LETTER I.
Evelina in continuation.

MADAME Duval roſe very late this morn⯑ing, and at one o'clock, we had but juſt break⯑faſted, when Miſs Branghton, her brother, Mr. Smith, and Monſieur du Bois, called to enquire after our healths.

This civility in young Branghton, I much ſuſ⯑pect, was merely the reſult of his father's com⯑mands; but his ſiſter and Mr. Smith, I ſoon found, had motives of their own. Scarce had they ſpoken to Madame Duval, when, advancing eagerly to me, ‘"Pray, Ma'am,"’ ſaid Mr. Smith, ‘"who was that gentleman?"’

‘"Pray, Couſin,"’ cried Miſs Branghton, was ‘"not he the ſame gentleman you ran away with that night at the opera?"’

‘"Goodneſs! that he was,"’ ſaid young [4] Branghton; ‘"and I declare, as ſoon as ever I ſaw him, I thought I knew his face."’

‘"I'm ſure I'll defy you to forget him,"’ an⯑ſwered his ſiſter, ‘"if once you had ſeen him: he is the fineſt gentleman I ever ſaw in my life; don't you think ſo, Mr. Smith?’

‘"Why, you won't give the Lady time to ſpeak,"’ ſaid Mr. Smith.—‘"Pray, Ma'am, what is the gentleman's name?"’

‘"Willoughby, Sir."’

‘"Willoughby! I think I have heard the name. Pray, Ma'am, is he married?"’

‘"Lord, no, that he is not,"’ cried Miſs Branghton; ‘"he looks too ſmart, by a great deal, for a married man. Pray, Couſin, how did you get acquainted with him?"’

‘"Pray, Miſs,"’ ſaid young Branghton, in the ſame breath, ‘"what's his buſineſs?"’

‘"Indeed I don't know,"’ anſwered I.

‘"Something very genteel, I dare ſay,"’ added Miſs Branghton, ‘"becauſe he dreſſes ſo fine."’

‘"It ought to be ſomething that brings in a good income."’ ſaid Mr. Smith, ‘"for I'm ſure he did not get that ſuit of cloaths he had on, un⯑der thirty or forty pounds; for I know the price of Cloaths pretty well; pray, Ma'am, can you tell me what he has a year?"’

‘"Don't talk no more about him;"’ cried Ma⯑dame Duval, ‘"for I don't like to hear his name; I believe he's one of the worſt perſons in the world; for, though I never did him no manner of harm, nor ſo much as hurt a hair of his head, I know he was an accomplice with that fellow, Captain Mirvan, to take away my life."’

Every body, but myſelf, now crowding around her for an explanation, a violent rapping at the ſtreet-door was unheard; and, without any pre⯑vious notice, in the midſt of her narration, Sir [5] Clement Willoughby entered the room. They all ſtarted, and, with looks of guilty confuſion, as if they feared his reſentment for having liſtened to Madame Duval, they ſcrambled for Chairs, and, in a moment, were all formally ſeated.

Sir Clement, after a general bow, ſingling out Madame Duval, ſaid, with his uſual eaſineſs, ‘"I have done myſelf the honour of waiting on you, Madam, to enquire if you have any commands to Howard Grove, whither I am going to-mor-row morning."’

Then, ſeeing the ſtorm that gathered in her eyes, before he allowed her time to anſwer, he addreſſed himſelf to me;—‘"And, if you, Ma⯑dam, have any with which you will honour me, I ſhall be happy to execute them."’

‘"None at all, Sir."’

‘"None! not to Miſs Mirvan!—no meſſage! no letter!—"’

‘"I wrote to Miſs Mirvan yeſterday by the poſt."’

‘"My application ſhould have been earlier, had I ſooner known your addreſs."’

‘"Ma foi,"’ cried Madame Duval, recovering from her ſurprize, ‘"I believe never nobody ſaw the like of this!"’

‘"Of what! Madam!"’ cried the undaunted Sir Clement, turning quick towards her, ‘"I hope no one has offended you!"’

‘"You don't hope no ſuch a thing!"’ cried ſhe, half choaked with paſſion, and riſing from her chair. This motion was followed by the reſt, and, in a moment, every body ſtood up.

Still Sir Clement was not abaſhed; affecting to make a bow of acknowledgment to the company in general, he ſaid ‘"Pary—I beg—Ladies,—pray Gentlemen,—don't let me diſturb you, pray keep your ſeats."’

[6] ‘"Pray, Sir,"’ ſaid Miſs Branghton, moving a chair towards him, ‘"won't you ſit down your⯑ſelf?"’

‘"You are extremely good, Ma'am: rather than make any diſturbance—"’

And ſo ſaying, this ſtrange man ſeated himſelf, as did, in an inſtant, every body elſe, even Ma⯑dame Duval herſelf, who, overpowered by his boldneſs, ſeemed too full for utterance.

He then, and with as much compoſure as if he had been an expected gueſt, began to diſcourſe on the weather,—its uncertainty, the heat of the public places in ſummer, the emptineſs of the town, and other ſuch common topics.

Nobody, however, anſwered him; Mr. Smith ſeemed afraid, young Branghton aſhamed, M. Du Bois amazed, Madame Duval enraged, and myſelf determined not to interfere. All that he could obtain, was the notice of Miſs Branghton, whoſe nods, ſmiles, and attention, had ſome ap⯑pearance of entering into converſation with him.

At length, growing tired, I ſuppoſe of engag⯑ing every body's eyes, and nobody's tongue, ad⯑dreſſing himſelf to Madame Duval and to me, he ſaid, ‘"I regard myſelf as peculiarly unfortunate, Ladies, in having fixed upon a time for my viſit to Howard Grove, when you are abſent from it."’

‘"So I ſuppoſe, Sir, ſo I ſuppoſe,"’ cried Madame Duval, haſtily riſing, and the next mo⯑ment as haſtily ſeating herſelf, ‘"you'll be a want⯑ing of ſomebody to make your game of, and ſo you may think to get me there again;—but I pro⯑miſe you, Sir, you won't find it ſo eaſy a matter to make me a fool: and beſides that,"’ raiſing her voice, ‘"I've found you out, I aſſure you; ſo if ever you go to play your tricks upon me again, I'll make no more ado, but go directly to a juſtice of peace; ſo, Sir, if you can't think of [7] nothing but making people ride about the Coun⯑try, at all hours of the night, juſt for your di⯑verſion, why you'll find I know ſome juſtices, as well as Juſtice Tyrrel."’

Sir Clement was evidently embarraſſed at this attack; yet he affected a look of ſurprize, and proteſted he did not underſtand her meaning.

‘"Well"’ cried ſhe, ‘"if I don't wonder where people can get ſuch impudence! if you'll ſay that, you'll ſay any thing; however, if you ſwear till you're black in the face, I ſhan't be⯑lieve you; for nobody ſhan't perſuade me out of my ſenſes, that I'll promiſe you."’

‘"Doubtleſs not, Madam,"’ anſwered he, with ſome heſitation, ‘"and I hope you do not ſuſpect I ever had ſuch an intention; my reſpect for you—"’

‘"O Sir, you're vaſtly polite, all of a ſud⯑den! but I know what it's all for;—it's only for what you can get!—you cou'd treat me like no⯑body at Howard Grove—but now you ſee I've a houſe of my own, you've a mind to wheedle yourſelf into it; but I ſees your deſign, ſo you need n't trouble yourſelf to take no more trouble about that, for you ſhall never get nothing at my houſe,—not ſo much as a diſh of tea:—ſo now, Sir, you ſee I can play you trick for trick."’

There was ſomething ſo extremely groſs in this ſpeech, that it even diſconcerted Sir Clement, who was too much confounded to make any an⯑ſwer.

It was curious to obſerve the effect which his embarraſſment added to the freedom with which Madame Duval addreſſed him, had upon the reſt of the company: every one, who, before, ſeem⯑ed at a loſs how, or if at all, to occupy a chair, now filled it with the moſt eaſy compoſure: and [8] Mr. Smith, whoſe countenance had exhibited the moſt ſtriking picture of mortified envy, now be⯑gan to recover his uſual expreſſion of ſatisfied con⯑ceit.

Young Branghton, too, who had been appa⯑rently awed by the preſence of ſo fine a gentle⯑man, was again himſelf, rude and familiar, while his mouth was wide diſtended into a broad grin, at hearing his Aunt give the beau ſuch a trim⯑ming.

Madame Duval, encouraged by this ſucceſs, looked around her with an air of triumph, and continued her harangue: ‘"And ſo, Sir, I ſup⯑poſe you thought to have had it all your own way, and to have comed here as often as you pleaſed, and to have got me to Howard Grove again, on purpoſe to have ſerved me as you did before; but you ſhall ſee I'm as cunning as you, ſo you may go and find ſomebody elſe to uſe in that manner, and to put your maſk on, and to make a fool of; for as to me, if you go to tell me your ſtories about the Tower again, for a month toge⯑ther, I'll never believe 'em no more; and I'll promiſe you, Sir, if you think I like ſuch jokes, you'll find I'm no ſuch perſon."’

