journey but for the happiness of again seeing you? Indeed, it is possible I might, and so many others do. Cruel! cruel, girl! You know that I adore you, and you know that you are the mistress of my soul and arbitress of my fate. Mrs. Selwyn, then advancing to us, he assumed a more disengaged air, and asked if he should not have the pleasure of seeing her in the evening at the assembly. Oh, yes! cried she. We shall certainly be there, so you may bring the verses with you if Miss Anvil can wait for them so long. I hope then. But, auntie, then you will do me the honour to dance with me. I thanked him, but said I should not be at the assembly. Not be at the assembly? cried Mrs. Selwyn. Why have you two letters to write? She looked at me with significant archeness. That made me colour, and I hastily answered, No indeed, mum. You have not? cried she, yet more dryly. Then pray, my dear, do you stay at home to help, or to hinder others? To deny the mum, answered I, in much confusion. So if you please, I will not stay at home. You allow me, then, said Sir Clement, to hope for the honour of your hand. I only bowed, for the dread of Mrs. Selwyn's railery made me not dare refuse him. Soon after this we walked home. Sir Clement accompanied us, and the conversation that passed between Mrs. Selwyn and him was supported in so lively a manner that I should have been much entertained had my mind been more at ease. But alas! I could think of nothing but the capricious, the unmeaning appearance which the alteration in my conduct must make in the eyes of the Lord Orville, and much as I wish to avoid him, greatly as I desire to save myself from having my weakness known to him. Yet I cannot endure to incur his ill opinion, and unacquainted as he is with the reasons by which I am actuated, how can he fail condemning a change to him so unaccountable? As we entered the garden, he was the first object we saw. He advanced to meet us, and I could not help observing that at sight of each other both he and Sir Clement changed colour. We went into the parlour, where we found the same party we had left. Mrs. Selwyn presented Sir Clement to Mrs. Beaumont. Lady Louisa and Lord Merton he seemed well acquainted with already. The conversation was upon the general subjects, of the weather, the company at the Wells, and the news of the day. But Sir Clement, drawing his chair next to mine, took every opportunity of addressing himself to me in particular. I could not but remark the striking difference of his attention, and that of Lord Orville. The latter has such gentleness of manners, such delicacy of conduct, and an air so respectful, that when he flatters most he never distresses, and when he most confers honour appears to receive it. The former obtrudes his attention and forces mine, it is so pointed that it always confuses me, and so public that it attracts general notice. Indeed, I have sometimes thought that he would rather wish, than dislike to have his partiality for me known, as he takes great care to prevent my being spoken to by any but himself. When at length he went away, Lord Orville took his seat and said, with half a smile, Shall I call Sir Clement, or will you call me a usurper for taking this place? You make no answer. Must I then suppose that Sir Clement— It is little worth your lordship's while, said I, to suppose anything upon so insignificant an occasion. Pardon me! cried he. To me nothing is insignificant in which you are concerned. To this I made no answer. Neither did he say anything more, till the ladies retired to dress, and then, when I would have followed them, he stopped me, saying, One moment, I entreat you. I turned back, and he went on. I greatly fear that I have been so unfortunate as to offend you. Yet so repugnant to my very soul is the idea that I know not how to suppose it possible I can unwittingly have done the thing in the world, that, designately, I would wish to avoid. No indeed, my lord, you have not, said I. You sigh, cried he, taking my hand. Would to heaven I with a share of your uneasiness would so ever it springs. With what earnestness would I not struggle to alleviate it? Tell me, my dear Miss Anvil, my new adopted sister, my sweet and most amiable friend, tell me I beseech you if I can afford you any assistance. None, none, my lord, cried I, withdrawing my hand and moving towards the door. Is it that impossible I can serve you? Perhaps you wish to see Mr. McCartney again. I know, my lord, and I held the door open. I am not, I own, sorry for that. Yet, oh, Miss Anvil, there is a question, there is a conjecture. I know not how to mention, because I dread the result. But I see you are in haste. Perhaps in the evening I may have the honour of a longer conversation. Yet one thing, will you have the goodness to allow me to ask, did you this morning, when you went to the Wells, did you know whom you should meet there? Who, my lord? I beg your pardon a thousand times for a curiosity so unlicensed, but I will say no more at present. He bowed, expecting me to go in, and then, with quick steps but a heavy heart, I came to my own room. His question, I am sure, meant Sir Clement Willoughby, and had I not imposed upon myself the severe task of avoiding flying Lord Orville with all my power, I would instantly have satisfied him of my ignorance of Sir Clement's journey, and yet more did I long to say something of the assembly, since I found he depended upon my spending the evening at home. I did not go downstairs again till the family was assembled to dinner. My dress, I saw, struck Lord Orville with astonishment, and I was myself so much ashamed of appearing whimsical and unsteady that I could not look up. I understood, said Mrs. Beaumont, that Miss Anville did not go out this evening. Her intention in the morning, said Mrs. Selwyn, was to stay at home, but there is a fascinating power in an assembly which upon second thoughts is not to be resisted. The assembly, cried Lord Orville. Are you then going to the assembly? I made no answer, and we all took our places at table. It was not without difficulty that I contrived to give up my usual seat, but I was determined to adhere to the promise in my yesterday's letter, though I saw that Lord Orville seemed quite confounded at my visible endeavours to avoid him. After dinner, we all went into the drawing-room together, as there were no gentlemen to detain his lordship, and then, before I could place myself out of his way, he said, You are then really going to the assembly? May I ask if you shall dance? I believe not, my lord. If I did not fear, continued he, that you would be tired of the same partner at two following assemblies, I would give up my letter-writing till tomorrow evening and solicit the honour of your hand. If I do dance, cried I, in great confusion, I believe I am engaged. Engaged, cried he with earnestness, may I ask to whom? To Sir Clement Willoughby, my lord. He said nothing, but looked very little pleased, and did not address himself to me any more all the afternoon. Oh, sir! thus situated, how comfortless were the feelings of your ever liner! Early in the evening with his accustomed aciduity, Sir Clement came to conduct us to the assembly. He soon contrived to seat himself next to me, and in a low voice paid me so many compliments, that I knew not which way to look. Lord Orville hardly spoke a word, and his countenance was grave and thoughtful. Yet, whenever I raised my eyes, his I perceived or directed towards me, though instantly upon meeting mine he looked another way. In a short time Sir Clement, taking from his pocket a folded paper, said almost in whisper, Here, loveliest of women, you will see a faint and unsuccessful attempt to paint the object of all my adoration. Yet weak as other lines for the purpose, I envy beyond expression the happy mortal who has dared make the effort. I will look at them, said I, some other time. For conscious that I was observed by Lord Orville, I could not bear he should see me take a written paper so privately offered from Sir Clement. But Sir Clement is an impracticable man, and I never succeeded in any attempt to frustrate whatever he had planned. No! said he, still in a whisper. You must take them now, while Lady Louisa is away. For she and Mrs. Elwin were gone upstairs to finish their dress, as she must by no means see them. Indeed! said I, I have no intention to show them. But the only way—answered he—to avoid suspicion is to take them in her absence. I would have read them aloud myself, but that they are not proper to be seen by anybody in this house, yourself and Mrs. Selwin accepted. Then again he presented me the paper, which I was now obliged to take, as I found declining it was vain. But I was sorry that this action should be seen, and the whispering remarked, though the purport of the conversation was left to conjecture. As I held it in my hand, Sir Clement teased me to look at it immediately, and told me the reason he would not produce the lines publicly was that among the ladies who were mentioned and supposed to be rejected was Lady Louisa Larpent. I am much concerned at this circumstance, as I cannot doubt that it will render me more disagreeable to her than ever, if she should ever hear of it. I will now copy the verses, which Sir Clement would not let me rest till I had read. See last advance, with bashful grace, downcast eye and blushing cheek, timid air and beautyous face, Anvil whom the graces seek. Though every beauty is her own, and though her mind each virtue fills, Anvil to her power unknown, artless strikes unconscious kills. I am sure, my dear Sir, you will not wonder that a panageric such as this should, in reading, give me the greatest confusion, and unfortunately, before I had finished it, the ladies returned. What have you there, my dear? said Mrs. Selwyn. Nothing, Mum, said I, hastily folding and putting it in my pocket. And has nothing, cried she, the power of rouge. I made no answer. A deep sigh which escaped Lord Orville at that moment reached my ears, and gave me sensations, which I dare not mention. Lord Merton then handed Lady Louisa and Mrs. Beaumont to the latter's carriage. Mrs. Selwyn led the way to Sir Clement's, who handed me in after her. During the ride I did not once speak, but when I came to the assembly-room, Sir Clement took care that I should not preserve my silence. He asked me immediately to dance. I begged him to excuse me, and seek some other partner. But on the contrary, he told me, he was very glad I would sit still, as he had a million things to say to me. He then began to tell me how much he had suffered from my absence, how greatly he was alarmed when he heard I had left town, and how cruelly difficult he had found it to trace me, which at last he could only do by sacrificing another week to Captain Mervyn. And Howard Grove—continuity, which at my first visit I thought the most delightful spot upon earth, now