 Chapter 52 of Evelina. Evelina, in continuation, Holborn, July 1st, five o'clock in the morning. Oh, sir! what an adventure have I to write! All night has occupied my thoughts, and I am now risen thus early to write it to you. Yesterday it was settled that we should spend the evening in Maribin Gardens, when Monsieur Torré, a celebrated foreigner, was to exhibit some fireworks. The party consisted of Madame du Vaux, all the Brantons, Monsieur du Bois, Mr. Smith, and Mr. Brown. We were almost the first persons who entered the gardens. Mr. Branton, having declared he would have all he could get for his money, which, at best, was only filled away at such silly and idle places. We walked in parties, and very much detached from one another. Mr. Brown and Miss Polly led the way by themselves, Miss Branton and Mr. Smith followed, and the latter seemed determined to be revenged for my behaviour at the ball, by transferring all his former affection for me to Miss Branton, who received it with an air of exultation, and very frequently they each of them, though from different motives, looked back to discover whether I observed their good intelligence. Madame du Vaux walked with Monsieur du Bois, and Mr. Branton by himself, but his son would willingly have attached himself wholly to me, saying frequently, Come, Miss, let's you and I have a little fun together. You see they've all left us, so now let's leave them. But I begged to be excused, and went to the other side of Madame du Vaux. Miss Garden, as it is called, is neither striking for magnificent nor for beauty, and we were all so dull and languid, that I was extremely glad when we were summoned to the orchestra upon the opening of a concert. In the course of which I had the pleasure of hearing a concerto on the violin by Mr. Barthelman, who to me seems a player of exquisite fancy, feeling, and variety. When notice was given us that the fireworks were preparing, we hurried along to secure good places for the sight, but very soon we were so encircled and incommodated by the crowd, that Mr. Smith proposed the lady should make interest for a form to stand on. This was soon affected, and the men then left us to accommodate themselves better, saying they would return the moment the exhibition was over. The fireworks were really beautiful, and told with wonderful ingenuity the story of Orpheus and Eurydice, but at the moment of the fatal look which separated them for ever, there was such an explosion of fire, and so horrible a noise, that we all, as of one of chord, jumped hastily from the form, and ran away some paces, fearing that we were in danger of mischief, from the innumerable sparks of fire which glittered in the air. For a moment or two I neither knew nor considered what I had run, but my recollection soon awakened by a stranger's dressing me with. Come along, my dear, and I'll take care of you. I started, and then to my great terror perceived that I had outrun all my companions, and so not one human being I knew. With all the speed in my power, and forgetful of my first fright, I hastened back to the place I had left, but found the form occupied by a new set of people. In vain, from side to side, I looked for some face I knew, I found myself in the midst of a crowd, yet without party, friend, or acquaintance. I walked in disordered haste from place to place, without knowing which way to turn, or whether I went. Every other moment I was spoke to by some bold and unfeeling man, to whom my distress, which I think must be very apparent, only furnished a pretense for impertinent witticisms, or free gallantry. At last a young officer, marching fiercely up to me, said, You are a sweet, pretty creature, and I enlist you in my service. And then, with great violence, he seized my hand. I screamed aloud with fear, and forcibly snatching it away, I ran hastily up to two ladies, and cried, For heaven's sake, dear ladies, afford me some protection. They heard me with a loud laugh, but very readily said, I, let her walk between us. And each of them took hold of an arm. Then in a drawling, ironical tone of voice, they asked what had frightened my little ladyship. I told them my adventure very simply, and entreated they would have the goodness to assist me in finding my friends. Oh, yes, to be sure, they said, I should not want for friends, whilst I was with them. Mine, I said, would be very grateful for any civilities with which they might favour me. But imagine, my dear sir, how I must have been confounded, when I observed that every other word I spoke produced a loud laugh. However, I will not dwell upon a conversation, which soon, to my inexpressible horror, convinced me I had sought protection from insult, of those who were themselves most likely to offer it. You, my dearest sir, I well know, will both feel for and pity my terror, which I have no words to describe. Had I been at liberty, I should have instantly run away from them, when I made the shocking discovery. But as they held me fast, that was utterly impossible. As such was my dread of their resentment or abuse, that I did not dare make any open attempt to escape. They asked me a thousand questions, accompanied by as many hallows, of who I was, what I was, and whence I came. My answers were very incoherent. But what good heaven were my emotions, when a few moments afterwards I perceived advancing our way, Lord Orville! Never shall I forget what I felt at that instant. Had I indeed been sunk to the guilty state, which such companions might lead him to suspect, I could scarce have had feelings more cruelly depressing. However, to my infinite joy, he passed us without distinguishing me, though I saw that in a careless manner his eyes surveyed the party. As soon as he was gone, one of these unhappy women said, "'Do you know that, young fellow?' Not thinking it possible she should mean Lord Orville by such a term, I readily answered, "'No, madam.' "'Why, then?' answered she. "'You have a monstrous good stare for a little country, miss.' I now found I had mistaken her, but was glad to avoid an explanation. A few minutes after, what was my delight to hear the voice of Mr. Brown, who called out, "'Lord! In that miss! What's her name?' "'Thank God!' cried I, suddenly springing from them both, "'Thank God! I have found my party!' Mr. Brown was, however, alone, and without knowing what I did, I took hold of his arm. "'Lord! Miss!' cried he. "'We've had such a hunt, you can't think. Some of them thought he was gone home. But I says, says I. I don't think, says I, that she's like to go home all alone, says I.' "'And so that gentleman belongs to you, miss, does he?' said one of the women. "'Yes, madam,' answered I, and now I thank you for your civility, but as I am safe will not give you any further trouble.' I curtsied slightly, and would have walked away, but most unfortunately, madame DuVal and the two Miss Brantons just then joined us. The all began to make a thousand enquiries, to which I briefly answered that I had been obliged these two ladies for walking with me, and would tell them more yet another time. For though I felt great comparative courage, I was yet too much intimidated by their presence to dare be explicit. Nevertheless, I ventured once more to wish them a good night, and proposed seeking Mr. Branton. These unhappy women listened to all that was said with a kind of callous curiosity, and seemed determined not to take any hint. But my vexation was terribly augmented, when after having whispered something to each other, they very cavalierly declared that they intent joining our party. And then, one of them very boldly took hold of my arm, while the other going round seized that of Mr. Brown. With us, almost forcibly, we were moved on between them, and followed by madame DuVal and the Miss Brantons. It would be very difficult to say which was greatest, my fright or Mr. Brown's consternation, who ventured not to make the least resistance, though his uneasiness made him tremble almost as much as myself. I would instantly have withdrawn my arm, but it was held so tight I could not move it. And poor Mr. Brown was circumcised in the same manner on the other side, for I heard him say,—'Lord, ma'am, there's no need to squeeze one's arm, so.' And this was our situation, for we had not taken three steps, and oh, sir, we again met Lord Orville. But not again did he pass quietly by us. Unhappily I caught his eye. Both mine immediately were bent to the ground, but he approached me, and were all stopped. I then looked up. He bowed. Could God, with what expressive eyes did he regard me? Never were surprise and concern so strongly marked. Yes, my dear sir, he looked greatly concerned, and that the remembrance of that is the only consolation I feel for an evening the most painful of my life. What he said I know not, for indeed I seem to have neither ears nor understanding, but I recollect that I only curtsied in silence. He paused for an instant. As if, I believe so, as if unwilling to pass on, and then finding the whole party detained, he again bowed, and took leave. Indeed my dear sir, I thought I should have fainted, so great was my emotion, from shame, vexation, and a thousand other feelings, for which I have no expression. I absolutely tore myself from the woman's arms, and then disengaging myself from that of Mr. Brown, I went to Madame Duvall, and besought that she would not suffer me to be again parted from her. I fancied that Lord Orville saw it passed, for scarcely desired liberty ere he returned. Me thought, my dear sir, the pleasure, the surprise of that moment, recompensed me for all the chagrin I had ever before felt. For do you not think that his return manifests, for a character so quiet, so reserved as Lord Orville's, something like solicitude in my concern? Such at least was the interpretation I involuntarily made upon again seeing him. With the politeness to which I had been some time very little used, he apologised for returning, and then inquired after the health of Mrs. Mervyn, and the rest of the Howard Grove family. The flattering conjecture which I have just acknowledged, had so wonderfully restored my spirits that I believe I never answered him so readily, and with so little constraint. Very short, however, was the duration of this conversation, for we were soon most disagreeably interrupted. The Miss Brantons, though they saw almost immediately the characters of the women to whom I had so unfortunately applied, were nevertheless so weak and foolish, as merely to tit her at their behaviour. As to Madame Duvall, she was for some time so strangely imposed upon, that she thought they were two real fine ladies. Indeed, it is wonderful to see how easily and how frequently she is deceived. Our disturbance, however, arose from young Brown, who was now between the two women, by whom his arms were absolutely pinioned to his sides, for a few minutes his complaints had been only murmured, but now he called out aloud, "'Goodness, ladies, you hurt me like anything. Why, I can't walk at all, if you keep pinching my arms so.'" This speech raised a loud laugh in the women, and redoubled the tittering of the Miss Brantons. For my own part I was most cruelly confused, while the countenance of Lord Orville manifested a sort of indignant astonishment, and from that moment he spoke to me no more till he took leave. Madame Duvall, who now began to suspect her company, proposed our taking the first box we saw her empty, bespeaking a supper, and waiting till Mr. Branton should find us. Miss Polly mentioned one she had remarked to which we all turned. Madame Duvall instantly seated herself, and the two bold women, forcing the frighten Mr. Brown to go between them, followed her example. Lord Orville, with an air of gravity that wounded my very soul, then wished me good night. I said not a word, but my face, if it had any connection with my heart, must have looked melancholy indeed, and so I have some reason to believe it did, for he added with much more softness, though no less dignity. Will Miss Anville allow me to ask her address, and to pay my respects to her before I leave town? Oh! how I changed colour at this unexpected request! Yet what was the mortification I suffered in answering? My Lord, I am in Holburn. He then bowed, and left us. What? What can he think of this adventure? How strangely, how cruelly, have all appearances turned against me? Had I been blessed with any presence of mind, I should instantly have explained to him the accident which occasioned my being in such terrible company, but I have none. As to the rest of the evening, I cannot relate the particulars of what past, for to you I only write of what I think, and I can think of nothing but this unfortunate, this disgraceful meeting. These two wretched women continued to torment us all, but especially poor Mr. Brown, who seemed to afford them uncommon diversion, till we were discovered by Mr. Branton, who very soon found means to release us from their persecutions, by frightening them away. We stayed