‘"I aſſure you, Ma'am,—upon my honour—I really don't comprehend—I fancy there is ſome miſunderſtanding—"’

‘"What, I ſuppoſe you'll tell me next you don't know nothing of the matter?"’

‘"Not a word, upon my honour."’

O Sir Clement! thought I, is it thus you prize your honour!

‘"Pardie,"’ cried Madame Duval, ‘"this is the moſt provokingeſt part of all! why you might as well tell me I don't know my own name."’

[9] ‘"Here is certainly ſome miſtake; for I aſſure you, Ma'am—"’

‘"Don't aſſure me nothing,"’ cried Madame Duval, raiſing her voice, ‘"I know what I'm ſaying, and ſo do you too; for did not you tell me all that about the Tower; and about M. Du Bois?—why M. Du Bois was n't never there, nor nigh it, and ſo it was all your own invention."’

‘"May there not be two perſons of the ſame name? the miſtake was but natural—"’

‘"Don't tell me of no miſtake, for it was all on purpoſe; beſides, did not you come, all in a maſk, to the chariot door, and help to get me put in that ditch?—I'll promiſe you, I've had the greateſt mind in the world to take the law of you, and if ever you do as much again, ſo I will, I aſſure you!"’

Here Miſs Branghton tittered; Mr. Smith ſmiled contemptuouſly, and young Branghton thruſt his handkerchief into his mouth to ſtop his laughter.

The ſituation of Sir Clement, who ſaw all that paſſed, became now very awkward, even to him⯑ſelf, and he ſtammered very much in ſaying, ‘"ſurely, Madam—ſurely you—you cannot do me the—the injuſtice to think—that I had any ſhare in the—the—the misfortune which—"’

‘"Ma foi, Sir,"’ cried Madame Duval, with encreaſing paſſion, ‘"you'd beſt not ſtand talking to me at that rate; I know it was you,—and if you ſtay there, provoking me in ſuch a manner, I'll ſend for a Conſtable this minute."’

Young Branghton, at theſe words, in ſpite of all his efforts, burſt into a loud laugh; nor could either his ſiſter, or Mr. Smith, though with more moderation, forbear joining in his mirth.

Sir Clement darted his eyes towards them, with looks of the moſt angry contempt, and then [10] told Madame Duval, that he would not now detain her, to make his vindication, but would wait on her ſome time when ſhe was alone.

‘"O pardie, Sir,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"I don't deſire none of your company; and if you was n't the moſt impudenteſt perſon in the world, you would not dare look me in the face."’

The ha, ha, ha's, and he, he, he's, grew more and more uncontroulable, as if the reſtraint from which they had burſt, had added to their vi⯑olence. Sir Clement could no longer endure be⯑ing the object who excited them, and, having no anſwer ready for Madame Duval, he haſtily ſtalked towards Mr. Smith and young Branghton, and ſternly demanded what they laughed at?

Struck by the air of Importance which he aſ⯑ſumed, and alarmed at the angry tone of his voice, their merriment ceaſed, as inſtantaneouſly as if it had been directed by clock-work, and they ſtared fooliſhly, now at him, now at each other, without making any anſwer but a ſimple ‘"No⯑thing, Sir!"’

‘"O pour le coup,"’ cried Madame Duval, ‘"this is too much! pray, Sir, what buſineſs have you to come here a ordering people that comes to ſee me? I ſuppoſe, next, nobody muſt laugh but yourſelf!"’

‘"With me, Madam,"’ ſaid Sir Clement, bowing, ‘"a lady may do any thing, and, conſe⯑quently, there is no liberty in which I ſhall not be happy to indulge you:—but it has never been my cuſtom to give the ſame licence to gentlemen."’

Then, advancing to me, who had ſat very qui⯑etly, on a window, during this ſcene, he ſaid," ‘Miſs Anville, I may at leaſt acquaint our friends at Howard Grove, that I had the honour of leav⯑ing you in good health,"’ and then, lowering his voice, he added, ‘"For Heaven's ſake, my [11] deareſt creature, who are theſe people? and how came you ſo ſtrangely ſituated?"’

‘"I beg my reſpects to all the family, Sir,"’ anſwered I, aloud, ‘"and I hope you will find them well."’

He looked at me reproachfully, but kiſſed my hand; and then, bowing to Madame Duval and Miſs Branghton, paſſed haſtily by the men, and made his exit.

I fancy he will not be very eager to repeat his viſits, for I ſhould imagine he has rarely, if ever, been before in a ſituation ſo awkward and diſa⯑greeable.

Madame Duval has been all ſpirits and exulta⯑tion ever ſince he went, and only wiſhes Captain Mirvan would call, that ſhe might do the ſame by him. Mr. Smith, upon hearing that he was a baronet, and ſeeing him drive off in a very beau⯑tiful chariot, declared that he would not have laughed upon any account, had he known his rank, and regretted extremely having miſſed ſuch an opportunity of making ſo genteel an acquaint⯑ance. Young Branghton vowed, that, if he had known as much, he would have aſked for his cuſ⯑tom: and his ſiſter has ſung his praiſes ever ſince, proteſting ſhe thought, all along, he was a man of quality by his look.

LETTER II.
Evelina in continuation.

THE laſt three evenings have paſſed tolerably quiet, for the Vauxhall adventures had given Madame Duval a ſurfeit of public places: home [12] however, ſoon growing tireſome, ſhe determined to⯑night, ſhe ſaid, to relieve her ennui, by ſome amuſement; and it was therefore ſettled that we ſhould call upon the Branghtons, at their houſe, and thence proceed to Marybone Gardens.

But, before we reached Snow-Hill, we were caught in a ſhower of rain: we hurried into the ſhop, where the firſt object I ſaw was Mr. Ma⯑cartney, with a book in his hand, ſeated in the ſame corner where I ſaw him laſt; but his looks were ſtill more wretched than before, his face yet thinner, and his eyes ſunk almoſt hollow into his head. He lifted them up as we entered, and I even thought that they emitted a gleam of joy: involuntarily, I made to him my firſt courteſy; he roſe and bowed, with a precipitation that ma⯑nifeſted ſurprize and confuſion.

In a few minutes, we were joined by all the family, except Mr. Smith, who, fortunately, was engaged.

Had all the future proſperity of our lives de⯑pended upon the good or bad weather of this evening, it could not have been treated as a ſub⯑ject of greater importance. ‘"Sure never any thing was ſo unlucky!—"’ ‘"Lord, how provok⯑ing!—"’ ‘"It might rain for ever, if it would hold up now!—"’ Theſe, and ſuch expreſſions, with many anxious obſervations upon the kennels, filled up all the converſation till the ſhower was over.

And then a very warm debate aroſe, whether we ſhould purſue our plan, or defer it to ſome finer evening; Miſs Branghtons were for the for⯑mer; their father was ſure it would rain again; Madame Duval, though ſhe deteſted returning home, yet dreaded the dampneſs of the gardens.

M. Du Bois then propoſed going to the top of [13] the houſe, to examine whether the clouds looked threatening or peaceable; Miſs Branghton ſtarting at this propoſal, ſaid they might go to Mr. Ma⯑cartney's room, if they would, but not to her's.

This was enough for the brother; who, with a loud laugh, declared he would have ſome fun, and immediately led the way, calling to us all to follow. His ſiſters both ran after him, but no one elſe moved.

In a few minutes, young Branghton, coming half way down ſtairs, called out, ‘"Lord, why don't you all come? why here's Poll's things all about the room!’

Mr. Branghton then went, and Madame Du⯑val, who cannot bear to be excluded from whate⯑ver is going forward, was handed up ſtairs by M. Du Bois.

I heſitated a few moments whether or not to join them; but, ſoon perceiving that Mr. Ma⯑cartney had dropped his book, and that I en⯑groſſed his whole attention, I prepared, from mere embarraſſment, to follow them.

As I went, I heard him move from his chair, and walk ſlowly after me. Believing that he wiſhed to ſpeak to me, and earneſtly deſiring my⯑ſelf to know if, by your means, I could poſſibly be of any ſervice to him, I firſt ſlackened my pace, and then turned back. But, though I thus met him half-way, he ſeemed to want courage or reſolution to addreſs me; for, when he ſaw me returning, with a look extremely diſordered, he retreated haſtily from me.

Not knowing what I ought to do, I went to the ſtreet-door, where I ſtood ſome time, hoping he would be able to recover himſelf: but, on the con⯑trary, his agitation encreaſed every moment; he walked up and down the room; in a quick, but [14] unſteady pace, ſeeming equally diſtreſſed and irreſolute: and, at length, with a deep ſigh, he flung himſelf into a chair.