appeared to me the most dismal, the face of the country altered. The walks which I had thought most pleasant were now most stupid. Lady Howard, who had appeared a cheerful and respectable old lady, now appeared in the common John Trot style of other age dames. Mrs. Mervyn, whom I had esteemed as an amiable piece of still life, now became so insipid that I could hardly keep awake in her company. The daughter, too, whom I had regarded as a good-humoured, pretty sort of girl, now seemed too insignificant for notice. And as to the captain, I had always thought him a booby, but now he appeared a savage. "'Indeed, Sir Clement,' cried I angrily, "'I will not hear you speak thus of my best friends.' "'I beg your pardon,' said he, but the contrast of my two visits was too striking not to be mentioned.' He then asked what I thought of the verses. "'Either,' said I, they are written ironically, or by some madman.' Such a profusion of compliments ensue that I was obliged to propose dancing in my own defence. "'When we stood up,' I intended,' said he, to have discovered the author by his looks, "'but I find you so much the general lodestone of attention that my suspicions change their object every moment. Surely you must yourself have some knowledge of who he is.' I told him no. "'Yet, my dear sir, I must own to you. I have no doubt but that Mr. McCartney must be the author. No one else would speak of me so partially, and indeed his poetical turn puts it with me beyond dispute.' He asked me a thousand questions concerning Lord Orville, how long he had been at Bristol, what time I had spent at Clifton, whether he rode out every morning, whether I ever trusted myself in a faton, and a multitude of other enquiries, all tending to discover if I was honoured with much of his lordship's attention, and all made with his usual freedom and impetuosity. Fortunately, as I much wished to retire early, Lady Louisa makes a point of being the first who quits the rooms, and therefore we got home in very tolerable time. Lord Orville's reception of us was grave and cold. Far from distinguishing me as usual by particular civilities, Lady Louisa herself could not have seen me enter the room with more frigid unconcern, nor have more scrupulously avoided honouring me with any notice. But chiefly I was struck to see that he suffered suclement, who stayed to supper, to sit between us, without any effort to prevent him, though till then he had seemed to be even tenacious of the seat next mine. This little circumstance affected me more than I can express, yet I endeavoured to rejoice at it, since neglect and indifference from him may be my best friends. But alas! so suddenly, so abruptly, to forfeit his attention, to lose his friendship! Oh, sir! these thoughts pierced my soul, scarce could I keep my seat, for not all my efforts could restrain the tears from trickling down my cheeks. However, as Lord Orville saw them not, for suclement's head was constantly between us, I tried to collect my spirits, and succeeded so far as to keep my place with decency till suclement took leave, and then, not daring to trust my eyes to meet those of Lord Orville, I retired. I have been writing ever since, for certain that I could not sleep I would not go to bed. Tell me, my dearest sir, if you possibly can, tell me that you approve my change of conduct, tell me that my altered behaviour to Lord Orville is right, that my flying his society and avoiding his civilities are actions which you would have dictated. Tell me this, and the sacrifices I have made will comfort me in the midst of my regret. For never, never can I cease to regret that I have lost the friendship of Lord Orville. Oh, sir, I have slighted, have rejected, have thrown it away. No matter, it was an honour I merited not to preserve, and now I see that my mind was unequal to staining it without danger. Yet so strong is the desire you have implanted in me to act with uprightness and propriety, that however the weakness of my heart may distress and afflict me, it will never, I humbly trust, render me willfully culpable. The wish of doing well governs every other as far as concerns my conduct, for am I not your child, the creature of your own forming? Yet, oh, sir, friend, parent of my heart, my feelings are all at war with my duties, and while I most struggle to acquire self-approbation, my peace, my happiness, my hopes are lost. Tis you alone can compose a mind so cruelly agitated. You, I well know, can feel pity for the weakness to which you are a stranger, and though you blame the affliction, soothe and comfort the afflicted. End of LETTER 72 Letter 73 of Evelina This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are on the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ed Mead Evelina by Fanny Burney Letter 73 from Mr. Velars to Evelina Barry Hill, October 3 Your last communication, my dearest child, is indeed astonishing that an acknowledged daughter and heiress of Sir John Belmont should be at Bristol and still my Evelina, bear the name of Anvil, is to me inexplicable. Yet the mystery of the letter to Lady Howard prepared me to expect something extraordinary upon Sir John Belmont's return to England. Whoever this young lady may be, it is certain she now takes a place to which you have a right indisputable. And after marriage I never heard of. Yet, supposing such a one to have happened, Miss Eveline was certainly the first wife, and therefore her daughter must, at least, be entitled to the name of Belmont. Either there are circumstances in this affair at present utterly incomprehensible, where all some strange and most atrocious fraud has been practiced, which of these two is the case it now behooves us to inquire. My reluctance to this step gives way to my conviction of his propriety, since the reputation of your dear and much injured mother must now either be fully cleared from blemish or receive its final and indelible wound. The public appearance of a daughter of Sir John Belmont will revive the remembrance of Miss Eveline's story in all who have heard it. Who the mother was will be universally demanded. And if any other Lady Belmont should be named, the birth of my Evelina will receive a stigma against which honor, truth, and innocence may appeal in vain, a stigma which will eternally blast the fair fame of her virtuous mother and cast upon her blameless self the odium of a title which not all her purity can rescue from established shame and dishonor. No, my dear child, no, I will not quietly suffer the ashes of your mother to be treated with ignominy. Her spotless character shall be justified to the world, her marriage shall be acknowledged, and her child shall bear the name to which she is lawfully entitled. It is true that Mrs. Mervyn would conduct this affair with more delicacy than Mrs. Selwyn, yet perhaps, to save time, is of all considerations the most important, since the longer this mystery is suffered to continue, the more difficult may be rendered its explanation. The sooner, therefore, you can set out for town, the less formidable will be your task. Let not your timidity, my dear love, depress your spirits. I shall indeed tremble for you at a meeting so singular and so affecting, yet there can be no doubt of the success of your application. I enclose a letter from your unhappy mother, written and reserved purposely for this occasion. Mrs. Clinton, too, who attended her in her last illness, must accompany you to town. But, without any certificate of your birth, that which you carry in your countenance, as it could not be affected by artifice, so it cannot admit of a doubt. And now, my avalina, committed at length to the care of your real parent, receive the fervent prayers, wishes, and blessings of him who so fondly adopted you. Mayest thou, O child of my bosom, mayest thou in this change of situation experience no change of disposition, but receive with humility and support with meekness the elevation to which thou art rising. May thy manners, language, and deportment, all events that modest equanimity and cheerful gratitude, which not merely deserve but dignify prosperity. Mayest thou, to the last moments of an unblemished life, retain thy genuine simplicity, thy singleness of heart, thy guileless sincerity. And mayest thou, stranger to ostentation, and superior to insolence, with true greatness of soul, shine forth conspicuance only in beneficence. Arthur Velars. End of Letter 73. Letter 74. In the firm hope that the moment of anguish which approaches will prove the period of my sufferings, once more I address myself to Sir John Belmont, in behalf of the child who, if it survives its mother, will hereafter be the bearer of this letter. Yet, in what terms, oh, most cruel of men, can the lost Caroline address you, and not address you in vain? Oh, death to the voice of compassion, death to the sting of truth, death to every tie of honour. Say, in what terms may the lost Caroline address you, and not address you in vain? Shall I call you by the loved, the respected, title of husband? No, you disclaim it. The father of my infant? No, you doom it to empathy. The lover who rescued me from a forced marriage? No, you have yourself betrayed me. The friend from whom I hope succour and protection? No, you have consigned me to misery and destruction. Oh, hardened against every plea of justice, remorse, or pity? How, and in what manner, may I hope to move thee? Is there one method I have left untried? Remains there one resource unassayed? No, I have exhausted all the bitterness of reproach and drained every sleuths of compassion. Hopeless and almost desperate, twenty times have I flung away my pen, but the feelings of a mother, a mother agonised for the fate of her child, again animating my courage, as often I have resumed it. Perhaps when I am no more, when the measure of my woes is completed, and the still, silent, unreproaching dust has received my sad remains, then perhaps when accusation is no longer to be feared, nor detection to be dreaded, the voice of equity and the cry of nature may be heard. Listen, O Belmont, to their dictates, reprobate not your child, though you have reprobated its mother. The evils that are past, perhaps, when too late, you may wish to recall. The young creature you have persecuted, perhaps, when too late, you may regret that you have destroyed. You may think with horror at the deceptions you have practised, and the pangs of remorse may follow me to the tomb. O Belmont, my resentment softens into pity at the thought. What will become of thee, good heaven, when, with the eye of penitence, thou reviewest thy past conduct? Here, then, the solemn, the last address, with which the unhappy Caroline will importune thee, if, when the time of thy contrition arrives, for arrive it must, when the sense of thy treachery shall rob thee most every other, if then thy tortured heart shall sigh to expiate thy guilt, mark