but a short time after they left us, which was employed in explanation. There may be the construction which Lord Orville may put upon this affair. To me it cannot fail of being unfavorable. To be seen, gracious heaven, to be seen in company, with two women of such character. How vainly, how proudly I have wished to avoid meeting him when only with the Brantons and Madame Duvall, but now, how joyful should I be, had he seen me to no greater disadvantage. Holburn, too! What a direction! He who had always—but I will not torment you, my dearest sir, with any more of my mortifying conjectures and apprehensions—perhaps he may call, and then I shall have an opportunity of explaining to him all the most shocking part of the adventure. And yet, as I did not tell him at whose house I lived, he may not be able to discover me. I merely said in Holburn, and he, who I suppose saw my embarrassment, forbore to ask any other direction. Well, I must take my chance. Yet let me, injustice to Lord Orville, and injustice to the high opinion I have always entertained of his honour and delicacy, let me observe the difference of his behaviour when nearly in the same situation, to that of Sir Clement Willoughby. He had at least equal cause to depreciate me in his opinion, and to mortify and sink me in his own, but far different was his conduct. Perplexed indeed, he looked, and much surprised, but it was benevolently, not with insolence. I am even inclined to think that he could not see a young creature whom he had so lately known in a higher sphere appear so suddenly, so strangely, so disgracefully altered in her situation without some pity and concern. But whatever might be his doubt and suspicions, far from suffering them to influence his behaviour, he spoke, he looked with the same politeness and attention with which he had always honoured me when countenanced by Mrs. Mervyn. Once again, let me drop this subject. In every mortification, every disturbance, how grateful to my heart, how sweet my recollection is the certainty of your never-failing tenderness, sympathy, and protection. Oh, sir, could I, upon this subject, could I write, as I feel, how animated would be the language of your devoted, ever-liner? End of Letter fifty-two. Letter fifty-three 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. Letter fifty-three. Evelina in continuation. Holben, July 1. Restless, uneasy, and without either spirit or courage to employ myself, from the time I had finished my last letter, I indolently seated myself at the window, where, while I waited Madame Duvall's summons to breakfast, I perceived, among the carriages which passed by, a coronet-coach, and in a few minutes from the window of it, Lord Orville. I instantly retreated, but not, I believe, unseen, for the coach immediately drove up to our door. Indeed, my dear sir, I must own, I was greatly agitated, the idea of receiving Lord Orville by myself, the knowledge that his visit was entirely to me, the wish of explaining the unfortunate adventure of yesterday, and the mortification of my present circumstances, all these thoughts occurring to me nearly at the same time, occasioned me more anxiety, confusion than perplexity, than I can possibly express. I believe he meant to send up his name, but the maid, unused to such a ceremony, forgot it by the way, and only told me that a great Lord was below and desired to see me, had the next moment he appeared himself. If, formally, when in the circle of high life and accustomed to its manners, I so much admired and distinguished the grace, the elegance of Lord Orville, think, sir, how they must strike me now, now, when far removed from that splendid circle, I live with those to whom even civility is unknown, and decorum a stranger. I am sure I received him very awkwardly, depressed by a situation so disagreeable, could I do otherwise? When his first enquiries were made, I think myself very fortunate, he said, in meeting with Miss Anville at home, and still more so in finding her disengaged. I only curtsied. He then talked of Mrs. Mervyn, asked how long I had been in town, and other such general questions, which happily gave me time to recover from my embarrassment, after which he said, if Miss Anville will allow me the honour of sitting by her a few minutes, for we were both standing, I will venture to tell her the motive, which, next to enquiring after her health, has prompted me to wait on her thus early. We were both then seated, and after a short pause he said, how to apologise for so great a liberty as I am upon the point of taking, I know not, shall I therefore rely wholly upon your goodness, and not apologise at all? I only bowed. I should be extremely sorry to appear impertinent, yet hardly know how to avoid it. Oh, my lord!" cried I, eagerly, that I am sure is impossible. You are very good," answered he, and encouraged me to be ingenuous. Again he stopped, but my expectation was too great for speech. At last, without looking at me in a low voice and hesitating manner, he said, were those ladies with whom I saw you last night, ever in your company before? No, my lord!" cried I, rising and colouring violently, nor will they ever be again. Heroes, too, and with an air of the most condescending concern, said, pardon, madam, the abruptness of a question which I knew not how to introduce as I ought, and for which I have no excuse to offer, but my respect for Mrs. Mervyn joined to the sincerest wishes for your happiness, yet I fear I have gone too far. I am very sensible of the honour of your lordship's attention," said I. But— "'Permit me to assure you,' cried he, finding I hesitated, that officiousness is not my characteristic, and that I would by no means have risked your displeasure had I not been fully satisfied you were too generous to be offended without a real cause of offence." "'Affended,' cried I, no, my lord, I am only grieved—grieved, indeed, to find myself in a situation so unfortunate as to be obliged to make explanations which cannot but mortify and shock me. "'It is I alone,' cried he, with some eagerness, who am shocked, as it is I who deserve to be mortified. I seek no explanation, for I have no doubt, but in mistaking me, Miss Anvil and just herself, allow me, therefore, frankly and openly to tell you the intention of my visit.' I bowed, and be both returned to our seats. "'I will own myself to have been greatly surprised,' continued he, when I met you yesterday evening in company with two persons who I was sensible merited not the honour of your notice. Nor was it easy for me to conjecture the cause of your being so situated. Yet believe me, my insertitude did not for a moment do you injury. I was satisfied that their characters must be unknown to you, and I thought, with concern, of the shock you would sustain when you discovered their unworthiness. I should not, however, upon so short an acquaintance, have usurped the privilege of intimacy, in giving my unasked sentiments upon so delicate a subject, had I not known that credulity is the sister of innocence, and therefore feared you might be deceived. A something which I could not resist urged me to the freedom I have taken to caution you, but I shall not easily forgive myself if I have been so unfortunate as to give you pain." The pride which his first question had excited now subsided into delight and gratitude, and I instantly related to him as well as I could, the accident which had occasioned my joining the unhappy women with whom he had met me. He listened with an attention so flattering, seemed so much interested during the recital, and when I had done, thanked me in terms so polite for what he was pleased to call my condescension, that I was almost ashamed either to look at or hear him. Even after the maid came to tell me that Madame Duvall desired to have breakfast made in her own room. I fear, cried Lord Orville, instantly rising, that I have intruded upon your time, yet who, so situated, could do otherwise? Then taking my hand, will Miss Anvil allow me thus to seal my peace? He pressed it to his lips, and took leave. Generous! noble Lord Orville! How disinterested his conduct! How delicate his whole behaviour! Willing to advise it afraid to wound me! Can I ever in future regret the adventure I met with at Mariban, since it has been productive of a visit so flattering? Had my mortifications been still more humiliating, my terrors still more alarming, such a mark of esteem, may I not call it so? Some Lord Orville would have made me ample amends. And indeed, my dear sir, I require some consolation in my present very disagreeable situation, for since he went, two incidents have happened, that, had not my spirits been particularly elated, would greatly have disconcerted me. During breakfast, Madame Duvall very abruptly asked if I should like to be married, and added that Mr. Branton had been proposing a match for me with his son. Surprised, and I must own provoked, I assured her that in thinking of me Mr. Branton would very vainly lose his time. Why, cried she, I have had grand reviews for you myself, if once I could get you to Paris, and make you be owned, but if I can't do that, and you can do no better, why as you are both my relations I think it to leave my fortune between you, and then if you marry, you never need one for nothing. I begged her not to pursue the subject, as I assured her Mr. Branton was totally disagreeable to me, but she continued her admonitions and reflections with her usual disregard of whatever I could answer. She charged me very peremptorily, neither holy to discourage, nor yet to accept Mr. Branton's offer, till she saw what could be done for me. The young man, she added, had often intended to speak to me himself, but not well knowing how to introduce the subject, he had desired her to pave the way for him. I scrupled not, warmly and freely, to declare my aversion to this proposal, but it was to no effect. She concluded, just as she had begun, by saying that I should not have him if I could do better. Nothing, however, shall persuade me to listen to any other person concerning this odious affair. My second cause of uneasiness arises, very unexpectedly, from Mr. Dubois, who, to my infinite surprise, upon Madame Dubois's quitting the room after dinner, put into my hand a note, and immediately left the house. This note contains an open declaration of an attachment to me, which, he says, he should never have presumed to have acknowledged had he not been informed, that Madame Duvall destined my hand to young Branton, a match which he cannot endure to think of. He besieges me earnestly to pardon his temerity, professes the most inviolable respect, and commits his fate to time, patience, and pity. This conduct in Mr. Dubois gives me real concern, as I was disposed to think very well of him. It will not, however, be difficult to discourage him, and therefore I shall not acquaint Madame Duvall of his letter, as I have reason to believe it would greatly displease her. CHAPTER VIII Oh, sir! How much uneasiness must I suffer, to counterbalance one short morning of happiness? Yesterday the Brantons proposed a party to Kensington Gardens, and, as usual, Madame Duvall insisted upon my attendance. We went in a hackney-coach to pick a dilly, and then had a walk through Hyde Park, which in any other company would have been delightful. I was very much pleased with Kensington Gardens, and think them infinitely preferable to those of Vauxhall. Young Branton was extremely troublesome. He insisted upon walking by my side, and talked with me almost by compulsion. However, my reserve and coldness prevented his entering upon the hateful subject which Madame Duvall had prepared me to apprehend. Once indeed, when I was accidentally a few yards before the rest, he said, I suppose, Miss, Aunt is told you about—you know what—hand she miss?