I was ſo much affected by the appearance of ſuch extreme anguiſh, that I could remain no lon⯑ger in the room; I therefore glided by him, and went up ſtairs; but, ere I had gone five ſteps, he precipitately followed me, and, in a broken voice, called out, ‘"Madam!—for Heaven's ſake—"’

He ſtopped, but I inſtantly deſcended, reſtrain⯑ing, as well as I was able, the fullneſs of my own concern. I waited ſome time in painful expectati⯑on, for his ſpeaking: all that I had heard of his poverty, occurring to me, I was upon the point of preſenting him my purſe, but the fear of miſtak⯑ing or offending him, deterred me. Finding, however, that he continued ſilent, I ventured to ſay, ‘"Did you—Sir, wiſh to ſpeak to me?"’

‘"I did!"’ cried he, with quickneſs, ‘"but now—I cannot!"’

‘"Perhaps, Sir, another time,—perhaps if you recollect yourſelf—"’

‘"Another time!"’ repeated he mournfully, ‘"alas! I look not forward but to miſery and de⯑ſpair!"’

‘"O Sir,"’ cried I, extremely ſhocked, ‘"you muſt not talk thus!—if you forſake yourſelf, how can you expect—"’

I ſtopped. ‘"Tell me, tell me,’ "cried he, with eagerneſs, ‘"who you are?—whence you come?—and by what ſtrange means you ſeem to be arbitreſs and ruler of the deſtiny of ſuch a wretch as I am?"’

‘"Would to Heaven,"’ cried I, ‘"I could ſerve you!"’

‘"You can!"’

[15] ‘"And how? pray tell me how?"’

‘"To tell you—is death to me! yet I will tell you,—I have a right to your aſſiſtance,—you have deprived me of the only reſource to which I could apply,—and therefore—"’

‘"Pray, pray, ſpeak;"’ cried I, putting my hand into my pocket, ‘"they will be down ſtairs in a moment!"’

‘"I will, Madam.—Can you—will you—I think you will!—may I then—"’ he ſtopped and pauſed, ‘"ſay, will you—"’ then ſuddenly turning from me, ‘"Great Heaven! I cannot ſpeak!"’ and he went back to the ſhop.

I now put my purſe in my hand, and following him, ſaid, ‘"If indeed, Sir, I can aſſiſt you, why ſhould you deny me ſo great a ſatisfaction? Will you permit me to—"’

I dared not go on; but with a countenance ve⯑ry much ſoftened, he approached me, and ſaid, ‘"Your voice, Madam, is the voice of Com⯑paſſion!—ſuch a voice as theſe ears have long been ſtrangers to!"’

Juſt then, young Branghton called out vehe⯑mently to me, to come up ſtairs; I ſeized the op⯑portunity of haſtening away: and therefore ſay⯑ing, ‘"Heaven, Sir, protect and comfort you!—"’ I let fall my purſe upon the ground, not daring to preſent it to him, and ran up ſtairs with the utmoſt ſwiftneſs.

Too well do I know you, my ever honoured Sir, to fear your diſpleaſure for this action: I muſt, however, aſſure you I ſhall need no freſh ſupply during my ſtay in town, as I am at little expence, and hope ſoon to return to Howard Grove.

Soon, did I ſay! when not a fortnight is yet [16] expired, of the long and tedious month I muſt linger out here!

I had many witticiſms to endure from the Branghtons, upon account of my ſtaying ſo long with the Scotch mope, as they call him; but I at⯑tend to them very little, for my whole heart was filled with pity and concern. I was very glad to find the Marybone ſcheme was deferred, another ſhower of rain having put a ſtop to the diſſention upon this ſubject; the reſt of the evening was employed in moſt violent quarrelling between Miſs Polly and her brother, on account of the diſcovery made by the latter, of the ſtate of her apartment.

We came home early; and I have ſtolen from Madame Duval and M. Du Bois, who is here for ever, to write to my beſt friend.

I am moſt ſincerely rejoiced that this opportu⯑nity has offered for my contributing what little re⯑lief was in my power, to this unhappy man; and I hope it will be ſufficient to enable him to pay his debts to this pitileſs family.

LETTER III.
Mr. Villars to Evelina.

DISPLEASURE? my Evelina!—you have but done your duty; you have but ſhewn that humanity without which I ſhould bluſh to own my child. It is mine, however, to ſee that your generoſity be not repreſſed by your ſuffering from indulging it; I remit to you, therefore, not merely a token of my approbation, but an ac⯑knowledgment of my deſire to participate in your charity.

[17] O my child, were my fortune equal to my con⯑fidence in thy benevolence, with what tranſport ſhould I, through thy means, devote it to the re⯑lief of indigent virtue! yet let us not repine at the limitation of our power, for, while our boun⯑ty is proportioned to our ability, the difference of the greater or leſs donation, can weigh but little in the ſcale of Juſtice.

In reading your account of the miſguided man, whoſe miſery has ſo largely excited your compaſ⯑ſion, I am led to apprehend, that his unhappy ſi⯑tuation is leſs the effect of misfortune, than of miſconduct. If he is reduced to that ſtate of poverty repreſented by the Branghtons, he ſhould endeavour by activity and induſtry to retrieve his affairs; and not paſs his time in idle reading in the very ſhop of his creditor.

The piſtol ſcene made me ſhudder: the cou⯑rage with which you purſued this deſperate man, at once delighted and terrified me. Be ever thus, my deareſt Evelina, dauntleſs in the cauſe of diſ⯑treſs! let no weak fears, no timid doubts, deter you from the exertion of your duty, according to the fulleſt ſenſe of it that Nature has implanted in your mind. Though gentleneſs and Modeſty are the peculiar attributes of your ſex, yet fortitude and firmneſs, when occaſion demands them, are vir⯑tues as noble and as becoming in women as in men: the right line of conduct is the ſame for both ſex⯑es, though the manner in which it is purſued, may ſomewhat vary, and be accommodated to the ſtrength or weakneſs of the different travellers.

There is, however, ſomething ſo myſterious in all you have yet ſeen or heard of this wretched man, that I am unwilling to ſtamp a bad impreſ⯑ſion of his character, upon ſo ſlight and partial a knowledge of it. Where any thing is doubtful, the ties of ſociety, and the laws of humanity, [18] claim a favourable interpretation; but remember, my dear child, that thoſe of diſcretion have an equal claim to your regard.

As to Sir Clement Willoughby, I know not how to expreſs my indignation at his conduct. Inſolence ſo unſufferable, and the implication of ſuſpicions ſo ſhocking, irritate me to a degree of wrath, which I hardly thought my almoſt worn⯑out paſſions were capable of again experiencing. You muſt converſe with him no more; he ima⯑gines, from the pliability of your temper, that he may offend you with impunity; but his beha⯑viour juſtifies, nay, calls for, your avowed re⯑ſentment: do not, therefore, heſitate in forbid⯑ding him your ſight.

The Branghtons, Mr. Smith, and young Brown, however ill-bred and diſagreeable, are objects too contemptible for ſerious diſpleaſure: yet I grieve much that my Evelina ſhould be ex⯑poſed to their rudeneſs and impertinence.

The very day that this tedious month expires, I ſhall ſend Mrs. Clinton to town, who will ac⯑company you to Howard Grove. Your ſtay there will, I hope, be ſhort, for I feel daily an encreaſing impatience to fold my beloved child to my boſom!

LETTER IV.
Evelina to the Rev. Mr. Villars.

LETTER V.
Evelina in continuation.

I HAVE juſt received a moſt affecting letter from Mr. Macartney. I will incloſe it, my dear Sir, for your peruſal. More than ever have I cauſe to rejoice that I was able to aſſiſt him.

LETTER VI.
Evelina in continuation.

O SIR, what an adventure have I to write!—all night it 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 Marybone-gardens, where M. Torre, a celebrated foreigner, was to exhibit ſome fireworks. The party conſiſted of Madame Du⯑val, all the Branghtons, M. Du Bois, Mr. Smith, and Mr. Brown.

We were almoſt the firſt perſons who entered the Gardens, Mr. Branghton having declared he would have all he could get for his money, which, at beſt, was only fooled 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 Branghton and Mr. Smith followed, and the latter ſeemed determined to be revenged for my behaviour at the ball, by transferring all his former attention for me, to Miſs Branghton, who received it with an air of exulta⯑tion: [39] and very frequently they each of them, though from different motives, looked back, to diſcover whether I obſerved their good intelligence. Madame Duval walked with M. Du Bois; and Mr. Branghton by himſelf; but his ſon would wil⯑lingly have attached himſelf wholly to me, ſaying frequently, ‘"Come, Miſs, let's you and I have a little fun together; you ſee they have all left us, ſo now let us leave them."’ But I begged to be excuſed, and went to the other ſide of Madame Duval.

This Garden, as it is called, is neither ſtriking for magnificence 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. Barthelemon, who, to me, ſeems a player of exquiſite fancy, feeling, and variety.