the conditions upon which I leave thee my forgiveness. Thou knowest I am thy wife. Clear, then, to the world the reputation thou hast sullied and received as thy lawful successor the child who will present thee this my dying request. The worthiest, the most benevolent, the best of men, to whose consoling kindness I owe the little tranquility I have been able to preserve has plighted me with his faith that, upon no other conditions, he will part with his helpless charge. Shouldest thou, in the features of this dearest innocent, trace the resemblance of the wretched Caroline? Should its face bear the marks of its birth, and revive in thy memory the image of its mother? Wilt thou not, Belmont? Wilt thou not, therefore renounce it? O, babe of my fondest affection, for whom already I experience all the tenderness of maternal pity, look not like thy unfortunate mother, lest the parent, whom the hand of death may spare, shall be snatched from thee by the more cruel means of unnatural antipathy. I can write no more. The small share of serenity I have painfully acquired will not bear the shock of the dreadful ideas that crowd upon me. Adieu, for ever. Yet shall I not, in this last farewell, which thou wilt not read till every stormy passion is extinct, and the kind grave has embosomed all my sorrows, shall I not offer to the man, once so dear to me, a ray of consolation to those afflictions he has in reserve? Suffer me, then, to tell thee that my pity far exceeds my indignation, that I will pray for thee in my last moments, and the recollection of the love I once bore thee, shall swallow up every other. Once more, Adieu. Caroline, Belmont. End of Letter seventy-four. Recorded by Nicky Sullivan, Chicago. This morning I saw from my window that Lord Orville was walking in the garden, but I would not go downstairs till breakfast was ready, and then he paid me his compliments almost as coldly as Lady Louisa paid hers. I took my usual place, and Mrs. Belmont, Lady Louisa, and Mrs. Selwyn entered into their usual conversation. Not so, your ever-liner, disregarded, silent and melancholy, she sat like a cipher, whom, to nobody belonging, by nobody was noticed. Ill-brooking such a situation, and unable to support the neglect of Lord Orville, the moment breakfast was over, I left the room, and was going upstairs. When very unpleasantly I was stopped by Sir Clement Willoughby, who, flying into the hall, prevented my proceeding. He inquired very particularly after my health, and entreated me to return into the parlor. I willingly, I consented, but thought anything preferable to continuing alone with him, and he would neither leave me nor suffer me to pass on. Yet in returning I felt not a little ashamed at appearing thus to take the visit of Sir Clement to myself, and indeed he endeavored by his manner of addressing me to give it that air. He stayed, I believe, an hour, nor would he, perhaps, even then, have gone, had not Mrs. Beaumont broken up the party by proposing an airing in her coach. Lady Louisa consented to accompany her. But Mrs. Selwyn, when applied to, said, If my Lord or Sir Clement will join us, I shall be happy to make one, but really a trio of females will be nervous to the last degree. Sir Clement readily agreed to attend them. Indeed, he makes it his evidence study to court the favour of Mrs. Beaumont. Lord Orville excused himself from going out, and I retired to my own room. What he did with himself I know not, for I would not go downstairs till dinner was ready. His coldness, though my own change of behaviour had occasioned it, so cruelly depresses my spirits that I know not how to support myself in his presence. At dinner I found Sir Clement again of the party. Indeed, he manages everything his own way, for Mrs. Beaumont, though by no means easy to please, seems quite at his disposal. The dinner, the afternoon, and the evening were to me the most irksome imaginable. I was tormented by the aciduity of Sir Clement, who not only took but made opportunities of speaking to me, and I was hurt, oh, how inexpressibly hurt, that Lord Orville not only forbore as hitherto seeking, he even neglected all occasions of talking with me. I begin to think, my dear Sir, that the sudden alteration in my behaviour was ill-judged and improper. For, as I had received no offence, as the cause of the change was upon my account not his, I should not have assumed so abruptly a reserve for which I dared assign no reason, nor have shunned his presence so obviously without considering the strange appearance of such a conduct. Alas, my dearest Sir, that my reflections should always be too late to serve me. Dearly indeed, do I purchase experience, and much, I fear, I shall suffer yet more severely from the heedless indiscretion of my temper, ere I attain that prudence and consideration, which, by foreseeing distant consequences, may rule and direct in present exigencies. October 4th Yesterday morning everybody rode out except Mrs. Selwyn and myself, and we too sat for some time together in her room, but as soon as I could I quitted her to saunter in the garden, for she diverts herself so unmercifully with rallying me, either upon my gravity, or concerning Lord Orville, that I dread having any conversation with her. Here I believe I spent an hour by myself, when, hearing the garden gate open, I went into an arbor at the end of a long walk, where ruminating very unpleasantly upon my future prospects, I remained quietly seated but a few minutes, before I was interrupted by the appearance of Sir Clement Willoughby. I started, and would have left the arbor, but he prevented me. Indeed, I am almost certain he had heard in the house where I was, as it is not otherwise probable he would have strolled down the garden alone. Stop! Stop! cried he. Loveliest and most beloved of women, stop and hear me. Then, making me keep my place, he sat down by me, and would have taken my hand, but I drew it back, and said I could not stay. Can you, then? cried he. Refuse me the smallest gratification, though but yesterday I almost suffered martyrdom for the pleasure of seeing you. Martyrdom? Sir Clement. Yes, beauty is insensible. Martyrdom! For did I not compel myself to be immured in a carriage, the tedious length of a whole morning with the three most fatiguing women in England? Upon my word, the ladies are extremely obliged to you. Oh! returned he. They have every one of them so copious to share of their own personal esteem, that they have no right to repine at the failure of it in the world, and indeed they will themselves be the last to discover it. How little, cried I, are those ladies aware of such severity from you. They are guarded, answered he, so happily and so securely by their own conceit, that they are not aware of it from anybody. Oh! Miss Anvil, to be torn away from you in order to be shut up with them, is there a human being, except your cruel self, could forbear to pity me? I believe, Sir Clement, however hardly you may choose to judge of them, your situation by the world in general would rather have been envied than pitied. The world in general, answered he, has the same opinion of them that I have myself. Mrs. Beaumont is everywhere laughed at, Lady Louise are ridiculed, and Mrs. Selwyn hated. Good God, Sir Clement, what cruel strength of words do you use? It is you, my angel, ought to blame, since your perfections have rendered their faults so glaring. I protest to you during our whole ride, I thought the carriage drawn by snails. The absurd pride of Mrs. Beaumont, and the respect she exacts, are at once insufferable and stupefying. Had I never before been in her company, I should have concluded that this had been her first airing from the Herald's office, and wished her nothing worse than that it might also be the last. I assure you, that but for gaining the freedom of her house, I would fly her as I would plague, pestilence, and famine. Mrs. Selwyn indeed afforded some relief from this formality, but the unbounded license of her tongue. Oh, Sir Clement, do you object to that? Yes, my sweet reproacher, in a woman I do, in a woman I think it intolerable. She has wit, I acknowledge, and more understanding than half a sex put together, but she keeps alive a perpetual expectation of satire, that spreads a general uneasiness among all who are in her presence. And she talks so much that even the best thing, she says, weary the attention. As to the little Louisa, it is such a pretty piece of langer that is almost cruel to speak rationally about her. Else, I should say, she is a mere compound of affectation, impertinence, and heirs. I am quite amazed, said I, that with such opinions you can behave to them all with so much attention and civility. Civility, my angel, where I could worship, could adore them only to procure myself a moment of your conversation. Have you not seen me pay my court to the gross Captain Mervin and the Virago Madame Duvall? Were it possible that a creature so horrid could be formed, as to partake of the worst qualities of all these characters, a creature who should have the haughtiness of Mrs. Beaumont, the brutality of Captain Mervin and the self-conceit of Mrs. Selwyn, the affectation of Lady Louisa, and the vulgarity of Madame Duvall? Even to such a monster as that, I would pay homage and pour forth adulation only to obtain one word, one look from my adored, Miss Anvil. Sir Clement, said I, you are greatly mistaken if you suppose this duplicity of character recommends you to my good opinion, but I must take this opportunity of begging you never more to talk to me in this strain. Oh, Miss Anvil, your reproofs, your coldness pierce me to the soul. Look upon me with less rigor, and make me what you please. You shall govern and direct all my actions. You shall new form, new model me. I will not have even a wish but of your suggestion, only dain to look upon me with pity, if not with favour. Suffer me, sir, said I very gravely, to make use of this occasion to put a final conclusion to such expressions. I entreat you never again to address me in a language so flighty and so unwelcome. You have already given me great uneasiness, and I must frankly assure you that if you do not desire to banish me from wherever you are, you will adopt a very different style and conduct in future. I then rose and was going, but he flung himself at my feet to prevent me, exclaiming in a most passionate manner. Good God! Miss Anvil, what do you say? Is it, can it be possible, that so unmoved, that with such petrifying indifference you can tear from me even the remotest hope? I know not, sir, said I, endeavouring to disengage myself from him. What hope you mean? But I am sure that I never intended to give you any. You distract me, cried he. I cannot endure such scorn. I beseech you to have some moderation in your cruelty, lest you make me desperate. Say, then, that you pity me. Oh, fairest, inexorable, loveliest tyrant! Say, tell me at least that you pity me. Just then, who should come in sight, as if intending to pass by the arbor? But Lord Orville—Good Heaven, how did I start?