—but I turned from him without making any answer. Neither Mr. Smith nor Mr. Brown were of the party, and poor Monsieur Duvall, when he found that I avoided him, looked so melancholy that I was rarely sorry for him. While we were strolling round the garden, I perceived, walking with a party of ladies at some distance, Lord Orville. I instantly retreated behind Miss Branton, and kept out of sight till we had passed him, for I dreaded being seen by him again in a public walk with a party of which I was ashamed. Suddenly I succeeded in my design, and saw no more of him. For a sudden and violent shower of rain made us all hasten out of the gardens. We ran till we came to a small green-shop, where we begged shelter. Here we found ourselves in company with two footmen, whom the rain had driven into the shop. Their livery I thought I had before seen, and upon looking from the window I perceived the same upon a coachman belonging to a carriage, which I immediately recollected to be Lord Orville's. Trying to be known, I whispered Miss Branton not to speak my name. Had I considered but a moment, I should have been sensible of the inutility of such a caution, since not one of the parties call me by any other appellation than that of cousin, or of miss, but I am perpetually involved in some distress or dilemma from my own heedlessness. This request excited very strongly her curiosity, and she attacked me with such eagerness and bluntness of enquiry that I could not avoid telling her the reason for my making it, and consequently that I was known to Lord Orville, an acknowledgement which proved the most unfortunate in the world, for she would not rest till she had drawn from me the circumstances attending my first making the acquaintance. Then, calling to her sister, she said, Lord Polly, only think! Miss has danced with a lord! Well! cried Polly, that's a thing I should never have thought of, and pray, Miss, what did he say to you? This question was much sooner asked than answered, and they both became so very inquisitive and earnest that they soon drew the attention of Madame Duvall and the rest of the party, to whom, in a very short time, they repeated all they had gathered from me. Goodness, then! cried young Branton, if I was miss, I would not make free with his lordship's coach to take me to town. Why, I, said the father, there would be some sense in that, that would be making some use of a lord's acquaintance, for it would save us coach hire. Lord, miss! cried Polly, I wish you would, for I should like of all things to ride in a coronet-coach. I promise you, said Madame Duvall, I'm glad you've thought of it for I'd seen no objection, so let's have the coachman called. Not for the world! cried I, very much alarmed. Indeed, it is utterly impossible. Why so? demanded Mr. Branton. Pray, where is the good of your knowing a lord, if you're never the better for him? Muffo, a child, said Madame Duvall, you don't know no more of the world than if you was a baby. Pray, sir, to one of the footmen. Tell that coachman to drop, for I want to speak to him. The man stared, but did not move. Pray, pray, Madame, said I, pray, Mr. Branton, have the goodness to give up this plan. I know but very little of his lordship, and cannot, upon any account, take so great a liberty. Don't say nothing about it, said Madame Duvall, for I shall have it my own way. So if you won't call the coachman, sir, I'll promise you I'll call him myself." The footman, very impertinently, laughed, and turned upon his heel. Madame Duvall, extremely irritated, ran out on the rain and beckoned the coachman, who instantly obeyed her summons. But beyond all expression I flew after her, and entreated her with the utmost earnestness to let us return in a hackney-coach—but, oh, she is impenetrable to persuasion. She told the man she wanted him to carry her directly to town, and that she would answer for him to Lord Orville. The man with a sneer thanked her, but said he should answer for himself, and was driving off, when another footman came up to him, with information that his lord was gone into Kensington Palace, and would not want him for an hour or two. Why, then, friend?" said Mr. Branton, for we were followed by all the party. We will be the great harm in your taking us to town. Besides, said the son, I'll promise you a pot of beer for my share. These speeches had no other answer from the coachman than a loud laugh, which was echoed by the insolent footman. I rejoiced at their resistance, though I was certain that, if their lord had witnessed their impertinence, they would have been instantly dismissed his service. Bad D., cried Madame DuVall, if I don't think all the footmen are the most impudent as fellows in the kingdom. But I'll promise you I'll have your master told of your heirs, so you'll get no good by him. Oh, why, pray, said the coachman, rather alarmed. Did my lord give you leave to use the coach? It's no matter for that, answered she. I'm sure if he's a gentleman, he'd let us have it sooner than we should be wet to the skin. But I'll promise you we shall know how saucy you've been, for this young lady knows him very well. I, that she does, said Miss Polly, and she's danced with him, too. Oh, how I repented my foolish mismanagement! The men bit their lips and looked at one another in some confusion. This was perceived by our party, who, taking advantage of it, protested they would write Lord Orville word of their ill-behaviour without delay. This quite startled them, and one of the footmen offered to run to the palace and ask his beloved lord's permission for our having the carriage. This proposal really made me tremble, and the Brantons all hung back upon it. But Madame Duvall is never to be dissuaded from a scheme she has once formed. —Do so, cried she, and give his child's compliments to your master, and tell him, as we ain't no coachee, we should be glad to go just as far as Oldburn and his. —No, no, no, cried I, don't go. I know nothing of this lordship. I send no message. I have nothing to say to him. The men, very much perplexed, could with difficulty restrain themselves from assuming their impertinent mirth. Madame Duvall scolded me very angrily, and then desired them to go directly. —Pray, then—said the coachman. What name is to be given to my lord? —Anville—answered Madame Duvall. Tell him Miss Anville wants the coach, the young lady he danced with once. I was really in agony, but the winds could not have been more deaf to me than those to whom I pleaded. And therefore the footman, urged by the repeated threats of Madame Duvall, and perhaps recollecting the name himself, actually went to the palace with this strange message. He returned in a few minutes, and bowing to me with the greatest respect, said, —My lord desires his compliments, and his carriage will be always at Miss Anville's service. I was so much affected by this politeness, and chagrined at the whole affair that I could scarce refrain from tears. Madame Duvall and the Miss Branton's eagerly jumped into the coach, and desired me to follow. I would rather have submitted at the severest punishment, but all resistance was in vain. During the whole ride I said not a word. However, the rest of the party was so talkative that my silence was very immaterial. We stopped at our lodgings, but when Madame Duvall and I alighted, the Brantons asked if they could not be carried on to Snow Hill. The servants, now all civility, made no objection. Remonstrances from me would, I too well knew, be fruitless, and therefore with a heavy heart I retired to my room, and left them to their own direction. Seldom have I passed a night in greater uneasiness. So lately to have cleared myself in the good opinion of Lord Orville, so soon to forfeit it. To give him reason to suppose I presumed a boast of his acquaintance, to publish his having danced with me, to take with him a liberty I should have blushed to have taken with the most intimate of my friends, to treat with such impertinent freedom one who has honoured me with such distinguished respect. Indeed, sir, I could have met with no accident that would so cruelly have tormented me. If such were then my feelings, imagine, for I cannot describe what I suffered during the scene I am now going to write. This morning, while I was alone in the dining-room, young Branton called. He entered with the most important air, and strutting up to me said, Miss, Lord Orville sends his compliments to you. Lord Orville, repeated I, much amazed. Yes, Miss, Lord Orville, for I know his lordship now, as well as you, and the very civil gentleman he is for all he's a lord. For heaven's sake, cried I, explain yourself. Why, you must know, Miss, after we left you, we met with a little misfortune. But I don't mind it now, for it's all turned out for the best. But just as we were going up Snow Hill, plump we comes against a car, with such a jog it almost pulled the wheel off. However, then it was the worst, for as I went to open the door in a hurry, a thinking the coach should be broke down, as he'll lock what have it, I never minded that the glass was up, and so I poked my head fairly through it. Only see, Miss, how I've cut my forehead. A much worse accident to himself would not, I believe, at that moment to give me any concern for him. However, he proceeded with his account, for I was too much confounded to interrupt him. Goodness, Miss, we were in such a stew, arson the servants in all as you can't think, for besides the glass being broke, the coachman said how the coach wouldn't be safe to go back to Kensington. So we didn't know what to do. However, the footman said they'd go and tell his lordship what had happened. So then farther grew quite uneasy, like, for fear of his lordship's taking offense and prejudicing us and our business. So he said I should go this morning and ask his pardon, because of having broken the glass. So then I asked the footman the direction, and they told me he lived in Barkley Square, so this morning I went, and I soon found out the house. You did? cried I, quite out of breath with that prehension. Yes, Miss, in a very fine house it is. Did you ever see it? No. No! Why, then, Miss, I know more of his lordship than you do, for all you knew him first. So when I came to the door I was in a peck of troubles, thinking what I should say to him. However, the servants had no mind I should see him, for they told me he was busy, but I might leave my message. So I was just a-coming away when I bethought myself to say I came from you."—From me?—Yes, Miss, for you know, why should I have such a long walk as that, for nothing! So I say to the porter, says I, tell his lordship, says I, one wants to speak to him as come from one Miss Anville, says I.—'Good God!' cried I, and by what authority did you take such a liberty?—'Goodness, Miss, don't be in such a hurry, for you'll be as glad as me when you hear how well it turned out.' So then they made way for me, and said his lordship would see me directly. And there I was, led through such a heap of servants, and so many rooms that my heart quite misgave me. For I thought, thinks I, that I'll be so proud or hard to let me speak, but he's no more proud than I am, and he was as civil as if I had been a lord myself. So then I said I hoped he wouldn't take it amiss about the glass, for it was quite an accident. But he bid me not mention it, for it did not signify. And then he said he hoped you got safe home, and wasn't frightened, so I said yes, and I gave you duty to him. "'My duty to him?' exclaimed I. And who gave you leave? Who desired you?' "'Oh, I did it out of my own head, just to make him think I came from you. But I should have told you before how the footman said he was going out of town to-morrow evening, and that his sister was soon to be married, and that he was ordering a heap of things for that. So it came into my head, as he was so affable, that I'd ask him for his custom. "'So I says,' says I, my lord,' says I, if your lordship been engaged particularly, my father is a silversmith, and he'll be very proud to serve you,' says I, and Miss Anvil has danced with you, as his cousin, and she's my cousin too, and she'd be very much obligated to you, I'm sure. "'Drive me wild,' cried I, starting from my seat, "'you have done me an irreparable injury, but I will hear no more.' And then I ran into my own room. I was half frantic, I really raved. The good opinion of Lord Orville seemed now irretrievably lost, her faint hope, which in the morning I had vainly encouraged, that I might see him again, and explain the transaction wholly vanished. Now I found he was so soon to leave town, and I could not but conclude that for the rest of my life he would regard me as an object of utter contempt. The very idea was a dagger to my heart. I could not support it. And—but I blushed to proceed. I fear your disapprobation. It I should not be conscious of having merited it, but that the repugnance I feel to relate to you what I have done, makes me suspect I must have erred. Will you forgive me if I own that I first wrote an account of this transaction to Miss Mervyn, and that I even thought of concealing it from you? Short lived, however, was the ungrateful idea, and sooner will I risk the justice of your displeasure than unworthily betray your generous confidence. You are now probably prepared for what follows, which is a letter, a hasty letter, that in the height of my agitation I wrote to Lord Orville. My Lord, I am so infinitely ashamed of the application made yesterday for your Lordship's carriage in my name, and so greatly shocked at hearing how much it was injured, that I cannot forbear writing a few lines, to clear myself from the imputation of an impertinence which I blushed to be suspected of, and to acquaint to you that the request for your carriage was made against my consent, and the visit with which you were important this morning without my knowledge. I am inexpressibly concerned at having been the instrument, however innocently, of so much trouble to your Lordship, but I beg you to believe that the reading these lines is the only part of it which I have given voluntarily. I am my Lord, your Lordship's most humble servant, Everliner Anvil. I