When notice was given us, that the fire-works were preparing, we hurried along to ſecure good places for the ſight: but, very ſoon, we were ſo encircled and incommoded by the crowd, that Mr. Smith propoſed the ladies ſhould make intereſt for a form to ſtand upon; this was ſoon effected, and the men then left us, to accommodate themſelves better, ſaying they would return the moment the exhibition was over.

The firework was 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 accord, jumpt haſtily from the form, and ran away ſome paces, fearing that we were in danger of miſchief, from the innume⯑rable ſparks of fire which glittered in the air.

[40] For a moment or two, I neither knew nor con⯑ſidered whither I had run; but my recollection was ſoon awakened by a ſtranger's addreſſing me with, ‘"Come along with me, my dear, and I'll take care of you."’

I ſtarted, and then, to my great terror, per⯑ceived that I had out-run all my companions, and ſaw 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 acquain⯑tance. I walked, in diſordered haſte, from place to place, without knowing which way to turn, or whither I went. Every other moment, I was ſpoken to, by ſome bold and unfeeling man, to whom my diſtreſs, which, I think, muſt be very apparent, only furniſhed a pretence 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 pro⯑tection!"’

They heard me with a loud laugh, but very readily ſaid, ‘"Ay, 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 en⯑treated [41] they would have the goodneſs to aſſiſt me in finding my friends.

O 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 be 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: and ſuch was my dread of their reſentment or abuſe, that I did not dare to make any open attempt to eſcape.

They aſked me a thouſand queſtions, accom⯑panied 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 de⯑preſſing.

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?"’

[42] 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, i'n't 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, with⯑out 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 you was gone home; but I ſays, ſays I, I don't think ſays I, that ſhe'll like to go home all alone, ſays I."’

‘"So that gentleman belongs to you, Miſs, does he?"’ ſaid one of the women.

‘Yes, Madam,"’ anſwered I, ‘"and I now thank you for your civility; but as I am ſafe, will not give you any further trouble."’

I courtſied ſlightly, and would have walked away; but, moſt unfortunately, Madame Du⯑val and the two Miſs Branghtons juſt then joined us.

They all began to make a thouſand enquiries, to which I briefly anſwered, that I had been obliged to theſe two ladies for walking with me, and would tell them more another time: for, though I felt great comparative courage, I was yet too much intimidated by their preſence, to dare be explicit.

[43] Nevertheleſs, I ventured, once more, to wiſh them good night, and propoſed ſeeking Mr. Branghton. 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 intended join⯑ing our party! and then, one of them, very bold⯑ly took hold of my arm, while the other, going round, ſeized that of Mr. Brown; and thus, al⯑moſt forcibly, we were moved on between them, and followed by Madame Duval and the Miſs Branghtons.

It would be very difficult to ſay which was greateſt, my fright, or Mr. Brown's conſternati⯑on; who ventured not to make the leaſt reſiſt⯑ance, though his uneaſineſs made him tremble al⯑moſt 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 cir⯑cumſtanced 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, when,—O 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 we all ſtopped.

I then looked up. He bowed. Good God, with what expreſſive eyes did he regard me! Ne⯑ver 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 pain⯑ful of my life.

[44] What he firſt ſaid, I know not; for, indeed, I ſeemed to have neither ears nor underſtanding; but I recollect that I only courtſied in ſilence. He pauſed for an inſtant, as if—I believe ſo,—as if unwilling to paſs on; but 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 expreſſions. I abſolutely tore myſelf from the woman's arm, and then, diſengaging myſelf from that of Mr. Brown, I went to Ma⯑dame Duval, and beſought that ſhe would not ſuf⯑fer me to be again parted from her.

I fancy—that Lord Orville ſaw what paſſed; for ſcarcely was I at liberty, ere he returned. Methought, my dear Sir, the pleaſure, the ſur⯑priſe of that moment, recompenſed me for all the chagrin I had before felt: for do you not think, that this return, manifeſts, from a character ſo quiet, ſo reſerved as Lord Orville's, ſomething like ſolicitude in my concerns?—ſuch at leaſt, was the interpretation I involuntarily made upon again ſeeing him.

With a politeneſs to which I have been ſome time very little uſed, he apologiſed for returning, and then enquired after the health of Mrs. Mirvan, and the reſt of the Howard Grove family. The flattering conjecture which I have juſt acknow⯑ledged, 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 Branghtons, though they ſaw almoſt immediately the characters of the women to whom I had ſo unfortunately applied, were, never⯑theleſs, [45] ſo weak and fooliſh, as merely to titter at their behaviour. As to Madame Duval, ſhe was really 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 diſturb⯑ance, 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 mur⯑mured; but he now called out aloud, ‘"Good⯑neſs, Ladies, you hurt me like any thing! 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 Brangh⯑ton's. For my own part, I was moſt cruelly con⯑fuſed; 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 Duval who now began to ſuſpect her company, propoſed our taking the firſt box we ſaw empty, beſpeaking a ſupper, and waiting till Mr. Branghton ſhould find us.

Miſs Polly mentioned one ſhe had remarked, to which we all turned; Madame Duval inſtantly ſeated herſelf; and the two bold women, forcing the frightened Mr. Brown to go between them, fol⯑lowed her example.

Lord Orville, with an air of gravity that wound⯑ed my very ſoul, then wiſhed me good night. I ſaid not a word; but my face, if it had any con⯑nection with my heart, muſt have looked melan⯑choly indeed: and ſo, I have ſome reaſon to be⯑lieve, it did; for he added, with much more ſoft⯑neſs, though not leſs dignity, ‘"Will Miſs Anville [46] allow me to aſk her addreſs, and to pay my re⯑ſpects to her before I leave town?"’

O how I changed colour at this unexpected re⯑queſt!—yet what was the mortification I ſuffered, in anſwering, ‘"My Lord, I am—in Holborn!"’

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 explain⯑ed 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 paſſed; for, to you, I only write of what I think, and I can think of nothing but this unfortunate, this diſgraceful meeting. Theſe two poor women continued to torment us all, but eſpecially poor Mr. Brown, who ſeemed to afford them uncommon diverſion, till we were diſcovered by Mr. Branghton, 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 all employed in explanations.

Whatever may be the conſtruction which Lord Orville may put upon this affair, to me it cannot fail of being unfavourable; to be ſeen—gracious Heaven!—to be ſeen in company with two women of ſuch character!—How vainly, how proudly have I wiſhed to avoid meeting him when only with the Branghtons and Madame Duval,—but now, how joyful ſhould I be had he ſeen me to no greater diſadvantage!—Holborn, too! what a di⯑rection!—he who had always—but I will not tor⯑ment you, my deareſt Sir, with any more of my mortifying conjectures and apprehenſions: perhaps he may call,—and then I ſhall have an opportunity [47] 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 diſco⯑ver me; I merely ſaid in Holborn, and he, who I ſuppoſe ſaw my embarraſſment, forbore to aſk any other direction.

Well, I muſt take my chance!

Yet let me, in juſtice to Lord Orville, and in juſtice to the high opinion I have always enter⯑tained of his honour and delicacy,—let me obſerve the difference of his behaviour, when nearly in the ſame ſituation to that of Sir Clement Wil⯑loughby. He had at leaſt equal cauſe to depreci⯑ate me in his opinion, and to mortify and ſink me in my own: but far different was his conduct;—perplexed, indeed, he looked, and much ſurpriſ⯑ed,—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 doubts 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. Mirvan.

Once again, let me drop this ſubject.

In every mortification, every diſturbance, how grateful to my heart, how ſweet to my recollecti⯑on, in the certainty of your never-failing tender⯑neſs, ſympathy, and protection! Oh Sir, could I, upon this ſubject, could I write as I feel,—how animated would be the language of

LETTER VII.
Evelina to the Rev. Mr. Villars.

LISTLESS, 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 Duval'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, oc⯑curring to me nearly at the ſame time, occaſioned me more anxiety, confuſion, and 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: and, the next moment he appeared himſelf.

If formerly 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!

[49] I am ſure I received him very awkwardly; de⯑preſſed 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 courtſied. He then talked of Mrs. Mir⯑van; 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 al⯑low 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 then both ſeated, and, after a ſhort pauſe, he ſaid, ‘"How to apologize 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 apologize at all?"’

I only bowed.

‘"I ſhould be extremely ſorry to appear imper⯑tinent,—yet hardly know how to avoid it.’

‘"Impertinent! O my Lord,"’ cried I, eagerly, ‘"that, I am ſure, is impoſſible!"’

‘"You are very good,"’ anſwered he, ‘"and encourage 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 colour⯑ing violently, ‘"nor will they ever be again."’

He roſe too, and, with an air of the moſt con⯑deſcending concern, ſaid, ‘"Pardon, Madam, the [50] 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. Mirvan, 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 charac⯑teriſtic, 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."’

‘"Offended!"’ cried I, ‘no, my Lord, I am on⯑ly 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 Anville in⯑jures herſelf: allow me, therefore, frankly and openly to tell you the intention of my viſit."’