—and he, the moment he saw me, turned pale, and was hastily retiring. But I called out, Lord Orville! Sir Clement, release me! Let go my hand! Sir Clement, in some confusion, suddenly rose, but still grasped my hand. Lord Orville, who had turned back, was again walking away, but still struggling to disengage myself, I called out, Pray, pray, my Lord, don't go! Sir Clement, I insist upon you releasing me. Lord Orville, then, hastily approaching us, said with great spirit, Sir Clement, you cannot wish to detain Miss Anvil by force. Neither, my Lord! cried Sir Clement proudly, do I request the honour of your lordship's interference. However, he let go my hand, and I immediately ran into the house. I was now frightened to death, lest Sir Clement's mortified pride should provoke him to affront Lord Orville. I therefore hastily ran to Mrs. Selwyn, and entreated her, in a manner hardly to be understood, to walk towards the arbor. She asked no questions, for she is quick as lightning and taking a hint, but instantly hastened into the garden. Imagine, my dear sir, how wretched I must be till I saw her return! Scarce could I restrain myself from running back! However, I checked my impatience, and waited, though in agony, till she came. And now, my dear sir, I have a conversation to write, the most interesting to me that I ever heard. The comments and questions with which Mrs. Selwyn interrupted her account, I shall not mention, for they are as such as you may very easily suppose. Lord Orville and Sir Clement were both seated very quietly in the arbor, and Mrs. Selwyn, standing still as soon as she was within a few yards of them, heard Sir Clement say, Your question, my lord, alarms me, and I can by no means answer it, unless you will allow me to propose another. Undoubtedly, sir. You ask me, my lord, what are my intentions? I should be very happy to be satisfied as to your lordships. I have never, sir, professed any. Here they were both for a few moments silent, and then Sir Clement said, To what, my lord, must I then impute your desire of knowing mine? To an unaffected interest in Miss Anville's welfare. And such an interest, said Sir Clement, trially, is indeed very generous, but except in a father, a brother, or a lover. Sir Clement, interrupted his lordship, I know your inference, and I acknowledge I have not to the right of inquiry which any of these three titles bestow, and yet I confess the warmest wishes to serve her and to see her happy. Will you then excuse me if I take the liberty to repeat my question? Yes, if your lordship will excuse my repeating that I think it a rather extraordinary one. It may be so, said Lord Orville. But this young lady seems to be peculiarly situated. She is very young, very inexperienced, yet appears to be left totally to her own direction. She does not, I believe, see the dangers to which she is exposed, and I will own to you, I feel a strong desire to point them out. I don't rightly understand your lordship, but I think you cannot mean to prejudice her against me. Her sentiments of you, sir, are as much unknown to me as your intentions towards her. Perhaps, where I acquainted with either, my officiousness might be at an end, but I presume not to ask upon what terms. Here he stopped, and Sir Clement said, You know, my lord, I am not given to despair. I am by no means such a puppy as to tell you I am upon shore ground. However, perseverance. You are then determined to persevere. I am, my lord. Pardon me then, Sir Clement, if I speak to you with freedom. This young lady, though she seems alone, and in some measure unprotected, is not entirely without friends. She has been extremely well educated, and a accustomed good company. She has a natural love of virtue, and a mind that might adorn any station however exalted. Is such a young lady, Sir Clement, a proper object to trifle with? For your principles, excuse me, sir, are well known. As to that, my lord, let Miss Anville look to herself. She has an excellent understanding, and needs no counsellor. Her understanding is indeed excellent, but she is too young for suspicion, and has an artlessness of disposition I never saw equalled. My lord! cried Sir Clement warmly, Your praises make me doubt your disinterestedness, and there exists not the man whom I would so unwillingly have for a rival as yourself. But you must give me leave to say you have greatly deceived me in regard to this affair. How so, sir? cried Lord Orville with equal warmth. You were pleased, my lord? answered Sir Clement. Upon our first conversation concerning this young lady, to speak to her in terms by no means suited to your present encomiums, you said she was a poor, weak, ignorant girl, and I had great reason to believe you had a most contemptuous opinion of her. It is very true, said Lord Orville, that I did not at our first acquaintance do justice to the merits of Miss Anville, but I knew not then how new she was to the world. At present, however, I am convinced that whatever might appear strange in her behaviour was simply the effect of an experience, timidity, and a retired education, for I find her informed, sensible, and intelligent. She is not, indeed, like most modern young ladies, to be known in half an hour. Her modest worth and fearful excellence require both time and encouragement to show themselves. She does not, beautiful as she is, seize the soul by surprise, but with more dangerous fascination she steals it almost imperceptibly. Enough, my lord," cried Sir Clement, your solicitude for her welfare is now sufficiently explained. My friendship and esteem, returned Lord Orville, I do not wish to disguise, but assure yourself, Sir Clement, I should not have troubled you upon this subject, had Miss Anville and I ever conversed but as friends. However, since you do not choose to avow your intentions, we must drop the subject. My intentions, Coyte, I will frankly own are hardly known to myself. I think Miss Anville the loveliest of her sex, and were I a marrying man, she of all the women I have seen, I would fix upon for a wife. But I believe that not even the philosophy of your lordship would recommend me to a connection of that sort, with a girl of obscure birth, whose only dowry is her beauty, and who is evidently in a state of dependency. Sir Clement, cried Lord Orville with some heat, we will discuss this point no further, we are both free agents and must act for ourselves. Here, Miss Selwyn, fearing a surprise, and finding my apprehensions of danger were groundless, retired hastily into another walk, and soon after came to give me this account. Good Heaven, what a man is this, Sir Clement, so designing, though so easy, so deliberately artful, though so flighty! Greatly, however, is he mistaken, all confident as he seems, for the girl, obscure, poor, dependent as she is, far from wishing the honour of his alliance, would not only now, but always have rejected it. As to Lord Orville. But I will not trust my pen to mention him. Tell me, my dear sir, what do you think of him? Tell me if he is not the noblest of men, and if you can either wander at or blame my admiration. The idea of being seen immediately by either party, after so singular a conversation, was both awkward and distressing to me. But I was obliged to appear at dinner. Sir Clement, I saw, was absent and uneasy. He watched me. He watched Lord Orville, and was evidently disturbed in his mind. Whenever he spoke to me, I turned from him with undisguised disdain, for I am too much irritated against him to bear with his ill-mentus duties any longer. But not once, not a moment, did I dare meet the eyes of Lord Orville. All consciousness myself, I dreaded his penetration, and directed my eyes every way but towards his. The rest of the day, I never quitted, Mrs. Selwyn. Adieu, my dear sir. Tomorrow I expect your directions, whether I am to return to Berry Hill, or once more, to visit London. End of letter seventy-five. If the perturbation of my spirits will allow me, I will finish my last letter from Clifton Hill. This morning, though I did not go downstairs early, Lord Orville was the only person in the parlor when I entered it. I felt no small confusion at seeing him alone, after having so long and successfully avoided such a meeting. As soon as the usual compliments were over, I would have left the room, but he stopped me by saying, If I disturb you, Miss Anvil, I am gone. My Lord, said I, rather embarrassed, I did not mean to stay. I flattered myself, cried he. I should have had a moment's conversation with you. I then turned back, and he seemed himself in some perplexity, but after a short pause. You are very good, said he, to indulge my request. I have indeed for some time past most ardently desired an opportunity of speaking to you. Again he paused, but I said nothing, so he went on. You allowed me, madame, a few days since. You allowed me to lay claim to your friendship, to interest myself in your affairs, to call you by the affectionate title of sister. And the honour you did me, no man could have been more sensible of. I am ignorant, therefore, how I have been so unfortunate as to forfeit it. But at present all has changed. You fly me, your averted eye shuns to meet mine, and you sedulously avoid my conversation. I was extremely disconcerted at this grave and but too just accusation, and I am sure I must look very simple, but I made no answer. You will not, I hope, continued he. Condemn me unheard. If there is anything I have done, or anything I have neglected, tell me, I beseech you what, and it shall be the whole study of my thoughts how to deserve your pardon. Oh, my lord!" cried I, penetrated at once with shame and gratitude. Your too-too-great politeness oppresses me. You have done nothing. I never dreamt of offence. If there is any pardon to be asked, it is rather for me than for you to ask it. You are all sweetness and condescension, cried he, and I flatter myself, you will again allow me to claim those titles which I find myself so unable to forego. Yet occupied as I am with an idea that gives me the greatest uneasiness, I hope you will not think me impertinent if I still solicit, still entreat, nay implore you to tell me to what cause your late sudden and to me most painful reserve was owing. Indeed, my lord!" said I, stammering. I—I don't—I can't—indeed, my lord! I am sorry to distress you, said he, and ashamed to be so urgent. Yet I know not how to be satisfied while in ignorance, and the time when the change happened makes me apprehend. May I, Miss Anville, tell you what it makes me apprehend? Certainly, my lord. Tell me, then, and pardon a question most essentially important to me. Had or had not Sir Clement Willoughby any share in causing your inquiritude? No, my