applied to the maid of the house to get this note conveyed to Barclay Square, but scarce I parted with it, before I regretted having written it at all, and I was flying down stairs to recover it, when the voice of Sir Clement Willoughby stopped me. As Madame Duvall had ordered we should be denied to him, I was obliged to return upstairs, and after he was gone my application was too late, as the maid had given it to a porter. My time did not pass very serenely while he was gone, however he brought me no answer, but that Lord Orville was not at home. Whether or not he would take the trouble to send any, or whether he were condescended to call, or whether the affair will rest as it is, I know not, but in being ignorant I am most cruelly anxious. Everliner, in continuation, July 4. You may now, my dear sir, send Mrs. Clinton for Everliner with as much speed as she can conveniently make the journey, for no further opposition will be made to her leaving this town, happy had it perhaps been for her had she never entered it. This morning Madame Duvall desired me to go to Snow Hill, with an invitation to the Brantons and Mr. Smith to spend the evening with her, and she desired Monsieur Duvall, who breakfasted with us, to accompany me. I was very unwilling to obey her, as I neither wished to walk with Monsieur Duvall, nor yet to meet young Branton. And indeed another, a yet more powerful reason added to my reluctance, for I thought it possible that Lord Orville might send some answer, or perhaps might call during my absence. However, I did not dare dispute her commands. Or Monsieur Duvall spoke not a word during our walk, which was, I believe, equally unpleasant to us both. We found all the family assembled in the shop. Mr. Smith, the moment he perceived me, addressed himself to Miss Branton, whom he entertained with all the gallantry in his power. I was joyous to find that my conduct at the Hamstead Ball has had so good an effect, but young Branton was extremely troublesome. He repeatedly laughed in my face, and looked so impertinently significant that I was obliged to give up my reserve to Monsieur Duvall, and enter into conversation with him merely to avoid such boldness. Miss, said Mr. Branton, I am sorry to hear from my son that he wasn't pleased with what we did about that Lord Orville, but I should like to know what it was he found fault with, for all we did was for the best. Goodness! cried the son. Why, if he had seen Miss, he would have been surprised she went into the room quite in huff-like. It is too late now, said I, to reason upon this subject, but for the future I must take the liberty to request that my name may never be made use of without my knowledge. May I tell Madame Duvall that you will do her the favour to accept her invitation? As to me, ma'am," said Mr. Smith, I am much obliged to the old lady, but I have no mind to be taken in by her again. You'll excuse me, ma'am." All the rest promised to come, and I then took leave, but as I left the shop I heard Mr. Branton say, "'Take courage, Tom, she's only coy.' And before I had walked ten yards, the youth followed. I was so much offended that I would not look at him, but began to converse with Miss. Duvall, who was now more lively than I had ever before seen him, for most unfortunately he misinterpreted the reason of my attention to him. The first intelligence I received when I came home was that two gentlemen had called and left cards. I eagerly inquired for them, and read the names of Lord Orville and Sir Clement Willoughby. I by no means regretted that I had missed seeing the latter, but perhaps they may all my life regret that I missed the former, for probably he is now left to town, and I may see him no more." "'My goodness!' cried Lord Branton, rudely looking over me. "'Only think of the lords coming all this way. It's my belief he'd got some order ready for father, and so he'd mind to call and ask you if I'd told him the truth.' "'Pray, Betty,' cried I, "'how long has he been gone?' "'Not two minutes, ma'am. "'Why, then, I'll lay you any wager,' said young Branton. "'He saw you and I are walking up Holman Hill.' "'God forbid!' cried I impatiently, and too much chagrin to bear with any more of his remarks I ran upstairs. But I heard him say to Miss. Duvall, Miss, is so upish this morning that I think I had better not speak to her again. I wish Miss. Duvall had taken the same resolution, but he'd chose to follow me into the dining-room which he found empty. "'Vous ne l'avez donc pas, c'est garçon, mademoiselle,' cried he. "'Me?' cried I. "'No! I'd test him!' for I was sick at heart. "'Ah! Tu me rends la vie,' cried he, and flinging himself at my feet he had just caught my hand, as the door was opened by Madame Duvall. Hastily, and with marks of guilty confusion in his face, he arose, but the rage of that lady quite amazed me. Advancing to the retreating Miss. Duvall, she began in French an attack on her extreme wrath, and wonderful volubility almost rendered unintelligible. Yet I understood but too much, since her approach has convinced me she had herself proposed being the object of his affection. He defended himself in a weak and evasive manner, and upon her commanding him from her sight, very readily withdrew. And then, with yet greater violence, she upbraided me with having seduced his heart, called me an ungrateful, designing girl, and protested she would neither take me to Paris, nor any more interest herself in my affairs, unless I would instantly agree to marry young Branton. Frightened as I had been at her vehemence, this proposal restored all my courage, and I frankly told her that in this point I never could obey her. More irritated than ever, she ordered me to quit the room. Such is the present situation of affairs. I shall excuse myself from seeing the Branton's this afternoon. Indeed I never wish to see them again. I am sorry, however innocently, that I have displeased Madame Duvall. Yet I shall be very glad to quit this town, for I believe it does not now contain one person I ever wish to again meet. For I have never died but seen Lord Orville, I should regret nothing. I could then have more fully explained what I so hastily wrote. Yet it will always be a pleasure to me to recollect that he called, since I flattened myself it was in consequence of his being satisfied with my letter. Adieu, my dear sir. The time now approaches when I hope once more to receive your blessing, and to owe all my joy, all my happiness, to your kindness. Till July 7th Welcome, thrice, welcome, my darling Evelina, to the arms of the truest, the fondest of your friends. Mrs. Clinton, who shall hasten to you with these lines, will conduct you directly hither, for I can consent no longer to be parted from the child of my bosom. The comfort of my age, the sweet solace of all my infirmities. Your worthy friends at Howard Grove must pardon me that I rob them of the visit you propose to make them before your return to Berry Hill, for I find my fortitude unequal to a longer separation. I have much to say to you, many comments to make upon your late letters, some parts of which give me no little uneasiness, but I will reserve my remarks for our future conversations. Hasten then to the spot of thy nativity, the abode of thy youth, where never yet care or sorrow had power to annoy thee. Know that they might ever be banished this peaceful dwelling. Adieu, my dearest Evelina. I pray that thy satisfaction at our approaching meeting may bear any comparison with mine. CHAPTER VELARES, LETTER 57 Evelina to Miss Mervin, Berry Hill, July 14 My sweet Mariah will be much surprised, and I am willing to flatter myself, concerned, when instead of her friend she receives this letter, this cold, this inanimate letter, which Wilbert Ill express the feelings of the heart which indicts it. When I wrote to you last Friday, I was an hourly expectation of seeing Mrs. Clinton, with whom I intended to have set out for Howard Grove. Mrs. Clinton came, but my plan was necessarily altered, for she brought me a letter, the sweetest that ever was penned, from the best and kindest friend that ever often was blessed with, requiring my immediate attendance at Berry Hill. I obeyed, and pardon me if I own I obeyed without reluctance. After so long a separation, should I not else have been the most ungrateful of mortals? And yet, O Mariah, though I wished to leave London, the gratification of my wish afforded me no happiness, and though I felt an impatience and expressible to return hither, no words, no language, can explain the heaviness of heart with which I made the journey. I believe you would hardly have known me. Indeed, I hardly know myself. Perhaps had I first seen you, in your kind and sympathizing bosom, I might have ventured to have reposed every secret of my soul. And then—but let me pursue my journal. Mrs. Clinton delivered Madame Duvall a letter from Mr. Villars, which requested her leave for my return, and indeed it was very readily accorded. But when she found, by my willingness to quit town, that Monsieur Duvall was really indifferent to me, she somewhat softened in my favour. And she declared that, but for punishing his folly in thinking of such a child, she would not have consented to my being again buried in the country. All the Brantons called to take leave of me, but I will not write a word more about them. Indeed I cannot, with any patience, think of that family, to whose forwardness and impertinence is owing all the uneasiness I at this moment suffer. So great was the depression of my spirits upon the road, that it was with great difficulty I could persuade the worthy Mrs. Clinton I was not ill. But alas! The situation of my mind was such as would have rendered any mere bodily pain, by comparison, even enviable. And yet, when we arrived at Berry Hill, when the shares stopped at this place, out of my heart threw up with joy. And when, through the window, I beheld the dearest, the most venerable of men with uplifted hands, returning as I doubt not thanks for my safe arrival, good God! I thought it would burst my bosom. I opened the shed-store myself. I flew, for my feet did not seem to touch the ground into the parlour. He had risen to meet me, but the moment I appeared he sunk into his chair, uttering with a deep sigh, though his face beamed with delight. My God! I thank thee!" I sprung forward, and with a pleasure that bordered upon agony I embraced his knees. I kissed his hands. I wept over them, but could not speak. While now, raising his eyes in thankfulness towards heaven, now bowing down his reverent head and folding me in his arms, could scarce articulate the blessings with which his kind and benevolent heart overflowed. Oh, Miss Mervyn, to be so beloved by the best of men, should I not be happy? Should I have one wish save that of meriting his goodness? Yet think me not ungrateful. Indeed I am not, though the internal sadness of my mind unfits me at present for enjoying as I ought the bounties of providence. I cannot journalize, cannot arrange my ideas into order. How little has situation to do with happiness! I had flattered myself that when restored to Berry Hill I should be restored to tranquility. Farer the wise have I found it, for never yet had tranquility in deviline a so little intercourse. I blush for what I have written. Can you, Mariah, forgive my gravity? But I was strain at so much and so painfully in the presence of Mr. Villars, that I know not how to deny myself the consolation of indulging it to you. Dear my dear Miss Mervyn, yet one thing I must add. Do not that the seriousness of this letter deceive you. Do not impute to a wrong cause the melancholy I confess, by supposing that the heart of your friend mourns a too great susceptibility. No indeed! Believe me, it never was, never can be more assuredly her own than at this moment. So witness, in all truth, you are affectionate, everliner. You will make my excuses to the honoured Lady Howard, and to your dear mother. End of L. 57. L. 58. Everliner. 