I bowed, and we both returned to our ſeats.

‘"I will own myſelf to have been greatly ſur⯑priſed,"’ continued he, ‘"when I met you yeſ⯑terday evening, in company with two perſons who I was ſenſible merited not the honour of your notice; nor was it eaſy for me to conjec⯑ture the cauſe of your being ſo ſituated; yet, be⯑lieve me, my incertitude did not for a moment do you injury; I was ſatisfied that their characters muſt be unknown to you, and I thought with con⯑cern of the ſhock you would ſuſtain, when you diſcovered their unworthineſs. I ſhould not, however, upon ſo ſhort an acquaintance, have [51] 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 in⯑nocence, and therefore feared you might be de⯑ceived. 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 in⯑ſtantly related to him, as well as I could, the accident which had occaſioned my joining the un⯑happy 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.

Soon after, the maid came to tell me, that Madame Duval 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 Anville allow me thus to ſeal my peace?"’ He preſſed it to his lips, and took leave.

Generous, noble Lord Orville! how diſinte⯑reſted his conduct! how delicate his whole beha⯑viour! willing to adviſe, yet afraid to wound me!—Can I ever, in future, regret the adventure I met with at Marybone, ſince it has been product⯑ive of a viſit ſo flattering? Had my mortificati⯑ons been ſtill more humiliating, my terrors ſtill more alarming, ſuch a mark of eſteem—may I [52] not call it ſo?—from Lord Orville, would have made me ample amends.

And indeed, my dear Sir, I require ſome con⯑ſolation 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 Duval, very abrupt⯑ly, aſked if I ſhould like to be married? and ad⯑ded, that Mr. Branghton had been propoſing a match for me with his ſon. Surpriſed, and, I muſt own, provoked, I aſſured her that, in think⯑ing of me, Mr. Branghton would very vainly loſe his time.

‘"Why,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"I have had grander views 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 to leave my fortune between you, and then, if you marry, you never need want for nothing."’

I begged her not to purſue the ſubject, as, I aſſured her, Mr. Branghton was totally diſagree⯑able to me: but ſhe continued her admonitions and reflections, with her uſual diſregard of what⯑ever I could anſwer. She charged me, very pe⯑remptorily, neither wholly to diſcourage, nor yet to accept Mr. Branghton's offer, till ſhe ſaw what could be done for me: the young man, ſhe ad⯑ded, had often intended to ſpeak to me himſelf, but, not well knowing how to introduce the ſub⯑ject, 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, as ſhe concluded, juſt as ſhe had begun, by ſaying, that I ſhould not have him, if I could do better.

[53] Nothing, however, ſhall perſuade me to liſten to any other perſon concerning this odious affair.

My ſecond cauſe of uneaſineſs ariſes, very un⯑expectedly, from M. Du Bois, who, to my infi⯑nite ſurpriſe, upon Madame Duval'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 ne⯑ver have preſumed to have acknowledged, had he not been informed that Madame Duval deſtined my hand to young Branghton,—a match which he cannot endure to think of. He beſeeches me, earneſtly, to pardon his temerity, profeſſes the moſt inviolable reſpect, and commits his fate to time, patience, and pity.

This conduct in M. Du Bois gives me real con⯑cern, 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 Duval of his letter, as I have reaſon to believe it would greatly diſpleaſe her.

LETTER VIII.
Evelina in continuation.

O SIR, how much uneaſineſs muſt I ſuffer, to counterbalance one ſhort morning of happineſs!

Yeſterday, the Branghtons propoſed a party to Kenſington-gardens, and, as uſual, Madame Du⯑val inſiſted upon my attendance.

We went in a hackney-coach to Piccadilly, and then had a walk through Hyde Park, which in any other company, would have been delightful. I [54] was much pleaſed with Kenſington-gardens, and think them infinitely preferable to thoſe of Vauxhall.

Young Branghton was extremely troubleſome; he inſiſted upon walking by my ſide, and talked with me almoſt by compulſion: however, my re⯑ſerve and coldneſs prevented his entering upon the hateful ſubject which Madame Duval had prepa⯑red me to apprehend. Once, indeed, when I was, accidentally, a few yards before the reſt, he ſaid, ‘"I ſuppoſe, Miſs, aunt has told you about you know what?—ha'n't ſhe, Miſs?"’—But I turned from him without making any anſwer. Neither Mr. Smith nor Mr. Brown were of the party; and poor M. Du Bois, when he found that I avoided him, looked ſo melancholy, that I was really 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 be⯑hind Miſs Branghton, 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.

Happily 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 com⯑pany with two footmen, whom the rain had dri⯑ven 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.

Fearing to be known, I whiſpered Miſs Brangh⯑ton not to ſpeak my name. Had I conſidered but [55] a moment, I ſhould have been ſenſible of the in⯑utility of ſuch a caution, ſince not one of the party call me by any other appellation than that of Couſin, or of Miſs; but I am perpetually in⯑volved in ſome diſtreſs or dilemma from my own heedleſſneſs.

This requeſt excited very ſtrongly her curioſi⯑ty; and ſhe attacked me with ſuch eagerneſs and bluntneſs of enquiry, that I could not avoid telling her the reaſon of my making it, and, conſequent⯑ly, that I was known to Lord Orville: an acknow⯑ledgment 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 an⯑ſwered; and they both became ſo very inquiſitive and earneſt, that they ſoon drew the attention of Madame Duval 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 Branghton, ‘"if I was Miſs, if I would not make free with his Lordſhip's coach to take me to town."’

‘"Why ay,"’ 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!"’

[56] ‘"I promiſe you,"’ ſaid Madame Duval, ‘"I'm glad you've thought of it, for I don't ſee no ob⯑jection;—ſo let's have the coach-man called."’

‘"Not for the world,"’ cried I, very much alarmed, ‘"indeed it is utterly impoſſible."’

‘"Why ſo?"’ demanded Mr. Branghton; ‘"pray where's the good of your knowing a Lord, if you're never the better for him?"’

‘"Ma foi, child,"’ ſaid Madame Duval, ‘"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 draw up, for I wants to ſpeak to him."’

The man ſtared, but did not move. ‘"Pray, pray, Madam,"’ ſaid I, ‘"pray, Mr. Branghton, 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 Duval, ‘"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 Duval, extremely irritated, ran out in the rain, and beckoned the coachman, who inſtantly obeyed her ſummons. Shocked 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 informati⯑on that his Lord was gone into Kenſington palace, and would not want him for an hour or two.

[57] ‘"Why then, friend,’ "ſaid Mr. Branghton, (for we were followed by all the party) ‘"where will be the great harm of your taking us to town?"’

‘"Beſides,"’ ſaid the ſon, ‘"I'll promiſe you a pot of beer for my own ſhare."’

Theſe ſpeeches had no other anſwer from the coachman than a loud laugh, which was echoed by the inſolent footmen. I rejoiced at their re⯑ſiſtance, though I was certain, that if their Lord had witneſſed their impertinence, they would have been inſtantly diſmiſſed his ſervice.

‘"Pardie,"’ cried Madame Duval, ‘"if I don't think all the footmen are the moſt impu⯑denteſt fellows in the kingdom! But I'll promiſe you I'll have your maſter told of your airs, ſo you'll get no good by 'em."’

‘"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 he ſhall know how ſaucy you've been, for this young lady knows him very well."’

‘"Ay, that ſhe does,"’ ſaid Miſs Polly; ‘"and ſhe's danced with him too.’

"Oh how I repented my fooliſh miſma⯑nagement! The men bit their lips, and looked at one another in ſome confuſion. This was per⯑ceived 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 Lord's permiſſion for our having the carriage.

This propoſal really made me tremble; and the Branghtons all hung back upon it: but Madame [58] Duval is never to be diſſuaded from a ſcheme ſhe has once formed. ‘"Do ſo,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"and give this child's compliments to your Maſter, and tell him, as we ha'n't no coach here, we ſhould be glad to go juſt as far as Holborn in his."’

‘"No, no, no,!"’ cried I; ‘"don't go,—I know nothing of his Lordſhip,—I ſend no meſ⯑ſage,—I have nothing to ſay to him!"’

The men, very much perplexed, could with difficulty reſtrain themſelves from reſuming their impertinent mirth. Madame Duval ſcolded me very angrily, and then deſired them to go direct⯑ly, ‘"Pray, then,"’ ſaid the coachman, ‘"what name is to be given to my Lord?"’

‘"Anville,"’ anſwered Madame Duval, ‘"tell him Miſs Anville wants the coach; the young la⯑dy he danced with once."’

I was really in an agony: but the winds could not have been more deaf to me, than thoſe to whom I pleaded! and therefore the footman, urg⯑ed by the repeated threats of Madame Duval, and perhaps recollecting the name himſelf, actu⯑ally 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 Duval and the Miſs Branghtons eagerly jumped into the coach, and deſired me to follow. I would rather have ſub⯑mitted to the ſevereſt puniſhment;—but all reſiſt⯑ance was vain.