lord! answered I, with firmness, none in the world. A thousand, thousand thanks! cried he. You have relieved me from a weight of conjecture which I supported very painfully. But one thing more—is it in any measure to Sir Clement that I may attribute the alteration in your behaviour to myself, which I could not but observe began the very day after his arrival at the Hot Wells? To Sir Clement, my lord! said I, attribute nothing. He is the last man in the world who would have any influence over my conduct. And will you then restore to me the share of confidence and favour with which you wanted me before he came? Just then, to my great relief, for I knew not what to say, Mrs. Beaumont opened the door, and a few minutes we went into breakfast. Lord Orville was all gayety. Never did I see him more lively or more agreeable. Very soon after Sir Clement Willoughby called to pay his respects, he said, to Mrs. Beaumont. I then came to my own room, where, indulging my reflections, which now soothed and now alarmed me, I remained very quietly, till I received your most kind letter. Oh, Sir! How sweet are the prayers you offer for your Everliner! How grateful to her are the blessings you pour upon her head! You commit me to my real parent—our guardian, friend, protector of my youth—by whom my helpless infancy was cherished, my mind formed, my very life preserved! You are the parent my heart acknowledges, and to you do I vow eternal duty, gratitude and affection. I look forward to the approaching interview with more fear than hope, but important as is this subject, I am just now wholly engrossed with another, which I must hasten to communicate. I immediately acquainted Mrs. Selwyn with the purport of your letter. She was charmed to find your opinion agreed with her own, and settled that we should go to town to-morrow morning, and as shares is actually ordered to be here by one o'clock. She then desired me to pack up my clothes, and said she must go herself to make some speeches and tell lies to Mrs. Beaumont. When I went downstairs to dinner, Lord Orville, who was still in excellent spirits, reproached me for secluding myself so much from the company. He sat next to me—he would sit next to me—at table, and he might, I am sure, repeat what he once said of me before, that he almost exhausted himself in fruitless endeavours to entertain me, for indeed I was not to be entertained. I was totally spiritless and dejected. The idea of the approaching meeting—and oh, sir, the idea of the approaching parting—gave a heaviness to my heart that I could neither conquer nor repress. I even regretted the half-explanation that had passed, and wished Lord Orville had supported his own reserve, and suffered me to support mine. However, when, during dinner, Mrs. Beaumont spoke of our journey, my gravity was no longer singular—a cloud instantly overspread the countenance of Lord Orville, and he became nearly as thoughtful and as silent as myself. We all went together to the drawing-room. After a short and un-entertaining conversation, Mrs. Selwyn said she must prepare for her journey, and begged me to see for some book she had left in the parlour. And here, while I was looking for them, I was followed by Lord Orville. He shut the door after he came in, and approaching me with a look of anxiety, said, Is this true, Miss Anvil? Are you going? I believe so, my lord, said I, still looking for the books. So suddenly, so unexpectedly, must I lose you? No great loss, my lord, cried I, endeavouring to speak cheerfully. Is it possible, said he gravely, Miss Anvil can doubt my sincerity. I can't imagine, cried I, what Mrs. Selwyn has done with these books. Would to heaven, continued he, I might flatter myself, you would allow me to prove it. I must run upstairs, cried I, greatly confused, and ask what she has done with them. You are going, then, cried he, taking my hand, and you give me not the smallest hope of your return. Will you not, then, my too lovely friend, will you not at least teach me with fortitude like your own to support your absence? My lord, cried I, endeavouring to disengage my hand. Pray let me go. I will, cried he, to my inexpressible confusion, dropping on one knee, if you wish to leave me. Oh, my lord, exclaimed I, rise! I beseech you, rise! Such a posture to me! Surely your lordship is not so cruel as to mock me. Mock you! repeated he earnestly. No! I revere you! I esteem and I admire you above all human beings. You are the friend to whom my soul is attached as to its better half. You are the most amiable, the most perfect of women, and you are dearer to me than language has the power of telling. I attempt not to describe my sensations at that moment. I scarce breathed. I doubted if I existed. The blood forsook my cheeks, and my feet refused to sustain me. Lord Orville hastily rising supported me to a chair, upon which I sunk, almost lifeless. For a few minutes we neither of us spoke, and then, seeing me recover, Lord Orville, though in terms hardly articulate, entreated my pardon for his abruptness. The moment my strength returned, I attempted to rise, but he would not permit me. I cannot write the scene that followed, though every word is engraven on my heart, but his protestations, his expressions, were too flattering for repetition. Nor would he, in spite of my repeated efforts to leave him, suffer me to escape. In short, my dear sir, I was not proof against his solicitations, and he drew from me the most sacred secret of my heart. I know not how long we were together, but Lord Orville was upon his knees when the door was opened by Mrs. Selwyn. To tell you, sir, the shame with which I was overwhelmed would be impossible, I snatched my hand from Lord Orville, he too started and rose, and Mrs. Selwyn for some instant started facing us in silence. At last— "'My Lord,' said she sarcastically, "'have you been so good as to help Miss Annville to look for my books?' "'Yes, madam,' answered he, attempting to rally, "'and I hope we shall soon be able to find them.' "'Your lordship is extremely kind,' said she, dryly, "'but I can by no means consent to take up any more of your time.' Then, looking on the window-seat, she presently found the books and added, "'Come, here are just three, and so, like the servants in the drama, this important affair may give employment to us all.' She then presented one of them to Lord Orville, another to me, and taking a third herself, with the most provoking look, she left the room. I would instantly have followed her, but Lord Orville, who could not help laughing, begged me to stay a minute, as he had many important matters to discuss. "'No, indeed, my lord, I cannot. Perhaps I have stayed already too long.'" Does Miss Annville so soon repent her goodness? "'I scarce know what I do, my lord. I am quite bewildered.' "'One hour's conversation,' cried he, "'will I hope compose your spirits and confirm my happiness? When, then, may I hope to see you alone? Shall you walk in the garden tomorrow before breakfast?' "'No, no, my lord, you must not a second time approach me with making an appointment.' "'Do you then?' said he, laughing, reserved that honour only for Mr. McCartney.' "'Mr. McCartney,' said I, "'is Paul, and thinks himself obliged to me, otherwise?' "'Poverty,' cried he, "'I will not plead. But if being obliged to you has any weight, who shall dispute my title to an appointment?' "'My lord, I can stay no longer. Mrs. Selwyn will lose all patience. Deprive her not of the pleasure of her conjectures. But tell me, are you under Mrs. Selwyn's care?' "'Only for the present, my lord.' "'Not a few are the questions I have to ask, Miss Anvil. Among them the most important is whether she depends wholly on herself, or whether there is any other person for whose interest I must solicit.' "'I hardly know, my lord. I hardly know myself to whom I must belong.' "'Suffer, suffer me then,' cried he, with warmth, to hasten the time when that shall no longer admit a doubt, when your grateful Orville may call you all his own.' At length, but with difficulty, I broke from him. I went, however, to my own room, for I was too much agitated to follow Mrs. Selwyn. "'Good God, my dear sir, what a scene! Surely the meeting for which I shall prepare to Murrow can not so greatly affect me. To be loved by Lord Orville, to be the honoured choice of his noble heart, my happiness seemed too infinite to be borne, and I wept, even bitterly I wept, from the excess of joy which overpowered me.' In this state of almost painful felicity I continued till I was summoned to tea. When I re-entered the drawing-room, I rejoiced much to find it full of company, as the confusion with which I met Lord Orville was rendered the less observable. Immediately after tea, most of the company played at cards, and then, till suppertime, Lord Orville devoted himself wholly to me. He saw that my eyes were red, and would not let me rest till he made me confess the cause. And when, though most reluctantly, I had acknowledged my weakness, I could with difficulty refrain from weeping again at the gratitude he expressed. He earnestly desired to know if my journey could not be postponed. And when I said no, in treated permission to attend me to town. Oh, my Lord! cried I. What a request! The sooner, answered he, I make my devotion to you in public, the sooner I may expect from your delicacy, you will convince the world you encourage no mere danglers. You teach me, then, my Lord, the inference I might expect, if I complied. And can you wonder I should seek to hasten the happy time when no scruples, no discretion will demand our separation, and the most punctilious delicacy will rather promote than oppose my happiness in attending you? To this I was silent, and he re-erged his request. My Lord! said I, you ask what I have no power to grant. This journey will deprive me of all right to act for myself. What does Miss Anville mean? I cannot now explain myself. Indeed, if I could, the task would be both painful and tedious. Oh, Miss Anville! cried he. When may I hope to date the period of this mystery? When flatter myself that my promised friend will indeed honour me with her confidence? My Lord! said I. I mean not to affect any mystery, but my affairs are so circumstance that a long and most unhappy story can alone explain them. However, if a short suspense will give your lordship any uneasiness. My beloved Miss Anville! cried he eagerly. Pardon my impatience! You shall tell me nothing you would wish to conceal. I will wait your own time for information, and trust to your goodness for its speed. There is nothing, my Lord, I wish to conceal. To postpone an explanation is all I desire. He then requested that, since I would not allow him to accompany me to town, I would permit him to write to me, and promise to answer his letters. A sudden recollection of the two letters which had already passed between us occurring to