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. Everliner. By Fanny Burney. L. 58. Everliner to Miss Mervyn. Berry Hill. July 21. You accuse me of mystery, and charge me with reserve. I cannot doubt, but I must have merited the accusation. Yet to clear myself, you know not how painful will be the task. But I cannot resist your kind entreaties. Indeed, I do not wish to resist them. For your friendship and affection will soothe my chagrin. Had it arisen from any other cause—not a moment would I have deferred the communication you ask—but as it is, I would, were it possible, not only conceal it from all the world, but endeavour to disbelieve it myself. Yet since I must tell you, why trifle with your impatience? I know not how to come to the point—twenty times have I attempted it in vain—but I will force myself to proceed. O Miss Mervyn, could you ever have believed that one who seemed formed as a patent for his fellow-creatures, as a model of perfection, one whose elegance surpassed all description, whose sweetness of manners disgraced all comparison? O Miss Mervyn, could you ever have believed that Lord Orville would have treated me with indignity? Never, never again will I trust to appearances. Never confide in my own weak judgment. Never believe that person to be good who seems to be amiable. What cruel maxims are we taught by a knowledge of the world! But while my own reflections absorb me, I forget you are still and suspense. I had just finished the last letter which I wrote to you from London, when the maid of the house brought me a note. It was given to her, she said, by a footman, who told her he would call the next day for an answer. This note—but let it speak for itself. To Miss Anville, with transport, most charming of thy sex, did I read the letter with which you yesterday morning favoured me. I am sorry the affair of the carriage should have given you any concern, but I am highly flattered by the anxiety you express so kindly. Believe me, my lovely girl, I am truly sensible to the honour of your good opinion, and feel myself deeply penetrated with love and gratitude. The correspondence you have so sweetly commenced, I shall be proud of continuing, and I hope the strong sense I have of the favour you do me will prevent you withdrawing it. Assure yourself that I desire nothing more ardently than to pour forth my thanks at your feet, and to offer those vows which are so justly the tribute of your charms and accomplishments. In your next, I entreat you to acquaint me how long you shall remain in town. The servant, whom I shall commission to call for an answer, has orders to ride post with it to me. My impatience for his arrival will be very great, though inferior to that with which I burn to tell you in person, how much I am, my sweet girl, your grateful admirer, Orville. What a letter! How has my proud heart swelled every line I have copied? What I wrote to him, you know. Tell me, then, my dear friend, do you think it merited such an answer, and that I have deservedly incurred the liberty he has taken? I meant nothing but a simple apology, which I thought as much due to my own character as to his. Yet by the construction he seems to have put upon it, should you not have imagined contained the avowal of sentiments which might indeed have provoked his contempt? The moment the letter was delivered to me, I retired to my own room to read it, and so eager was my first perusal that, I am ashamed to own, it gave me no sensation but of delight. Unsuspicious of any impropriety from Lord Orville, I perceived not immediately the impertinence and implied. I only marked the expressions of his own regard, and I was so much surprised that I was unable for some time to compose myself, or read it again. I could only walk up and down the rom, repeating to myself, Good God! Is it possible? Am I then loved by Lord Orville? But this dream was soon over, and I awoke to far different feelings. Upon a second reading I thought every word changed. It did not seem the same letter. I could not find one sentence that I could look out without blushing. My astonishment was extreme, and it was succeeded by the utmost indignation. If, as I am very ready to acknowledge, I erred in writing to Lord Orville, was it for him to punish the error? If he was offended, could he not have been silent? If he thought my letter ill-judged, should he have not pitied my ignorance? Have considered my youth, and allowed my inexperience? Oh, Mariah! How have I been deceived in this man? Words have no power to tell the high opinion I had of him. To that was owing the unfortunate solicitude which prompted my writing. A solicitude I must forever repent. Yet perhaps I have rather reason to rejoice than to grieve, since this affair has shown me his real disposition, and removed that partiality, which, covering his every imperfection, left only his virtues and good qualities exposed to view. Had the deception continued much longer, had my mind received any additional prejudice in his favour, who knows whether my mistaken ideas might have led me? Indeed, I fear I was in greater danger than I apprehended, or can now think of without trembling. For oh, if this weak heart of mine had been penetrated with too deep an impression of his merit, my peace and happiness had been lost for ever. I would feign in courage more cheerful thoughts, feign drive from my mind than melancholy that has taken possession of it, but I cannot succeed. For added to the humiliating feelings which so powerfully oppress me, I have yet another cause of concern. Alas, my dear Mariah, I have broken the tranquillity of the best of men. I have never had the courage to show him this cruel letter. I could not bear so greatly to depreciate in his opinion, one whom I had with infinite anxiety raised in myself. Indeed, my first determination was to confine my chagrin totally to my own bosom, but your friendly enquiries have drawn it from me, and now I wish I had made no concealment from the beginning, and since I know not how to account for a gravity which not all my endeavours can entirely hide or oppress. My greatest apprehension is, lest he should imagine my residence in London has given me a distaste to the country. Everybody I see takes notice of my being altered, and looking pale and ill. I should be very indifferent to all such observations, did I not perceive that they draw upon me the eyes of Mr. Villers, which glisten with affectionate concern? This morning, in speaking of my London expedition, he mentioned Lord Orville. I felt so much disturbed that I would instantly have changed the subject, but he would not allow me. And very unexpectedly, he began his panagyric, extolling in strong terms his manly and honourable behaviour in regard to the marraven adventure. My cheeks glowed with indignation every what he spoke, so lately as I had myself fancied him the noblest of his sex, now that I was so well convinced of my mistake, I could not bear to hear his underserved praise uttered by one so really good, so unsuspecting, so pure of heart. What he thought of my silence and uneasiness I fear to know, but I hope he will mention the subject no more. I will not, however, with ungrateful indolence give way to a sadness which I find infectious to him who merits the most cheerful exertion of my spirit. I am thankful that he is forborn to probe my wound, and I will endeavour to heal it by the consciousness that I have not deserved the indignity I have received. Yet I cannot but lament to find myself in a world so deceitful, where we must suspect what we see, distrust what we hear, and doubt even what we feel. Everline and Continuation Berry Hill July 29th I must own myself somewhat distressed how to answer your railery, yet believe me, my dear Mariah, your suggestions are those of fancy, not of truth. I am unconscious of the weakness you suspect, yet, to dispel your doubts, I will animate myself more than ever to conquer my chagrin and to recover my spirits. You wonder, you say, since my heart takes no part in this affair, why should make me so unhappy? And can you, acquainted as you are with the high opinion I entertained of Lord Orville, can you wonder that so great a disappointment in his character should affect me? Indeed, had so strange a letter being sent to me from any body, it could not have failed shocking me. How much more sensibly, then, must I feel such an affront, when received from the man in the world I had imagined least capable of giving it? You are glad, I made no reply. Assure yourself, my dear friend, had this letter been the most respectful that could be written, the clandestine air given to it, by his proposal of sending his servant for my answer, instead of having it directed to his house, would effectually have prevented my writing. Indeed, I have an aversion the most sincere to all mysteries, all private actions. However foolishly and blamably in regard to this letter, I have deviated from the open path, which from my earliest infancy I was taught to tread. He talks of my having commenced a correspondence with him, and could Lord Orville indeed believe I had such design? Believe me, so forward, so bold, so strangely ridiculous! I know not if his man called or not, but I rejoice that I quitted London before he came, and without leaving any message for him. But indeed could I have said? It would have been a condescension very unmerited to have taken any, the least notice of such a letter. Never shall I cease to wonder how he could write it. O Mariah, what could induce him so causously to wound in a front one, who would soon have died than willfully offended him? How mortifying a freedom of style! How cruel an implication conveyed by his thanks and expressions of gratitude! Is it not astonishing that any man can appear so modest, who is so vain? Every hour I regret the secrecy I have observed with my beloved Mr. Villas. I know not what bewitched me, but I felt at first repugnance to publishing this affair that I could not surmount, and now I am ashamed of confessing that I have anything to confess. Yet I deserved to be punished for the false delicacy which occasioned my silence, since if Lord Orville himself was contented to forfeit his character, was it for me, almost at the expense of my own, to support it? Yet I believe I should be very easy, now the first shock is over, and now that I see the whole affair with the resentment it merits, did not all my good friends in this neighbourhood, who think me extremely altered, tease me about my gravity, and torment Mr. Villas with observations upon my dejection and falling away. The subject is no sooner started, than a deep gloom overspreads his venerable countenance, and he looks at me with a tenderness so melancholy that I know not how to endure the consciousness of exciting it. Mrs. Selwyn, a lady of large fortune, who lives about three miles from Berry Hill, and who has always honoured me with very distinguishing marks of regard, is going in a short time to Bristol, and has proposed to Mr. Villas to take me with her for the recovery of my health. She seemed very much distressed, whether to consent or refuse. But I, without any hesitation, warmly opposed to the scheme, protesting my health could no where be better than in this pure air. He had the goodness to thank me for this redness to stay with him, but he is all goodness. O, that were in my power to be indeed what, in the kindness of his heart, he has called me, the comfort of his age, and solace of his infirmities. Never do I wish to be again separated from him. If here I am grave, elsewhere I should be unhappy. In his presence, with a very little exertion, all the cheerfulness of my disposition seems ready to return. The benevolence of his countenance reanimates, the harmony of his temper composes, the purity of his character edifies me. I owe to him everything. And far from finding my debt of gratitude await, the first pride, the first pleasure of my life is the recollection of the obligations conferred upon me by a goodness so unequalled. Once indeed I thought there existed another, who, when time had wintered or his locks would have shone forth among his fellow-creatures, with the same brightness of worth which dignifies my honoured Mr. Villas, a brightness how superior in value to that which results from mere quickness of parts, wit, or imagination, a brightness which not contented with merely diffusing smiles and gaining admiration from the sallies of the spirits, reflects a real and a glorious luster upon all mankind. Oh, how great was my error! How ill did I judge! How cruelly have I been deceived! I will not go to Bristol, though Mrs. Selwyn is very urgent with me, but I desire not to see any more of the world. The few months I have already passed in it have sufficed to give me a disgust even to its name. I hope, too, I shall see Lord Orville no more, accustomed from my first knowledge of him, to regard him as a being superior to his race, his presence, perhaps, might banish my resentment, and I might forget his ill conduct. For, oh, Mariah, I should not know how to see Lord Orville, and to think of displeasure. As a sister, I loved him, I could have entrusted him with every thought of my heart, had he dained to wish by confidence, so steady did I think his honour, so feminine his delicacy, and so amiable his nature. I have a thousand times imagined that the whole study of his life, and the whole purport of his reflections, tended solely to the good and happiness of others. But I will talk, write, think of him no more. Adieu, my dear friend. End of Letter fifty-nine. Letter sixty 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. Letter sixty. Evelina in continuation. Berry Hill, August tenth. You complain of my silence, my dear Miss Mervyn, but what have I to write? Narrative does not offer, nor does a lively imagination supply the deficiency. I have, however, at present sufficient matter for a letter, in relating a conversation I had yesterday with Mr. Villars. Our breakfast had been the most cheerful