During the whole ride, I ſaid not a word; how⯑ever, the reſt of the party were ſo talkative, that my ſilence was very immaterial. We ſtopped [59] at our lodgings; but when Madame Duval and I alighted, the Branghtons 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 kn [...]w, 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 uneaſi⯑neſs:—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 to 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 im⯑pertinent 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 Branghton called. He entered with a 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 a 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 leſt 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 a going up Snow-Hill, plump [60] we comes againſt a cart, with ſuch a jog it almoſt pulled the coach-wheel off; however, that i'n't the worſt, for as I went to open the door in a hurry, a thinking the coach would be broke down, as ill-luck would 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, have given me any concern for him: however, he proceeded with his account, for I was too much confounded to in⯑terrupt him.

‘"Goodneſs, Miſs, we were in ſuch a ſtew, us, and the ſervants, and all, as you can't think, for beſides the glaſs being broke, the coachman ſaid how the coach would'n't be ſafe to go back to Kenſington. So we did n't know what to do; however, the footmen ſaid they'd go and tell his Lordſhip what had happened. So then father grew quite uneaſy, like, for fear of his Lord⯑ſhip's taking offence, and prejudicing us in our buſineſs: ſo he ſaid I ſhould go this morning and aſk his pardon, 'cauſe of having broke the glaſs. So then I aſked the footman the direction, and they told me he lived in Berkley-ſquare; ſo this morning I went, and I ſoon found out the houſe."’

‘"You did!"’ cried I, quite out of breath with apprehenſion.

‘"Yes, Miſs, and 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, a thinking what I ſhould ſay to him; however, the ſervants had no mind I ſhould ſee [61] him, for they told me he was buſy, but I might leave my meſſage. So I was juſt coming away, when I bethought myſelf to ſay I come from you."’

‘"From me!—"’

‘"Yes, Miſs,—for you know why ſhould I have ſuch a long walk as that for nothing? So I ſays to the porter, ſays I, tell his Lordſhip, ſays I, one wants to ſpeak to him as comes from one Miſs Anville, ſays I."’

‘"Good God,"’ cried I, ‘"and by what au⯑thority 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 all turned out. So then they made way for me, and ſaid his Lordſhip would ſee me di⯑rectly; 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, he'll be ſo proud he'll hardly let me ſpeak; but he's no more proud than I am, and he was as civil at if I'd been a lord myſelf. So then I ſaid, I ho⯑ped he would n't take it amiſs about the glaſs, for it was quite an accident: but he bid me not men⯑tion it, for it did n't ſignify. And then he ſaid he hoped you got ſafe home, and was n't frightened; and ſo I ſaid yes, and I gave your duty to him."’

‘"My duty to him!"’ exclaimed I,—‘"and who gave you leave?—who deſired you?"’

‘"O, I did it 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 go⯑ing out of town to-morrow evening, and that his ſiſter was ſoon to be married, and that he was a ordering a heap of things for that; ſo it come 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 i'n't engaged particular⯑ly, [62] my father is a ſilverſmith, and he'd be very proud to ſerve you, ſays I, and Miſs Anville, as danced with you, is his couſin, and ſhe's my cou⯑ſin too, and ſhe'd be very much obligated to you, I'm ſure."’

‘"You'll drive me wild,"’ (cried I, ſtarting from my ſeat) ‘"you have done me an irrepara⯑ble 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: a 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 bluſh to proceed—I fear your diſapprobation, yet I ſhould not be conſcious of having merited it, but that the repug⯑nance 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 have firſt written an account of this tranſaction to Miſs Mirvan?—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 diſplea⯑ſure, than unworthily betray your generous confi⯑dence.

You are now probably prepared for what fol⯑lows—which is a letter,—a haſty letter, that, in the height of my agitation, I wrote to Lord Orville.

I applied to the maid of the houſe to get this note conveyed to Berkeley-ſquare; but ſcarce had I parted with it, ere I regretted having writ⯑ten at all, and I was flying down ſtairs to recover it, when the voice of Sir Clement Willoughby ſtopped me. As Madame Duval had ordered we ſhould be denied to him, I was obliged to return up ſtairs; and after he was gone, my appli⯑cation 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. Whe⯑ther [64] or not he will take the trouble to ſend any;—or whether he will condeſcend to call;—or whether the affair will reſt as it is, I know not;—but, in being ignorant, am moſt cruelly anxi⯑ous.

LETTER IX.
Evelina in continuation.

YOU may now, my dear Sir, ſend Mrs. Clin⯑ton for your Evelina with as much ſpeed as ſhe can conveniently make the journey, for no fur⯑ther oppoſition will be made to her leaving this town; happy had it perhaps been for her had ſhe never entered it!

This morning Madame Duval deſired me to go to Snow-hill, with an invitation to the Branghtons and Mr. Smith, to ſpend the evening with her: and ſhe deſired M. Du Bois, who breakfaſted with us, to accompany me. I was very unwil⯑ling to obey her, as I neither wiſhed to walk with M. Du Bois, nor yet to meet young Branghton. And, indeed, another, a yet more powerful rea⯑ſon, added to my reluctance,—for I thought it poſſible that Lord Orville might ſend ſome an⯑ſwer, or perhaps might call, during my ab⯑ſence; however, I did not dare diſpute her com⯑mands.

Poor M. Du Bois 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 per⯑ceived [65] me, addreſſed himſelf to Miſs Branghton, whom he entertained with all the gallantry in his power. I rejoice to find that my conduct at the Hampſtead ball has had ſo good an effect. But young Branghton was extremely troubleſome, he repeatedly laughed in my face, and looked ſo im⯑pertinently ſignificant, that I was obliged to give up my reſerve to M. Du Bois, and enter into converſation with him, merely to avoid ſuch bold⯑neſs.

‘"Miſs,"’ ſaid Mr. Branghton, ‘"I'm ſorry to hear from my ſon that you was n't pleaſed with what we did about that Lord Orville; but I ſhould like to know what it was you found fault with, for we did all for the beſt."’

‘"Goodneſs!"’ cried the ſon, ‘"why if you'd ſeen Miſs, you'd have been ſurpriſed,—ſhe went out of the room quite in a huff, like."’

‘"It is too late, now,"’ ſaid I, ‘"to reaſon up⯑on 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 Duval 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've 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. Branghton 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 M. Du Bois, who was now more lively than I had ever before [66] ſeen him; for, moſt unfortunately, he miſinter⯑preted 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 enquired for them, and read the names of Lord Orville and Sir Clement Wil⯑loughby. I by no means regretted that I miſſed ſeeing the latter, but perhaps I may all my life regret that I miſſed ſeeing the former, for proba⯑bly he has now left town,—and I may ſee him no more!

‘"My goodneſs!"’ cried young Branghton, rudely looking over me, ‘"only think of that Lord's coming all this way! It's my belief he'd got ſome order ready for father, and ſo he'd a 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 Branghton, ‘"he ſaw you and I a-walking up Holborn Hill!"’

‘"God forbid!"’ cried I, impatiently; and too much chagrined to bear with any more of his remarks, I ran up ſtairs: but I heard him ſay to M. Du Bois, ‘"Miſs is ſo uppiſh this morning, that I think I had better not ſpeak to her again."’

I wiſh M. Du Bois had taken the ſame reſolu⯑tion; but he choſe to follow me into the dining⯑room, which we found empty.

‘"Vous ne l'aimez donc pas ce garcon, Made⯑moiſelle!"’ cried he.

‘"Me!"’ cried I, ‘"no, I deteſt him!"’ for I was quite ſick at heart.

‘"Ah, tu me rends la vie!"’ cried he, and ſlinging himſelf at my feet, he had juſt caught [67] my hand, as the door was opened by Madame Duval.

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 M. Du Bois, ſhe began, in French, an attack which her extreme wrath and wonderful volubili⯑ty almoſt rendered unintelligible; yet I under⯑ſtood but too much, ſince her reproaches convin⯑ced 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, deſign⯑ing girl, and proteſted ſhe would neither take me to Paris, nor any more intereſt herſelf in my con⯑cerns, unleſs I would inſtantly agree to marry young Branghton.

Frightened as I had been at her vehemence, this propoſal reſtored all my courage; and I frank⯑ly 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 Branghtons this af⯑ternoon: indeed, I never wiſh to ſee them again. I am ſorry, however innocently, that I have diſ⯑pleaſed Madame Duval, 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. Had I but ſeen Lord Orville, I ſhould regret no⯑thing: 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 [68] flatter 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 bleſ⯑ſing, and to owe all my joy, all my happineſs to your kindneſs.

LETTER X.
Mr. Villars to Evelina.

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 par⯑don me that I rob them of the viſit you purpoſed to make them before your return to Berry Hill, for I find my fortitude unequal to a longer ſepa⯑ration.