me, I hastily answered, No indeed, my Lord! I am extremely sorry, said he gravely, that you think me too presumptuous. I must own I had flattered myself that to soften the inquiritude of an absence which seems attended by so many inexplicable circumstances would not have been to incur your displeasure. This seriousness hurt me, and I could not forbear saying, Can you indeed desire, my Lord, that I should a second time expose myself by an unguarded redness to write to you? A second time? Unguarded redness! repeated he. You amaze me! Has your lordship then quite forgot the foolish letter I was so imprudent as to send you when in town? I have not the least idea, cried he, of what you mean. Why, then, my Lord? said I, we had better let the subject drop. Impossible! cried he, I cannot rest without an explanation. And then he obliged me to speak very openly of both the letters. But, my dear sir, imagine my surprise, when he assured me in the most solemn manner, that far from having ever written me a single line, he had never received, seen or heard of my letter. This subject, which caused mutual astonishment and perplexity to us both, entirely engrossed us for the rest of the evening, and he made me promise to show him the letter I had received in his name to-morrow morning, that he might endeavour to discover the author. After supper the conversation became general. And now, my dearest sir, may I not call for your congratulations upon the events of this day, a day never to be recollected by me but with the most grateful joy. I know how much you are inclined to think well of Lord Orville. I cannot therefore apprehend that my frankness to him will displease you. Perhaps the time is not very distant, when your ever liners' choice may receive the sanction of her best friend's judgment and approbation, which seems now all she has to wish. In regard to the change in my situation, which must first take place, surely I cannot be blamed for what is past. The partiality of Lord Orville must not only reflect honour upon me, but upon all to whom I do or may belong. Adieu, most dear sir. I will write again when I arrive at London. Everliner in continuation, Clifton, October 7th. You will see, my dear sir, that I was mistaken in supposing I should write no more from this place, when my residence now seems more uncertain than ever. This morning during breakfast Lord Orville took an opportunity to beg me in a low voice, to allow him a moment's conversation before I left Clifton. May I hope, added he, that he will stroll into the garden after breakfast. I made no answer, but I believe my looks gave no denial, for indeed I much wished to be satisfied concerning the letter. The moment, therefore, that I could quit the parlour, I ran upstairs for my callush, but before I reached my room, Mrs. Selwyn called after me. If you are going to walk, Miss Anvil, be so good as to be Jenny bring down my hat, and I'll accompany you. Very much disconcerted, I turned into the drawing-room without making any answer, and there I hoped to wait on scene, till she had otherwise disposed of herself. But in a few minutes the door opened, and Sir Clement Willoughby entered. Starting at the side of him, in rising hastily, I let drop the letter which I had brought for Lord Orville's inspection, and before I could recover it, Sir Clement, springing forward, had it in his hand. He was just presenting it to me, and at the same time inquiring after my health, when the signature caught his eye, and he read aloud, "'Orville!' I endeavoured eagerly to snatch it from him, but he would not permit me, and holding it fast, in a passionate manner exclaimed, "'Good God, Miss Anvil! is it possible you can value such a letter as this?' The question surprised and confounded me, and I was too much ashamed to answer him, but finding he made an attempt to secure it, I prevented him, and vehemently demanded him to return it. "'Tell me first,' said he, holding it above my reach, "'tell me if you have since received any more letters from the same person.' "'No, indeed,' cried I, "'never.' "'And will you also, sweetest of women, promise that you will never receive any more? Say that, and you will make me the happiest of men.' "'Ceclement!' cried I, greatly confused. Pray give me the letter. "'And will you not first satisfy my doubts? Will you not relieve me from the torture of the most distracting suspense? Tell me but that the detested Orville has written to you no more.' "'Ceclement!' cried I angrily. "'You have no right to make any conditions, so pray give me the letter directly.' "'Why is such solicitude about this hateful letter? Can it possibly deserve a eagerness? Tell me with truth, with sincerity, tell me, does it really merit the least anxiety?' "'No matter, sir,' cried I, in great perplexity. "'The letter is mine, and therefore.' "'I must conclude, then,' said he, that the letter deserves your utmost contempt, but that the name of Orville is sufficient to make you prize it.' "'Ceclement!' cried I, colouring. "'You are quite—you are very much—the letter is not.' "'Oh, Miss Anvil!' cried he. "'You blush, you stammer—great heaven—it is then all as I feared.' "'I know not!' cried I, half-frightened. What do you mean? But I beseech you to give me the letter and to compose yourself.' "'The letter!' cried he, gnashing his teeth. "'You shall never see more. You ought to have burnt it the moment you had read it.' And in an instant he tore it into a thousand pieces. Alarmed at a fury so indecently outrageous, I would have run out of the room. But he caught hold of my gown, and cried, "'Not yet. Not yet must you go. I am but half-mad yet, and you must stay to finish your work. Tell me, therefore, does Orville know your fatal partiality? Say yes,' added he, trembling with passion, and I will fly you for ever.' "'For heaven's sakes a clement,' cried I, "'release me. If you do not, you will force me to call for help.' "'Call, then,' cried he, "'inexorable and most unfeeling girl. Call, if you please, and bid all the world witness your triumph. But could ten worlds obey your call? I would not part from you till you had answered me. Tell me, then, does Orville know you love him?' At any other time an enquiry so gross would have given me inexpressible confusion. But now the wildness of his manner terrified me, and I only said, "'Whatever you wish to know, Sir Clement, I will tell you another time. But for the present I entreat you to let me go.' "'Enough,' cried he, "'I understand you. The art of Orville has prevailed. Cold, inanimate, phlegmatic as he is. You have rendered him the most envied of men. One thing more, and I have done. Will he marry you?' "'What a question! My cheeks glowed with indignation, and I felt too proud to make any answer.' "'I see. I see how it is,' cried he, after a short pause, and I find I am undone for ever.' Then, letting loose my gown, he put his hand to his forehead, and walked up and down the room in a hasty and agitated manner. Though now at liberty to go, I had not the courage to leave him, for his evident distress excited all my compassion, and this was our situation when Lady Louisa, Mr. Covelay, and Mrs. Beaumont entered the room. "'So Clement Willoughby,' said the latter, "'I beg your pardon for making you wait so long, but—' She had not time for another word. So Clement, too much disordered to know or care what he did, snatched up his hat, and rushing hastily past her, flew downstairs and out of the house. And with him went my sincerest pity, though I honestly hope I shall see him no more. But what, my dear sir, am I to conclude from his strange speeches concerning the letter? Does it not seem as if he was himself the author of it? How else should he be so well acquainted with the contempt it merits? Neither do I know another human being who could serve any interest by such a deception. I remember, too, that just as I had given my own letter to the maid, Sir Clement came into the shop. Probably he prevailed upon her by some bribery to give it to him, and afterwards by the same means to deliver to me an answer of his own writing. Indeed, I can in no other manner account for this affair. Oh, Sir Clement, were you not yourself unhappy, I know not how I could pardon an artifice that has caused me so much uneasiness. His abrupt departure occasioned a kind of general consternation. Very extraordinary behaviour this!" cried Mrs. Beaumont. E'garde! said Mr. Cavally. The baronet has a mind to tip us a touch of the heroics this morning. I declare, cried Miss Louisa. I never saw anything so monstrous in my life. It's quite abominable. I fancy the man's mad. I am sure he has given me a shocking fright. Soon after Mrs. Selwyn came upstairs with Lord Merton. The former advancing hastily to me said, Miss Anvil, have you an almanac? Me? No, madam. Who has one, then? E'garde! cried Mr. Cavally. I never bought one in my life. It would make me quite melancholy to have such a time-keeper in my pocket. I would as soon walk all day before an hour-glass. You are in the right! said Mrs. Selwyn. Not to watch time lest you should be betrayed, unawares, into reflecting how you employ it. E'garde, ma'am! cried he. If time thought no more of me than I do of time, I believe I should bid defiance, for one while, to old age and wrinkles, for dues take me if ever I think about it at all. Pray, Mr. Cavally! said Mrs. Selwyn. Why do you think it necessary to tell me this so often? Often? repeated he. E'garde, madam, I don't know why I said it now, but I'm sure I can't recollect that ever I owned as much before. Owned it before? cried she. Why, my dear sir, you own it all day long, for every word, every look, every action proclaims it. I know not if he understood the full severity of her satire, but he only turned off with a laugh, and she then applied to Mr. Lovell and asked if he had an almanac. Mr. Lovell, who always looks alarmed when she addresses him, with some hesitation, answered, I assure you, ma'am, I have no manner of antipathy to an almanac, none in the least, I assure you, I daresay I have four or five. Four or five? Pray, may I ask what use you make of so many? Use? Really, ma'am, as to that, I don't make any particular use of them. But one must have them to tell one the day of the month, I'm sure else I should never keep it in my head. And does your time pass so smoothly unmarked that, without an almanac, you could not distinguish one day from another? Really, ma'am, cried he, colouring. I don't see anything so very particular in having a few almanacs. Other people have them, I believe, as well as me. Don't be offended! Cried she. I have, but made a little digression. All I want to know is the state of the moon. For if it is at the fall, I shall be saved a world of conjectures, and know at once to what cause to attribute the inconsistencies I have witnessed this morning. In the first place, I heard Lord Orville excuse