we have had since my return hither, and when it was over, he did not, as usual, retire to his study, but continue to converse with me while I worked. We might probably have passed all the morning thus sociably, but for the entrance of a farmer, who came to solicit advice concerning some domestic affairs. They withdrew together into the study. The moment I was alone, my spirits failed me. The exertion with which I had supported them had fatigued my mind. I flung away my work, and leaning my arms on the table, gave way to a train of disagreeable reflections, which bursting from the restraint that had smothered them, filled me with unusual sadness. This was my situation—when looking towards the door which was open, I perceived Mr. Villars who was earnestly regarding me. —'Is Farmer Smith gone, sir?' cried I, hastily rising and snatching up my work. —'Don't let me disturb you,' said he, gravely. I will go again to my study. —'Will you, sir? I was in hopes you were coming to sit here.' —'In hopes? And why, Everliner, should you hope it?' This question was so unexpected that I knew not how to answer it, but as I saw he was moving away I followed and begged him to return. No, my dear, no—said he with a forced smile. I only interrupt your meditations. Again I knew not what to say, and while I hesitated he retired. My heart was with him, but I had not the courage to follow. The idea of an explanation, brought on in so serious a manner, frightened me. I recollected the inference you had drawn from my uneasiness, and I feared that he might make a similar interpretation. Solitary and thoughtful, I passed the rest of the morning in my own room. At dinner I again attempted to be cheerful, but Mr. Villas himself was grave, and I had not sufficient spirits to support a conversation merely by my own efforts. As soon as dinner was over he took a book, and I walked to the window. I believe I remained near an hour in the situation. All my thoughts were directed to considering how I might dispel the doubts, which I apprehended Mr. Villas had formed, without acknowledging a circumstance which I had suffered so much pain merely to conceal. But while I was thus planning for the future, I forgot the present, and so intent was I upon the subject which occupied me, that the strange appearance of my unusual inactivity and extreme thoughtfulness never occurred to me. But when at last I recollected myself and turned round, I saw that Mr. Villas, who had parted with his book, was wholly engrossed in attending to me. I started from my reverie, and hardly knowing what I said, asked if he had been reading. He paused a moment and then replied, Yes, my child, a book that both afflicts and perplexes me. He means me, thought I, and therefore I made no answer. What if we read it together? continued he. Will you assist me to clear its obscurity? I knew not what to say, but I sighed involuntarily from the bottom of my heart. He rose and approaching me, said with emotion, My child, I can no longer be a silent witness of thy sorrow, is not thy sorrow my sorrow, and ought I to be a stranger to the cause when I so deeply sympathise in the effect. Cause, sir! cried I, greatly alarmed. What cause? I don't know! I can't tell! I— Fair not! said he kindly, to unbuzzum thyself to me, my dearest everliner, open to me thy whole heart. It can have no feelings for which I will not make allowance. Tell me, therefore, what it is that thus afflicts us both, and who knows, but I may suggest some means of relief. You are too good—too good! cried I, greatly embarrassed. But, indeed, I know not what you mean. I see, said he. It is painful to you to speak. Suppose, then, I endeavour to save you by guessing. Impossible! impossible! cried I, eagerly. No one living could ever guess, ever suppose! I stopped abruptly, for I then recollected I was acknowledging something was to be guessed. However, he noticed not my mistake. At least let me try—answered he mildly. Perhaps I may be a better diviner than you imagine. If I guess everything that is probable, surely I must approach near the real reason. Be honest, then, my love, and speak without reserve. Does not the country, after so much gaiety, so much variety, does it not appear insipid and tiresome? No, indeed! I love it more than ever, and more than ever do I wish I had never, never quitted it. Oh, my child! that I had not permitted the journey. My judgment always opposed it, but my resolution was not proof against persuasion. I blush, indeed! cried I, to recollect my earnestness, but I have been my own punisher. It is too late now—answered he—to reflect upon this subject. Let us endeavour to avoid repentance for the time to come, and we shall not have erred without reaping some instruction. Then, seating himself, and making me sit by him, he continued, I must now guess again. Perhaps you regret the loss of those friends you knew in town. Perhaps you miss their society, and fear you may see them no more. Perhaps Lord Orville—I could not keep my seat, but rising hastily said, Dear sir, ask me nothing more, for I have nothing to own, nothing to say. My gravity has been merely accidental, and I can give no reason for it at all. Shall I fetch you another book, or will you have this again? For some minutes he was totally silent, and I pretended to employ myself in looking for a book. At last, with a deep sigh, I see—said he—I see, but too plainly, that though ever liner is returned, I have lost my child. No, sir, no! cried I, inexpressibly shocked. She is more yours than ever. Without you the world be a desert to her, and life a burden. Forgive her, then, and, if you can, condescend to be once more the confidant of all her thoughts. How highly I value! How greatly I wish for her confidence! returned he. She cannot but know. Yet to extort, to tear it from her, my justice, my affection, both revolt at the idea. I am sorry that I was so earnest with you. Leave me, my dear, leave me, and compose yourself. We will meet again at tea. Do you then refuse to hear me? No, but I abhor to compel you. I have long seen that your mind has been ill at ease, and mine has largely partaken of your concern. I have abhor to question you, for I hoped that time and absence from whatever excited your uneasiness might best operate in silence. But alas! your affliction seems only to augment, your health declines, your look alters. Oh, everliner! my aged heart bleeds to see the change, bleeds to behold the darling it had cherished, the prop it had reared for its support, when bowed down by years and infirmities, sinking itself under the pressure of internal grief, struggling to hide what it should seek to participate. But go, my dear, go to your room. We both want composure, and we will talk of this matter some other time. Oh, sir! cried I, penetrated to the soul. Bid me not leave you. Think me not so lost of feeling, to gratitude. Not a word of that. Interrupted he. It pains me you should think upon that subject. Pains me you should ever remember that you have not a natural and hereditary right to everything within my power. I meant not to affect you thus. I hoped to have soothed you. But my anxiety betrayed me to an urgency that has distressed you. Comfort yourself, my love, and doubt not, but that time will stand your friend, and all will end well. I burst into tears. With difficulty had I so long restrained them, for my heart, while it glowed with tenderness and gratitude, was oppressed with a sense of its own unworthiness. You are all, all goodness! cried I in a voice scarce audible. Little as I deserve, unable as I am to repay such kindness, yet my whole soul feels, thanks you for it. My dearest child! cried he. I cannot bear to see thy tears. For my sake, dry them. Such a sight is too much for me. Think of that, everliner, and take comfort I to charge thee. Say then, cried I, kneeling at his feet, say then that you forgive me, that you pardon my reserve, that you will again suffer me to tell you my most secret thoughts, and rely upon my promise never more to forfeit your confidence. My father, my protector, my ever-honoured, ever-loved, my best and only friend, say you forgive your everliner, and she will study better to deserve your goodness. He raised me, he embraced me, he called me his sole joy, his only earthly hope, in the child of his bosom. He folded me to his heart, and while I wept from the fullness of mine with words of sweetest kindness and consolation, he soothed and tranquilised me. Dear to my remembrance will ever be that moment, when, banishing the reserve I had so foolishly planned, and so painfully supported, I was restored to the confidence of the best of men. When at length they were again quietly and composedly seated by each other, and Mr. Villa's waited for the explanation I had begged him to hear, I found myself extremely embarrassed as to how to introduce the subject which must lead to it. He saw my distress, and with a kind of benevolent pleasantry asked me if I would let him guess any more. I assented in silence. Shall I then go back to where I left off? If—if you please—I believe so—said I, stammering. Well then, my love, I think I was speaking of the regret it was natural you should feel upon quitting those from whom you had received civility and kindness, with so little certainty of ever seeing them again, or being able to return their good offices. These are circumstances that afford with melancholy reflections to young minds, and the affectionate disposition of my everliner, open to all social feelings, must be hurt more than usual by such considerations. You are silent, my dear. Shall I name those whom I think most worthy the regret I speak of? We shall then see if our opinions coincide." Still I said nothing, and he continued. In your London journal nobody appears in a more amiable, a more respectable light than Lord Orville, and perhaps, I knew what she would say, cried I hastily, and I have long feared where your suspicions would fall. But indeed, sir, you are mistaken! I hate Lord Orville! He is the last man in the world in whose favour I should be prejudiced. I stopped, for Mr. Villers looked at me with such infinite surprise that my own warmth made me blush. You hate Lord Orville! repeated he. I could make no answer, but took from my pocket-book the letter, and giving it to him. See, sir! said I, how differently the same man can talk and write. He read it three times before he spoke, and then said, I am so much astonished that I know not what I read. When had you this letter? I told him. Again he read it, and after considering its contents and time said, I can form but one conjecture concerning this most extraordinary performance. He must certainly have been intoxicated when he wrote it. Lord Orville intoxicated! repeated I, once I thought a mis stranger to all intemperance. But it is very possible, for I can believe anything now, that a man who had behaved with so strict regard to delicacy, continued Mr. Villers, and who as far as occasion had allowed manifested sentiments the most honourable should thus insolently, thus wantonly insult a modest young woman in his perfect senses I cannot think possible. But my dear, you should have enclosed this letter in an empty cover, and have returned it to him again. Such a resentment would at once have become your character, and have given him an opportunity in some measure of clearing his own. He could not well have read this letter the next morning without being sensible of the impropriety of having written it. Oh, Mariah, why had I not this thought? I might then have received some apology. The mortification would then have been his, not mine. It is true he could not have reinstated himself so highly in my opinion, as I had once ignorantly placed him, since the conviction of such intemperance would have levelled him with the rest of his imperfect race. Yet my humbled pride might have been consoled by his acknowledgments. But why should I allow myself to be humbled by a man who can suffer his reason to be thus abjectly debased, when I am exalted by one who knows no vice, and scarcely of failing, but by hearsay? To think of his kindness, and reflect upon his praises, might animate and comfort me even in the midst of affliction. Your indignation, said he, is the result of virtue. You fancied Lord Orville was without fault. He had the appearance of infinite worthiness, and you supposed his character accorded with appearance. Guileless yourself, how could you prepare against the duplicity of another? Your disappointment has but been proportioned to your expectations, and you have chiefly owed its severity to the innocence which hid its approach. I will bid these words dwell ever in my memory, and they shall cheer, comfort, and enliven me. This conversation, though extremely affecting to me at the time it passed, has relieved my mind from much anxiety. Concealment, my dear Mariah, is the foe of tranquility. However I may err in future, I will never be disingenuous in acknowledging my errors. To you and to Mr. Villa's I