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 re⯑ſerve my remarks for our future converſations. Haſten, then, to the ſpot of thy nativity, the abode of thy youth, where never yet care or ſor⯑row had power to annoy thee;—O that they might ever be baniſhed this peaceful dwel⯑ling!

[69] Adieu, my deareſt Evelina! I pray but that thy ſatisfaction at our approaching meeting, may bear any compariſon with mine!

LETTER XI.
Evelina to Miſs Mirvan.

MY ſweet Maria 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 will but ill expreſs the feelings of the heart which in⯑dites it.

When I wrote to you laſt Friday, I was in 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 orphan was bleſt with, requiring my immediate attendance at Ber⯑ry 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,—oh Maria! though I wiſhed to leave London, the gratification of my wiſh afforded me no happineſs! and though I felt an impatience inexpreſſible to return hither, no words, no language can explain the heavineſs [70] of heart with which I made the journey. I be⯑lieve you would hardly have known me;—in⯑deed, I hardly know myſelf. Perhaps had I firſt ſeen you, in your kind and ſympathiſing 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 Duval a let⯑ter from Mr. Villars, which requeſted her leave for my return, and indeed it was very readily accorded: yet, when ſhe found, by my wil⯑lingneſs to quit town, that M. Du Bois was re⯑ally indifferent to me, ſhe ſomewhat ſoftened in my favour, and 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 Branghtons 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 ſuf⯑fer!

So great was the depreſſion of my ſpirits up⯑on the road, that it was with 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 chaiſe ſtopped at this place,—how did my heart throb with joy! and when, through the window, I beheld the deareſt, the moſt ve⯑nearble of men, with uplifted hands, returning, as I doubt not, thanks for my ſafe arrival,—good God! I thought it would have burſt my boſom!—I opened the chaiſe-door myſelf, I [71] 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 he, now raiſing his eyes in thankfulneſs towards heaven, now bowing down his reverend head, and folding me in his arms, could ſcarce articulate the bleſſings with which his kind and benevolent heart overflowed.

O Miſs Mirvan, to be ſo beloved by the beſt of men,—ſhould I not be happy?—Should I have one wiſh ſave that of meriting his good⯑neſs?—Yet think me not ungrateful; indeed I am not, although the internal ſadneſs of my mind unfits me, at preſent, for enjoying as I ought, the bounties of Providence.

I cannot journaliſe; cannot arrange my ideas into order.

How little has ſituation to do with happi⯑neſs! I had flattered myſelf that, when reſtor⯑ed to Berry Hill, I ſhould be reſtored to tran⯑quility: far otherwiſe have I found it, for never yet had tranquility and Evelina ſo little inter⯑courſe.

I bluſh for what I have written: Can you, Maria, forgive my gravity? but I reſtrain it 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.

Adieu, my dear Miſs Mirvan.

Yet one thing I muſt add; do not let the ſeriouſneſs of this letter deceive you: do not im⯑pute [72] 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,

P.S. You will make my excuſes to the ho⯑noured Lady Howard, and to your dear mo⯑ther.

LETTER XII.
Evelina in continuation.

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 ari⯑ſen 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.

[73] Oh, Miſs Mirvan, could you ever have believ⯑ed, that one who ſeemed formed as a pattern for his fellow-creatures, as a model of perfection,—one whoſe elegance ſurpaſſed all deſcription,—whoſe ſweetneſs of manners diſgraced all compari⯑ſon,—Oh, Miſs Mirvan, 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,—ne⯑ver 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 in ſuſpence.

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.

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 it con⯑tained the avowal of ſentiments which might, in⯑deed, 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. Unſuſpi⯑cious of any impropriety from Lord Orville, I perceived not immediately the impertinence it im⯑plied,—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 room, 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 [75] ſame letter,—I could not find one ſentence that I could look at 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 pu⯑niſh the error? If he was offended, could he not have been ſilent? If he thought my letter ill⯑judged, ſhould he not have pitied my ignorance? have conſidered my youth, and allowed for my inexperience.

Oh Maria, how have I been deceived in this man! Words have no power to tell the high opi⯑nion I had of him; to that was owing the unfor⯑tunate ſolicitude which prompted my writing,—a ſolicitude I muſt for ever repent!

Yet perhaps I have rather reaſon to rejoice than to grieve, ſince this affair has ſhewn me his real diſpoſition, and removed that partiality, which, covering his every imperfection, left only his vir⯑tues and good qualities expoſed to view. Had the deception continued much longer, had my mind re⯑ceived any additional prejudice in his favour, who knows whither 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 fain encourage more chearful thoughts, fain drive from my mind the melancholy that has taken poſſeſſion of it,—but I cannot ſucceed; for, added to the humiliating feelings which ſo power⯑fully oppreſs me, I have yet another cauſe of con⯑cern;—alas, my dear Maria, I have broken the tranquility of the beſt of men!

[76] I have never had the courage to ſhew him this cruel letter: I could not bear ſo greatly to depre⯑ciate in his opinion, one whom I had, with infinite anxiety, raiſed in it 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, ſince I know not how to account for a gravity which not all my endeavours can entirely hide or re⯑preſs.

My greateſt apprehenſions is, leſt he ſhould imagine that my reſidence in London has given me a diſtaſte to the country. Every body 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. Villars, which gliſten with affectionate concern.

This morning, in ſpeaking of my London ex⯑pedition, 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 panegyric, extolling, in ſtrong terms, his manly and honou⯑rable behaviour in regard to the Marybone ad⯑venture. My cheeks glowed with indignation every word 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 undeſerved praiſes 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 un⯑grateful indolence, give way to a ſadneſs which [77] I find infectious to him who merits the moſt chearful exertion of my ſpirits. I am thankful that he has forborne 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!

LETTER XIII.
Evelina in continuation.

I MUST own myſelf ſomewhat diſtreſſed how to anſwer your raillery: yet believe me, my dear Maria, 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 it ſhould make me ſo unhappy? And can you, acquainted as you are with the high opinion I entertained of Lord Or⯑ville, can you wonder that ſo great a diſappoint⯑ment in his character ſhould affect me? indeed, had ſo ſtrange a letter been 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 [78] 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 re⯑ſpectful that could be written, the clandeſtine air given to it, by his propoſal of ſending his ſer⯑vant 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 blameably, 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 correſpon⯑dence with him; and could Lord Orville indeed believe I had ſuch a deſign? believe me ſo for⯑ward, 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. What indeed, could I have ſaid? it would have been a conde⯑ſcenſion very unmerited, to have taken any, the leaſt notice of ſuch a letter.

Never ſhall I ceaſe to wonder how he could write it. Oh, Maria, what, what could induce him ſo cauſeleſsly to wound and affront one who would ſooner have died than wilfully offend 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 obſerv⯑ed with my beloved Mr. Villars; I know not what bewitched me, but I felt, at firſt, a repug⯑nance to publiſhing this affair that I could not ſur⯑mount, [79] —and now, I am aſhamed of confeſſing that I have any thing to confeſs! Yet I deſerve to be puniſhed for the falſe delicacy which occaſi⯑oned my ſilence; ſince, if Lord Orville him⯑ſelf was contented to forfeit his character, was it for me, almoſt at the expence 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, teaze me about my gravity, and torment Mr. Villars 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 exci⯑ting 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. Villars to take me with her, for the recovery of my health. He ſeemed very much diſtreſſed whether to conſent or refuſe; but I, without any heſitation, warmly oppoſed the ſcheme, proteſting my health could no where be better than in this pure air. He had the goodneſs to thank me for this readineſs to ſtay with him: but he is all goodneſs! Oh that it 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 infir⯑mities!

Never do I wiſh to be again ſeparated from him. If here I am grave, elſewhere I ſhould be [80] unhappy. In his preſence, with a very little ex⯑ertion, all the chearfulneſs of my diſpoſition ſeems ready to return; the benevolence of his counte⯑nance reanimates, the harmony of his temper com⯑poſes, the purity of his character edifies me! I owe to him every thing; and, far from finding my debt of gratitude a weight, the firſt pride, 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 o'er his locks, would have ſhone forth among his fellow-crea⯑tures, with the ſame brightneſs of worth which dignifies my honoured Mr. Villars; 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 luſtre 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 diſ⯑guſt 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 pre⯑ſence, perhaps, might baniſh my reſentment, and I might forget his ill conduct,—for oh, Maria!—I ſhould not know how to ſee Lord Orville—and to think of diſpleaſure!

As a ſiſter I loved him,—I could have entruſt⯑ed him with every thought of my heart, had he [81] deigned to wiſh my confidence; ſo ſteady did I think his honour, ſo feminine his delicacy, and ſo amiable his nature! I have a thouſand times ima⯑gined that the whole ſtudy of his life, and whole purport of his reflections, tended ſolely to the good and happineſs of others:—but I will talk,—write,—think of him no more!

LETTER XIV.
Evelina in continuation.