himself from going out, because he had business of importance to transact at home. Yet I have seen him sauntering alone in the garden this half-hour. Miss Anville, on the other hand, I invited to walk out with me, and after seeking her everywhere round the house, I find her quietly seated in the drawing-room. And, but a few minutes since, Clement Willoughby, with even more than his usual politeness, told me he was come to spend the morning here, when, just now, I met him flying downstairs as if pursued by the Furies. And far from repeating his compliments or making any excuse, he did not even answer a question I asked him, but rushed past me with the rapidity of a thief from a bailiff. I protest, said Mrs. Beaumont. I can't think what he meant. Such rudeness from man of any family is quite incomprehensible. My Lord! cried Lady Louisa to Lord Merton. Do you know he did the same by me? I was just going to ask him what was the matter, but he ran past me so quick that I declare he quite dazzled my eyes. You can't think, my Lord, how he frightened me. I dare say I look as pale. Don't I look very pale, my Lord? Your ladyship! said Mr. Lovell. So well becomes the lilies that the roses might blush to see themselves so excelled. Pray, Mr. Lovell! said Mrs. Selwyn. If the roses should blush, how would you find it out? E' gad! cried Mr. Covelay. I suppose they must blush, as the saying is, like a blue dog, for they are red already. Prothi-jack! said Lord Merton. Don't you pretend to talk about blushes that never knew what they were in your life? My Lord! said Mrs. Selwyn. If experience alone can justify mentioning them, what an admirable treatise upon the subject may we not expect from your lordship. Oh, pray, Mum! answered he. Stick to Jack Covelay. He's your only man. For my part, I confess, I have a mortal aversion to arguments. Oh, fire, my Lord! cried Mrs. Selwyn. A senator of the nation, a member of the noblest parliament in the world, and yet neglect the art of oratory. My faith, my Lord! said Mr. Lovell. I think in general your house is not much addicted to study. We of the lower house have indubitably most application, and if I did not speak before a superior power— bowing to Lord Merton—I should presume to add we have likewise the most able speakers. Mr. Lovell! said Mrs. Selwyn. You deserve immortality for that discovery, but for this observation and the confession of Lord Merton, I protest that I should have supposed that a peer of the realm and an able logician were synonymous terms. Lord Merton, turning upon his heel, asked Lady Louisa if she would take the air before dinner. Really? answered she. I don't know. I'm afraid it's monstrous hot. Besides, putting a hand to her forehead, I ain't half well. It's quite horrid to have such weak nerves. The least thing in the world discomposes me. I declare that man's oddness has given me such a shock. I don't know when I shall recover from it. But I'm a sad, weak creature. Don't you think I am, my Lord? Oh, by no means! answered he. Your ladyship is merely delicate, and devil take me if I ever had the least passion for an Amazon. I have the honour to be quite of your lordship's opinion," said Mr. Lovell, looking maliciously at Mrs. Selwyn, for I have an insuperable aversion to strength, either of body or mind, in a female. Faith, and so have I," said Mr. Cavally, for e' gad I'd assume see a woman chop wood as hear her chop logic. And so would every man in his senses, said Lord Merton, for a woman wants nothing to recommend her but beauty and good nature. In everything else she is either impertinent or unnatural. For my part, deuce take me if I ever wish to hear a word of sense for a woman as long as I live. It has always been agreed," said Mrs. Selwyn, looking round her with the utmost contempt, that no man ought to be connected with a woman whose understanding is superior to his own. Now I very much fear that to accommodate all this good company, according to such a rule, would be utterly impracticable, unless we should choose subjects from Swift's Hospital of Idiots. How many enemies, my dear sir, does this unbounded severity excite? Lord Merton, however, only whistled. Mr. Cavally sang, and Mr. Lovell, after biting his lips, said, Bonhonne, that lady, if she were not a lady, I should be half tempted to observe that there is something in such severity, that is rather, I must say, rather oddish. Just then a servant brought Lady Louisa a note upon a waiter, which is a ceremony always used to her ladyship, and I took the opportunity of this interruption to the conversation to steal out of the room. I went immediately to the parlour, which I found quite empty, for I did not dare walk in the garden after what Mrs. Selwyn had said. In a few minutes a servant announced to Mr. McCartney, saying as he entered the room that he would acquaint Lord Orville who was there. Mr. McCartney rejoiced much at finding me alone. He told me he had taken the liberty to inquire for Lord Orville by way of pretext for coming to the house. I then very eagerly inquired if he had seen his father. A half-madame, said he, and the generous compassion you have shown me made me hasten to acquaint you, that upon reading my unhappy mother's letter he did not hesitate to acknowledge me. Good God! cried I with no little emotion. How similar are circumstances! And did he receive you kindly? I could not, madame, expect that he would. The cruel transaction which obliged me to fly to Paris was recent in his memory. And have you seen the young lady? No, madame, said he moanfully. I was forbid her sight. Forbid her sight? And why? Partly perhaps prudence, and partly from the remains of a resentment which will not easily subside. I only requested leave to acquaint her with my relationship, and to be allowed to call her my sister, but it was denied me. You have no sister, said Sir John. You must forget her existence. Hard and vain, command. You have! You have a sister! cried I, from an impulsive pity which I could not repress—a sister who is most warmly interested in your welfare, and who only wants opportunity to manifest a friendship and regard. Gracious heaven! cried he. What does Miss Anvil mean? Anvil, said I, is not my real name. Sir John Belmont is my father, he is yours, and I am your sister. You see, therefore, the claiming mutually have to each other's regard. We are not merely bound by the ties of friendship, but by those of blood. I feel for you already all the affection of a sister. I felt it indeed before I knew I was one. Why, my dear brother, do you not speak? Do you hesitate to acknowledge me? I am so lost in astonishment, cried he, that I know not if I hear right. I have then found a brother, cried I, holding out my hand, and he will not own me. Own you? Oh, madame! cried he, accepting my offered hand. Is it indeed possible you can own me? A poor, rich and adventurer, whose soul lately had no support but from your generosity, whom your benevolence snatched from utter destruction? Can you? Oh, madame! can you indeed and without of blush condescend to own such an outcast for a brother? Oh, forbear! forbear! cried I. Is this language proper for a sister? Are we not reciprocally bound to each other? Will you not suffer me to expect from you all the good officers in your power? But tell me, where is our father at present? Art the horde well as madame. He arrived there yesterday morning. I would have proceeded with further questions, but the entrance of Lord Orville prevented me. The moment he saw us, he started, and would have retreated, but drawing my hand from Mr. McCartney's, I begged him to come in. For a few minutes we were all silent, and I believe all in equal confusion. Mr. McCartney, however, recollecting himself, said, I hope your lordship will forgive the liberty I have taken, in making use of your name. Lord Orville rather coldly bowed, but said nothing. Again we were all silent, and then Mr. McCartney took leave. I fancy, said Lord Orville when he was gone, I have shortened Mr. McCartney's visit. No, my lord, not at all. I had presumed, said he with some hesitation, I should have seen Miss Anville in the garden, but I knew not she was so much better engaged. Before I could answer, a servant came to tell me the shares was ready, and that Mrs. Selwyn was inquiring for me. I will wait on her immediately, cried I, and away I was running, but Lord Orville stopping me, said, with great emotion, Is it thus, Miss Anville, you leave me? My lord, cried I, how can I help it? Perhaps soon some better opportunity may offer. Good heaven! cried he, do you take me for a stoic? What better opportunity may I hope for? Is not the shares come, aren't you going? Have you even danged to tell me wither? My journey, my lord, will now be deferred. Mr. McCartney has brought me intelligence which renders it at present unnecessary. Mr. McCartney, said he gravely, seems to have great influence, yet he is a very young counsellor. Is it possible, my lord, that Mr. McCartney can give you the least uneasiness? My dearest Miss Anville, said he, taking my hand, I see and I adore the purity of your mind, superior as it is to all little arts and all apprehensions of suspicion, and I should do myself as well as you in justice if I were capable of harboring the smallest doubts of that goodness, which makes you mine for ever. Nevertheless, pardon me, if I own myself surprised, nay alarmed at these frequent meetings with so young a man as Mr. McCartney. My lord! cried I, eager to clear myself. Mr. McCartney is my brother. Your brother? You amaze me! What strange mystery then makes his relationship a secret? Just then Mrs. Selwyn opened the door. Oh! you are here! cried she. Pray is my lord so kind as to assist you in preparing for your journey, or in retarding it. I should be most happy, said Lord Orville, smiling, if it were in my power to do the latter. I then acquainted her with Mr. McCartney's communication. She immediately ordered the shares away, and then took me into her own room to consider what should be done. A few minutes suffice to determine her, and she wrote the following note. To Sir John Belmont, Bart. Mrs. Selwyn presents a compliment to Sir John Belmont, and if he is at leisure will be glad to wait upon him this morning upon business of importance. She then ordered her man to inquire at the pomp-room for a direction, and went herself to Mrs. Beaumont to apologise for deferring her journey. An answer was presently returned, that Sir John would be glad to see her. She would have had me immediately accompany her to the hot wells, but I entreated her to spare me the distress of so abrupt an introduction, and pave the way for my reception. She consented rather reluctantly, and attended only by her servant, walked to the wells. She was not absent two hours, yet so miserably did time seem to linger, that I thought a thousand accidents had happened, and feared she would