vow an unremitting confidence. And yet, though I am more at ease, I am far from well, I have been some time writing this letter, but I hope I shall soon send you a more cheerful one. Adieu, my sweet friend! I entreat you not to acquaint even your dear mother with this affair. Lord Orville is a favourite with her, and why should I publish that he deserves not that honour? End of Letters sixty. Letter sixty-one 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 Clett. Evelina by Fanny Burney. Letter sixty-one. Evelina in continuation. Bristol Hotwells. August twenty-eighth. You will again be surprised, my dear Mariah, at seeing whence I date my letter, but I have been very ill, and Mr. Villa's was so much alarmed that he not only insisted upon my accompanying Mrs. Selwyn Hither, but earnestly desired she would hasten her intended journey. We travelled very slowly, and I did not find myself so much fatigued as I expected. We are now situated upon a most delightful spot. The prospect is beautiful, the air pure, and the weather very favourable to invalids. I am already better, and I doubt not, but I shall soon be well, as well in regard to mere health as I wish to be. I cannot express the reluctance with which I parted from my revered Mr. Villa's. It was not like that parting, which, last April, preceded my journey to Howard Grove, when all expectation and hope, though I wept, I rejoiced, and though I sincerely grieved to leave him, I yet wished to be gone. The sorrow I now felt was unmixed with any livelier sensation. Expectation was vanished, and hope by had none. All that I held most dear upon earth I quitted, and that upon an errand to the success of which I was totally indifferent, with the re-establishment of my health. Had it been to have seen my sweet Mariah or her dear mother, I should not have repined. Mrs. Selwyn is very kind and attentive to me. She is extremely clever. Her understanding, indeed, may be called masculine, but unfortunately her manners deserve the same epithet. For in studying to acquire the knowledge of the other sex, she has lost all the softness of her own. In regard to myself, however, as I have neither courage nor inclination to argue with her, I have never been personally hurt at her want of gentleness. A virtue which, nevertheless, seems so essential a part of the female character, that I find myself more awkward, and less at ease with a woman who wants it, than I do with a man. She is not a favourite with Mr. Villas, who is often being disgusted at her unmerciful propensity to satire, but his anxiety that I should try the effect of the Bristol waters overcame his dislike of committing me to her care. Mrs. Clinton is also here, so that I shall be as well attended as his utmost partiality could desire. I will continue to write to you, my dear Miss Mervyn, with as much constancy as if I had no other correspondent, though during my absence from Berry Hill, my letters may perhaps be shortened on account of the minuteness of the journal, which I must write to my beloved Mr. Villas. But you, who know his expectations, and how many ties bind me to fulfil them, will I am sure rather excuse any omission to yourself than any negligence to him. End of Letters sixty-one Letters sixty-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. Everliner by Fanny Burney. Letter sixty-two Everliner to the Reverend Mr. Villas. Bristol Hotwells. September twelfth. The first fortnight that I passed here was so quiet, so serene, that it gave me reason to expect a settled calm during my stay. But if I may now judge of the time to come, by the present state of my mind, the calm will be succeeded by a storm, of which I dread the violence. This morning, in my way to the pump-room with Mrs. Selwyn, we were both very much incommodated by three gentlemen, who were sauntering by the side of the Avon, laughing and talking very loud, and lounging so disagreeably, that we knew not how to pass them. They all three fixed their eyes very boldly upon me, alternately looking under my hat, and whispering one another. Mrs. Selwyn assumed an air of uncommon sternness, and said, You will please, gentlemen, either to proceed yourselves or to suffer us. Oh, ma'am! cried one of them, We will suffer you with the greatest pleasure in life. You will suffer us both! answered she. Or I am much mistaken, you had better therefore make way quietly, for I should be sorry to give my servant the trouble of teaching you better manners. Her commanding air struck them, yet they all chose to laugh, and one of them wished the fellow would begin his lesson, that he might have the pleasure of rolling him into the Avon, while another, advancing to me with the freedom which made me start, said, By my soul! I did not know you, but I am sure I cannot be mistaken. How do not I, the honour of seeing you once, are the pantheon? I then recollected the nobleman, who at that place had so much embarrassed me. I curtsied without speaking. They all bowed, and making, though in a very easy manner an apology to Mrs. Selwyn, they suffered us to pass on, but chose to accompany us. And where? continued this lord. Can you so long have hid yourself? Do you not know I have been in search of you this age? I could neither find you out nor hear of you. Not a creature could inform me what would become of you. I cannot imagine where you could be immured. I was at two or three public places every night in hopes of meeting you. And pray, did you leave town? Yes, my lord. So early in the season, what could possibly induce you to go before the birthday? I had nothing my lord to do with the birthday. By my soul all the women who had may rejoice you were away. Have you been here any time? Not above a fortnight, my lord. A fortnight? How unlucky that I did not meet you sooner. But I have had a run of ill luck ever since I came. How long shall you stay? Indeed, my lord, I don't know. Six weeks, I hope, for I shall wish the place at the devil when you go. Do you then flatter yourself, my lord? said Mrs. Selwyn, who had hitherto listened in silent contempt. That you shall see such a beautiful spot as this when you visit the dominions of the devil. Ha ha ha! Faith, my lord! said one of his companions, who still walked with us, though the other had taken leave. The lady is rather hard upon you. Not at all! answered Mrs. Selwyn. For as I cannot doubt, but his lordship's rank and interest will secure him a place there, it would be reflecting on his understanding to suppose he should not wish to enlarge and beautify his dwelling. Much as I was disgusted with this lord, I must own Mrs. Selwyn's severity rather surprised me. But you, who have so often observed it, will not wonder she took so fair an opportunity of indulging her humour. Naster places! returned he, totally unmoved. I am so indifferent to them that the devil take me if I care which way I go. Objects, indeed, I am not so easy about, and therefore I expect that those angels, with whose beauty I am so much enraptured in this world, will have the goodness to afford me some little consolation in the other. What, my lord! cried Mrs. Selwyn. Would you wish to degrade the habitation of your friend by admitting into it the insipid company of the upper regions? What do you do with yourself this evening? said his lordship, turning to me. I shall be at home, my lord. Oh! uh, propo, where are you? Young ladies, my lord! said Mrs. Selwyn, are nowhere. Prithee! whispered his lordship. Is that queer woman your mother? Good heavens, sir! what words for such a question? No, my lord. You're maiden aren't, then? No. Whoever she is, I wish she would mind her own affairs. I don't know what the devil a woman lives for after thirty. She is only in other folk's way. Shall you be at the assembly? I believe not, my lord. No? Why, then, how in the world can you contrive to pass your time? In a manner which your lordship will think very extraordinary, cried Mrs. Selwyn, for the young lady reads— Ha! ha! ha! egaad, my lord! cried the facetious companion. You are gotten to bad hands. You had better, mom! answered he. Attack Jack Coveley here, for you will make nothing of me. Of you, my lord! cried she. Heaven forbid I should ever entertain so idle an expectation. I only talk, like a silly woman, for the sake of talking. But I have by no means so low an opinion of your lordship as to suppose you vulnerable to censure. And you pray, mom? cried he. Turn to Jack Coveley, he's the very man for you. He'd be a wit himself if he was not too modest. Pro thee, my lord, be quiet! returned the other. If the lady is contended to bestow all her favours upon you, why should you make such a point of my going snacks? Don't be apprehensive, gentlemen! said Mrs. Selwyn dryly. I am not romantic. I have not the least design of doing good to either of you. Have not you been ill since I saw you? said his lordship, again addressing himself to me. Yes, my lord. I thought so. You are paler than you was, and I suppose that's the reason I did not recollect you sooner. Has not your lordship too much gallantry? cried Mrs. Selwyn, to discover a young lady's illness by her looks. The devil of word can I speak for that woman? said he in a low voice. Do, prithee Jack, take her in hand. Excuse me, my lord! answered Mr. Coveley. When shall I see you again? continued his lordship. Do you go to the pump room every morning? No, my lord. Do you ride out? No, my lord. Just then we arrived at the pump room, and an end was put to our conversation, if it is not an abuse of words to give such a term to a string of rude questions and free compliments. He had not opportunity to say much more to me, as Mrs. Selwyn joined a large party, and I walked home between two ladies. He had, however, the curiosity to see us to the door. Mrs. Selwyn was very eager to know how I had made acquaintance with this nobleman, whose manners so evidently announced the character of a confirmed Libertine. I could give a very little satisfaction, as I was ignorant even of his name, but in the afternoon Mr. Ridgway, the apothecary, gave us very ample information. As his person was easily described, for he is remarkably tall, Mr. Ridgway told us he was Lord Merton, a nobleman who was but lately come to his title, though he has already dissipated more than half his fortune, a perverse admirer of beauty, but a man of most licentious character, that among men his companions consisted chiefly of gamblers and jockeys, and among women he was rarely admitted. "'Well, Miss Anvil,' said Mrs. Selwyn, "'I am glad I was not more civil to him. You may depend upon me for keeping him at a distance.'" "'Oh, madam,' said Mr. Ridgway, he may now be admitted anywhere, for he is going to reform." "'Has he, under that notion, persuaded any fool to marry him?' "'Not yet, madam, but a marriage is expected to take place shortly. It has been some time in agitation, but the friends of the lady have obliged her to wait till she is of age. However, her brother, who is chiefly opposed to the match, now that she is near being at her own disposal, is tolerably quiet. She is very pretty, and will have a large fortune. We expect her at the Wells every day.'" "'What is her name?' said Mrs. Selwyn." "'Larpent,' answered he. "'Lady Louisa Lampant, sister of Lord Orville.' "'Lord Orville?' repeated I, all amazement. "'Yes, ma'am, his lordship is coming with her. I have had certain information. They are to be at the Honourable Mrs. Beaumont's. She is a relation of my lord's, and has a very fine house upon Clifton Hill.' "'His lordship is coming with her. Good God! What an emotion did those words give me! How strange, my dear sir, that just at this time he should visit Bristol. It will be impossible for me to avoid seeing him, and Mrs. Selwyn is very well acquainted with Mrs. Beaumont. Indeed, I have had an escape in not being under the same roof with him, for Mrs. Beaumont invited us to her house immediately upon our arrival. But the inconvenience of being so distant from the pump-room made Mrs. Selwyn decline her civility. Oh! that the first meeting were over, or that I could quit Bristol without seeing him. Inexpressibly do I dread an interview. Should the same impertinent freedom be expressed by his looks, which dictated this cruel letter, I shall not know how to endure either him or myself. And I but returned it, I should be easier, because my sentiments of it would then be known to him. But now he can only gather them from my behaviour. And I tremble, lest he should mistake my indignation for confusion, lest he should misconstrue my reserve into embarrassment. For how, my dearest sir, how shall I be able totally to divest myself of the respect with which I have been used to think of him, the pleasure with which I have been used to see him? Surely he, as well as I, must recollect the letter at the moment of our meeting, and he will probably mean to gather my thoughts of it from my looks. Oh! that they could but convey to him my real detestation of impertinence and vanity, then he would see how much he