never return. I passed the whole time in my own room, for I was too much agitated even to converse with Lord Orville. The instant that from my window I saw her returning, I flew downstairs and met her in the garden. We both walked to the arbor. Her looks, in which both disappointment and anger were expressed, presently announced to me the failure of her embassy. Finding that she did not speak, I asked her in a faltering voice, whether or not I had a father. You have not, my dear," said she, abruptly. Very well, madam," said I, with tolerable calmness. Let the shares then be ordered again. I will go to Berry Hill, and there I trust I shall still find one. It was some time ere she could give, or I could hear, the account of her visit, and then she related it in a hasty manner, yet I believe I can recollect every word. I found Sir John alone. He received me with the utmost politeness. I did not keep him a moment in suspense as to the purport of my visit, but I had no sooner made it known than with the supercilious smile he said, And have you, madam, been prevailed upon to revive that ridiculous old story? Ridiculous, I told him, was a term which he would find in no one else do him the favour to make use of in speaking of the horrible actions belonging to the old story he made so light of. Actions, continued I, which would die still deeper the black annals of Nero or Caligula. He attempted in vain to rally, for I pursued him with all the severity in my power, and ceased not painting the enormity of his crime till I stung him to the quick, and in a voice of passion and impatience he said, No more, madam, this is not a subject upon which I need a monitor. Make then, cried I, the only reparation in your power. Your daughter is now at Clifton, send for her hither, and in the face of the world proclaim the legitimacy of her birth, and clear the reputation of your injured wife. Madam, said he, you are much mistaken if you suppose I waited for the honour of this visit before I did, but little justice now depends upon me, to the memory of that unfortunate woman. Her daughter has been my care from her infancy, I have taken her into my house, she bears my name, and she will be my sole heiress. For some time this assertion appeared so absurd that I only laughed at it, but at last he assured me I had myself been imposed upon, for that very woman who attended Lady Belmont in her last illness conveyed the child to him while he was in London before she was a year old. Unwilling, he added, at that time to confirm the rumour of my being married, I sent the woman with the child to France. As soon as she was old enough I put her into a convent, where she has been properly educated, and now I have taken her home. I have acknowledged her for my lawful child, and paid at length to the memory of her unhappy mother a tribute of fame, which has made me wish to hide myself hereafter from all the world. This whole story sounded so improbable that I did not scruple to tell him I discredited every word. He then wrung his bell, and inquiring if his hairdresser was come, said he was sorry to leave me, but that, if I would favour him with my company to-morrow, he would do himself the honour of introducing Miss Belmont to me, instead of troubling me to introduce her to him. I rose in great indignation, and assuring him I would make his conduct as public as it was infamous, I left the house. Good heaven! how strange the recital! how incomprehensible an affair! The Miss Belmont, then, who is actually at Bristol, passes for the daughter of my unhappy mother—passes in short for your ever-liner. Who she can be, or what this tale can mean, I have not any idea. Mrs. Selwyn soon after left me to my own reflections. Indeed, they were not very pleasant. Quietly as I had borne her relation, the moment I was alone I felt most bitterly both the disgrace and sorrow of a rejection so cruelly inexplicable. I know not how long I might have continued in this situation, had I not been awakened from my melancholy reverie by the voice of Lord Orville. May I come in? cried he, or shall I interrupt you? I was silent, and he seated himself next to me. I fear, he continued, Miss Annville will think I persecute her, yet so much as I have to say, and so much as I wish to hear, with so few opportunities for either, she cannot wonder—and I hope she will not be offended—that I seize with such avidity every moment in my power to converse with her. You are grave, added he, taking my hand. I hope the pleasure it gives me will not be a subject of pain to you. You are silent. Something, I am sure, has afflicted you. Would to heaven I were able to console you. Would to heaven I were worthy to participate in your sorrows. My heart was too full to bear this kindness, and I could only answer by my tears. Good heaven! cried he, how you alarm me! My love, my sweet Miss Annville, deny me no longer to be the sharer of your griefs. Tell me at least that you have not withdrawn your esteem, that you do not repent the goodness you have shown me, that you still think me the same grateful Orville, whose heart you have deigned to accept. Oh, my Lord! cried I, your generosity overpowers me. And I wept like an infant, for now that all my hopes of being acknowledged seemed finally crushed, I felt the nobleness of his disinterested regard so forcibly, that I could scarce breathe under the weight of gratitude which oppressed me. He seemed greatly shocked, and in terms of the most flattering, the most respectfully tender, he had once soothed my distress, and urged me to tell him its cause. My Lord! said I, when I was able to speak. You little know what an outcast you have honoured with your choice. A child of bounty, an orphan from infancy, dependent even for subsistence, dependent upon the kindness of compassion, rejected by my natural friends, disowned forever by my nearest relation. Oh, my Lord! so circumstanced, can I deserve the distinction with which you honour me? No. No! I feel the inequality too painfully. You must leave me, my Lord. You must suffer me to return to obscurity. And there, in the bosom of my first, best, my only friend, I will pour forth all the grief of my heart, while you, my Lord, must seek elsewhere. I could not proceed. My whole soul recoiled against the charge I would have given, and my voice refused to utter it. Never! cried he warmly. My heart is yours, and I swear to you in attachment eternal. You prepare me indeed for a tale of horror, and I am almost breathless with expectation. But so firm as my conviction, that whatever are your misfortunes, to have merited them is not of the number that I feel myself more strongly, more invincibly devoted to you than ever. Tell me, but where I may find this noble friend, whose virtues you have already taught me to reverence, and I will fly to obtain his consent in intercession, that henceforward our fates may be indissolubly united. And then shall it be the sole study of my life to endeavor to soften your past, and to guard you from future misfortunes. I had just raised my eyes to answer this most generous of men, when the first object they met was Mrs. Selwyn. So, my dear! cried she. What! still courting the rural shades! I thought ere now you would have been satiated with this retired seat, and I had been seeking you all over the house. But I find the only way to meet with you is to inquire for Lord Orville. However, don't let me disturb your meditation. You are possibly planning some pastoral dialogue. And with this provoking speech she walked on. In the greatest confusion I was quitting the arbor when Lord Orville said, Permit me to follow Mrs. Selwyn. It is time to put an end to all impertinent conjectures. Will you allow me to speak to her openly? I assented in silence, and he left me. I then went to my own room, where I continued till I was summoned to dinner, after which Mrs. Selwyn invited me to hers. The moment she had shut the door. Your ladyship! said she. Will I hope be seated? Mum! cried I, staring. Oh, this sweet innocent! So you don't know what I mean. But, my dear, my sole view is to accustom you a little to your dignity elect. Lest, when you are addressed by your title, you should look another way, from an apprehension of listening to a discourse not meant for you to hear. Having in this manner diverted herself with my confusion, till her railery was almost exhausted, she congratulated me very seriously upon the partiality of Lord Orville, and painted to me in the strongest terms, his disinterested desire of being married to me immediately. She had told him, she said, my whole story, and yet he was willing, nay eager, that our union should take place of any further application to my family. Now, my dear, continued she, I advise you by all means to marry him directly. Nothing can be more precarious than our success with Sir John, and the young men of this age are not to be trusted with too much time for deliberation, whether interests are concerned. Good God, madam! cried I. Do you think I would hurry, Lord Orville? Well, do as you will, said she. Luckily you have an excellent subject for cohotism, otherwise this delay might prove your ruin, but Lord Orville is almost as romantic as if he had been born and bred at Berry Hill. She then proposed, as no better expedient seemed likely to be suggested, that I should accompany her at once and her visit to the hot wells tomorrow morning. The very idea made me tremble, yet she represented so strongly the necessity of pursuing this unhappy affair with spirit, or giving it totally up, that wanting her force of argument, I was almost obliged to yield to her proposal. In the evening we all walked in the garden, and Lord Orville, who never quitted my side, told me he had been listening to a tale, which though it had removed the perplexities that had so long tormented him, had penetrated him with sorrow and compassion. I acquainted him with Mrs. Selwyn's plan for to-morrow, and confessed the extreme terror it gave me. He then, in a manner almost unanswerable, besawred me to leave to him the conduct of the affair, by consenting to be his before an interview took place. I could not but acknowledge my sense of his generosity, but I told him I was wholly dependent upon you, and that I was certain your opinion would be the same as mine, which was that it would be highly improper I should dispose of myself for ever, so very near the time which must finally decide by whose authority I ought to be guided. The subject of this dreaded meeting, with a thousand conjectures and apprehensions to which it gives birth, employed all our conversation, then, as it has all my thoughts since. Heaven only knows how I shall support myself, when the long expected, the wished yet terrible moment arrives, that will prostrate me at the feet of the nearest, the most reverenced of all relations, whom my heart yearns to know, and longs to love. End of Letter 77