had mistaken my disposition when he imagined them my due. There was a time when the very idea that such a man as Lord Merton should ever be connected with the Lord Orville would have both surprised and shocked me, and even yet I am pleased to hear of his repugnance to the marriage. But how strange! that a man of so abandoned a character should be the choice of a sister of Lord Orville! and how strange that almost at the moment of the union he should be so important in gallantry to another woman! What a world is this we live in! how corrupt! how degenerate! well might I be contended to see no more of it! If I find that the eyes of Lord Orville agree with his pen, I shall then think that of all mankind the only virtuous individual resides at Berry Hill. Evelina in Continuation Bristol-Hotwells September 16th Oh, sir! Lord Orville is still himself! Still what from the moment I beheld I believed him to be, all that is amiable in man! And your happy Evelina restored it once to spirits and tranquillity is no longer sunk in her own opinion, nor discontented with the world. No longer with dejected eyes sees the prospect of passing her future days in sadness, doubt, and suspicion, with revived courage she now looks forward and expects to meet with goodness, even among mankind, though still she feels as strongly as ever the folly of hoping in any second instance to meet with perfection. Your conjecture was certainly right. Lord Orville, when he wrote that letter, could not be in his senses. Oh! that in temperance should have power to degrade so low a man so noble! This morning I accompanied Mrs. Selwyn to Clifton Hill, where beautifully situated is the house of Mrs. Beaumont. Most uncomfortable were my feelings during our walk, which was very slow, for the agitation of my mind made me more than usually sensible how weak I still continue. As we entered the house, I summoned all my resolution to my aid, determined rather to die than give Lord Orville reason to attribute my weakness to a wrong cause. I was happily relieved from my perturbation when I saw Mrs. Beaumont was alone. We sat with her for, I believe, an hour without interruption, and then we saw a faton drive up to the gate, and a lady and gentleman alight from it. They entered the parlour with the ease of people who were at home. The gentleman I saw soon was Lord Merton. He came shuffling into the room with his boots on and his whip in his hand, and having made something like a bow to Mrs. Beaumont, he turned towards me. His surprise was very evident, but he took no manner of notice of me. He waited, I believe, to discover first what chance had brought me to that house, where he did not look much rejoiced at meeting me. He seated himself very quietly at the window, without speaking to anybody. Meantime, the lady, who seemed very young, hobbling rather than walking into the room, made a passing curtsy to Mrs. Beaumont, saying, "'How are you, Mum?' and then, without noticing anybody else, with an air of languor, she flung herself upon a sofa, protesting in a most affected voice, and speaking so softly she could hardly be heard that she was fatigued to death. "'Really, Mum? The road is so monstrous, dusty, you can't imagine how troublesome the dust is to one's eyes, and the sun, too, is monstrous disagreeable. I dare say I shall be so tanned. I shan't be fit to be seen this age. Indeed, my Lord, I won't go out with you any more, for you don't care where you take one.'" "'Upon my honour,' said Lord Merton, "'I took you the pleasantest ride in England. The fault was in the sun, not me.' "'Your lordship is in the right,' said Mrs. Selwyn, to transfer the fault to the sun, because it is so many excellencies to counterbalance partial inconvenience, that a little blame will not injure that in our estimation. "'Lord Merton looked by no means delighted at this attack, which I believe she would not so readily have made but to revenge his neglect of us.' "'Did you meet your brother, Lady Louisa?' said Mrs. Beaumont. "'No, mum,' is he wrote out this morning. I then found what I had before suspected, that this lady was Lord Orville's sister. How strange that such near relation should be so different to each other. There is indeed some resemblance in their features, but in their manners not the least." "'Yes,' answered Mrs. Beaumont. "'And I believe he wished to see you.' "'My lord drove so monstrous first,' said Lady Louisa. "'That perhaps we passed him. He frightened me out of my senses. I declare my head is quite giddy. "'Do you know, mum, we have done nothing but quarrel all the morning. You can't think how I've scolded. Have not I, my lord?' And she smiled expressively at Lord Merton. "'You have been as you always are,' said he, twisting his whip with his fingers. All sweetness.' "'Fie, my lord,' cried she. "'I know you don't think so. I know you think me very ill-natured. Don't you, my lord?' "'No, upon my honour. How can your ladyship ask such a question? Pray, how goes time? My watch stands.' "'It is almost three,' answered Mrs. Beaumont. "'Lord, mum, you frightened me,' cried Lady Louisa. And then, turning to Lord Merton, why now you wicked creature you? Did you not tell me it was but one?' Mrs. Selwyn then rose to take leave, but Mrs. Beaumont asked if she would look at the shrubbery. "'I should like it much,' answered she. "'But that I fear to fatigue, Miss Anvil!' Lady Louisa then, raising her head from her hand, on which it had lent, turned round to look at me, and, having fully satisfied her curiosity without any regard to the confusion it gave me, turned about, and again leaning on her hand, took no further notice of me. I declared myself very able to walk, and begged that I might accompany them. "'What say you, Lady Louisa?' cried Mrs. Beaumont, to a stroll in the garden. "'Me, mum, I declare I can't stir a step. The heat is so excessive it would kill me. I am half-dead with it already. Besides, I shall have no time to dress. Will anybody be here today, mum?' "'I believe not, unless the Lord Merton will favour us with his company.' "'With great pleasure, madam.' "'Well, I declare you don't deserve to be asked,' cried Lady Louisa. "'You wicked creature you! I must tell you one thing, mum. You can't think how abominable he was. Do you know we met Mr. Lovell in his new fayton? And my Lord was so cruel as to drive against it. We really flew. I declare I could not breathe. "'Upon my word, my Lord, I'll never trust myself with you again. I won't, indeed.' We then went into the garden, leaving them to discuss the point at their leisure. "'Do you remember a pretty but affected young lady I mentioned to have seen in Lord Orville's party at the Pantheon? How little did I then imagine her to be his sister. Yet Lady Louisa Larpent is the very person. I can now account for the peaked manner of her speaking to Lord Merton that evening, and I can now account for the air of displeasure with which Lord Orville marked the undue attention of his future brother-in-law to me. We had not walked long, air at a distance, I perceived, Lord Orville, who seemed just dismounted from his horse, and to the garden. All my perturbation returned at the sight of him. Yet I endeavoured to repress every feeling but resentment. As he approached us, he bowed to the whole party. But I turned away my head to avoid taking any share of his ability. Addressing himself immediately to Mrs. Beaumont, he was beginning to inquire after his sister. But upon seeing my face, he suddenly exclaimed, "'Miss Anvil!' and then he advanced, and made his compliments to me, not with an air of vanity or impertinence, nor yet with a look of consciousness or shame, but with a countenance open, manly, and charming, with a smile that indicated pleasure, and eyes that sparkled with delight. On my side was all that consciousness, for by him I really believe the letter was, at that moment, entirely forgotten. With what politeness did he address me? With what sweetness did he look at me? The very tone of his voice seemed flattering. He congratulated himself upon his good fortune in meeting with me, hoped I should spend some time in Bristol, and inquired, even with anxiety, inquired, if my health was the cause of my journey. In which case his satisfaction would be converted into apprehension. Yet, struck as I was with his manner, and charmed to find him such as he was wont to be, imagine not, my dear sir, that I forgot the resentment I owe him, nor the cause he has given me of displeasure. No! my behaviour was such as I hope had you seen, you would not have disapproved. I was grave and distant. I scarce looked at him when he spoke, or answered him when he was silent. As he must certainly observe this alteration in my conduct, I think it could not fail making him both recollect and repent the provocation he has so causally given me. For surely he was not so wholly lost to reason as can be now ignorant he had ever offended me. The moment that, without absolute rudeness, I was able, I turned entirely from him, and asked Mrs. Selwyn if we should not be late home. How Lord Orville looked, I know not, for I avoided meeting his eyes, but he did not speak another word as we proceeded to the garden-gate. Indeed, I believe my abruptness surprised him, for he did not seem to expect I had so much spirit. And to own the truth, convinced as I was of the propriety, nay, necessity of showing my displeasure, I yet almost hated myself for receiving his politeness so ungraciously. When we were taking leave, my eyes accidentally meeting his, I could not but observe that his gravity equalled my own, for it had entirely taken place in the smiles and good humour with which he had met me. I am afraid this young lady, said Mrs. Beaumont, is too weak for another long walk till to use again rested. If the ladies all trust in my driving, said Lord Orville, and are not afraid of a faton, mine shall be ready in a moment. You are very good, my lord, said Mrs. Selwyn, but my will is yet unsigned, and I don't choose to venture in a faton with a young man while that is the case. Oh! cried Mrs. Beaumont. You need not to be afraid of my Lord Orville for he is remarkably careful. Well, Miss Anvil, answered she, what say you? Indeed, cried I, I had much rather walk. But then, looking at Lord Orville, I perceived in his face a surprise so serious at my abrupt refusal that I could not forbear adding, for I should be sorry to occasion so much trouble. Lord Orville, brightening at these words, came forward, and pressed his offer in a manner not to be denied, so the faton was ordered. And indeed, my dear sir, I know not how it was, but from that moment my coldness and reserve insensibly wore away. He must not be angry. It was my intention, nay, my endeavour to support them with firmness. But when I formed the plan, I thought only of the letter, not of Lord Orville. And how is it possible for resentment to subsist without provocation? Yet believe me, my dearest sir, had he sustained the part he began to act when he wrote this ever-to-be-regretted letter, your overliner would not have forfeited her title to your esteem by contentedly submitting to be treated with a dignity. We continued in the garden till the faton was ready. When we parted from Mrs. Beaumont, she repeated her invitation to Mrs. Selwyn to accept an apartment in her house. But the reason I have already mentioned made it be again declined. Lord Orville drove very slow, and so cautiously, that notwithstanding the height of the faton, fear would have been ridiculous. I supported no part in the conversation, but Mrs. Selwyn extremely well supplied the place of two. Lord Orville himself did not speak much, but the excellent sense and refined good-breeding which accompany every word he utters, give value and weight to whatever he says. I suppose, my lord," said Mrs. Selwyn, when we stopped at our lodgings, you would have been extremely confused had we met any gentleman who have the honour of knowing you. If I had," answered he gallantly, it would have been for mere compassion at their envy. No, my lord," answered she, it would have been for mere shame, that in an age so daring, you alone should be such a coward as to forbear to frighten women. Oh! cried he, laughing. When a man is in a fright for himself, the ladies cannot be but in security, for you have not had half the apprehension for the safety of your persons that I have had for that of my heart. He then alighted, handed us out, took leave, and again mounting the faton was out of sight in a minute. Certainly," said Mrs. Selwyn, when he was gone, there must have been some mistake in the birth of that young man. He was undoubtedly designed for the last age, for he is really polite. And now, my dear sir, do not you think, according to the present situation of affairs, I may give up my resentment without imprudence or impropriety. I hope you will not blame me. Indeed, had you, like me, seen his respectful behaviour, you would have been convinced of the impracticability of supporting any further indignation.