YOU complain of my ſilence, my dear Miſs Mirvan,—but what have I to write? Narrative does not offer, nor does a lively imagination ſup⯑ply the deficiency. I have, however, at preſent, ſufficient matter for a letter, in relating a conver⯑ſation I had yeſterday with Mr. Villars.

Our breakfaſt had been the moſt chearful we have had ſince my return hither; and, when it was over, he did not, as uſual, retire to his ſtudy, but continued to converſe with me while I work⯑ed. 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, [82] and, leaning my arms on the table, gave way to a train of diſagreeable reflections, which, burſt⯑ing 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. Vil⯑lars, who was earneſtly regarding me, ‘"Is Far⯑mer Smith gone, Sir?"’ cried I, haſtily riſing, and ſnatching up my work.

‘"Don't let me diſturb you,"’ ſaid he, grave⯑ly; ‘"I will go again to my ſtudy."’

‘"Will you, Sir?—I was in hopes you were coming to ſit here."’

‘"In hopes!—and why, Evelina, ſhould you hope it?"’

This queſtion was ſo unexpected, that I knew not how to anſwer it; but, as I ſaw he was mov⯑ing away, I followed, and begged him to re⯑turn.

‘"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 he⯑ſitated, he retired. My heart was with him, but I had not the courage to follow. The idea of an explanation, brought on in ſo ſeri⯑ous a manner, frightened me. I recollected the ſuſpicion you had drawn from my uneaſineſs, and I feared that he might make a ſimilar interpre⯑tation.

Solitary and thoughtful, I paſſed the reſt of the morning in my own room. At dinner I a⯑gain attempted to be chearful; but Mr. Villars 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 this ſituation. All [83] my thoughts were directed to conſidering how I might diſpel the doubts which I apprehended Mr. Villars 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 in⯑tent was I upon the ſubject which occupied me, that the ſtrange appearance of my unuſual in⯑activity, and extreme thoughtfulneſs, never oc⯑curred to me. But when, at laſt, I recollected myſelf, and turned round, I ſaw that Mr. Vil⯑lars had parted with his book, and 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 ſaid, ‘"Yes, my child;—a book that both afflicts and perplex⯑es me!"’

He means me, thought I; and therefore I made no anſwer.

‘"What if we read it together?"’ continu⯑ed he, ‘"will you aſſiſt me to clear its obſcur⯑ity?"’

I knew not what to ſay, but I ſighed, invo⯑luntarily, from the bottom of my heart. He roſe, and, approaching me, ſaid, with emotion, ‘"My child, I can no longer be a ſilent wit⯑neſs of thy ſorrow,—is not thy ſorrow my ſor⯑row?—and ought I to be a ſtranger to the cauſe, when I ſo deeply ſympathiſe in the ef⯑fect?"’

‘"Cauſe, Sir,"’ cried I, greatly alarmed,—‘"what cauſe?—I don't know, I can't tell,—I—"’

‘"Fear not,"’ ſaid he, kindly, ‘"to unbo⯑ſom thyſelf to me, my deareſt Evelina; open to me thy whole heart,—it can have no feelings [84] 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, 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 ſup⯑poſe—"’ I ſtopped abruptly; for I then recol⯑lected, I was acknowledging ſomething was to be gueſſed: however, he noticed not my miſ⯑take.

‘"At leaſt let me try,"’ anſwered he, mild⯑ly; ‘"perhaps I may be a better diviner than you imagine: if I gueſs every thing that is pro⯑bable, ſurely I muſt approach near the real rea⯑ſon. 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 perſua⯑ſion."’

‘"I bluſh, indeed,"’ cried I, ‘"to recollect my earneſtneſs;—but I have been my own pu⯑niſher!"’

‘"It is too late, now,"’ anſwered he, ‘"to re⯑flect upon this ſubject; let us endeavour to a⯑void repentance for the time to come, and we [85] ſhall not have erred without reaping ſome in⯑ſtruction."’ 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 ſo⯑ciety, 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 ano⯑ther 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 Evelina is returned,—I have loſt my child!"’

‘"No, Sir, no,"’ cried I, inexpreſſibly ſhock⯑ed, ‘"ſhe is more yours than ever! Without you, the world would be a deſart to her, and life a burthen;—forgive her then, and—if you can,—condeſcend to be, once more, the confident 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 forbore to queſtion you, for I hoped that time, and abſence from whatever excited your uneaſi⯑neſs, [86] might beſt operate in ſilence: but, alas! your affliction ſeems only to augment,—your health declines,—your look alters.—Oh, Evelina, 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 own room,—we both want com⯑poſure, 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 to 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, an hereditary right to every thing 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 audi⯑ble, ‘"little as I deſerve,—unable as I am to re⯑pay, 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, Evelina, and take comfort, I charge thee!"’

[87] ‘"Say then,"’ cried I, kneeling at his feet, ‘"ſay then that you forgive me! that you par⯑don my reſerve,—that you will again ſuffer me to tell you my moſt ſecret thoughts, and rely up⯑on my promiſe never more to forfeit your con⯑fidence!—my father!—my protector!—my ever honoured,—ever loved,—my beſt and only friend!—ſay you forgive your Evelina, and ſhe will ſtudy better to deſerve your goodneſs!"’

He raiſed, he embraced me; he called me his ſole joy, his only earthly hope, and the child of his boſom! He folded me to his heart, and, while I wept from the fulneſs 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, we were again quietly and compoſedly ſeated by each other, and Mr. Vil⯑lars waited for the explanation I had begged him to hear, I found myſelf extremely embarraſſed 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 ſpeak⯑ing 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 [88] their good offices? Theſe are circumſtances that afford but melancholy reflections to young minds; and the affectionate diſpoſition of my Evelina, 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 you would ſay,"’ cried I, haſt⯑ily, ‘"and I have long feared where your ſuſpi⯑cions would fall; but indeed, Sir, you are miſ⯑taken; I hate Lord Orville,—he is the laſt man in the world in whoſe favour I ſhould be preju⯑diced."’

I ſtopped; for Mr. Villars looked at me with ſuch infinite ſurpriſe, that my own warmth made me bluſh. ‘"You hate Lord Orville!"’ re⯑peated 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 ere he ſpoke; and then ſaid, ‘"I am ſo much aſtoniſhed, that I know not what I read. When had you this let⯑ter?"’

I told him. Again he read it; and, after con⯑ſidering its contents ſome time, ſaid, ‘"I can form but one conjecture concerning this moſt ex⯑traordinary performance: he muſt certainly have been intoxicated when he wrote it."’

‘"Lord Orville intoxicated!"’ repeated I; ‘"once I thought him a ſtranger to all intempe⯑rance, [89] —but it is very poſſible, for I can believe any thing now."’

‘"That a man who had behaved with ſo ſtrict a regard to delicacy,"’ continued Mr. Villars, ‘"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 incloſed 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 mea⯑ſure, of clearing his own. He could not well have read this letter the next morning, without being ſenſible of the impropriety of having writ⯑ten it."’

Oh Maria! why had not I 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 intem⯑perance would have levelled him with the reſt of his imperfect race; yet, my humbled pride might have been conſoled by his acknowledg⯑ments.

But why ſhould I allow myſelf to be humbled by a man who can ſuffer his reaſon to be thus ab⯑jectly debaſed, when I am exalted by one who knows no vice, and ſcarcely a 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 indigna⯑tion,’ "ſaid he, ‘is the reſult of virtue; you fan⯑cied Lord Orville was without fault—he had the appearance of infinite worthineſs, and you ſuppo⯑ſed [90] his character accorded with his 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 in⯑nocence which hid its approach."’

I will bid theſe words dwell ever in my memo⯑ry, and they ſhall chear, comfort, and enliven me! This converſation, though extremely af⯑fecting to me at the time it paſſed, has relieved my mind from much anxiety. Concealment, my dear Maria, is the foe of tranquility: however I may err in future, I will never be diſingenu⯑ous in acknowledging my errors. To you, and to Mr. Villars, I vow an unremitting confi⯑dence.

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 ſend you, ſoon, a more chearful 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 ho⯑nour?

LETTER XV.
Evelina in continuation.

YOU will be again ſurpriſed, my dear Maria, at ſeeing whence I date my letter: but I have been very ill, and Mr. Villars was ſo much alarmed, that he not only inſiſted upon my accompanying [91] 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 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 reverend Mr. Villars: it was not like that parting which, laſt April, preceded my journey to Howard Grove, when, all expectati⯑on and hope, tho' 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 I 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, the re-eſtabliſhment of my health. Had it been to have ſeen my ſweet Maria, or her dear mo⯑ther, I ſhould not have repined.

Mrs. Selwyn is very kind and attentive to me. She is extremely clever; her underſtanding, in⯑deed, may be called maſculine; but, unfortu⯑nately, 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 gentle⯑neſs; a virtue which, nevertheleſs, ſeems ſo eſ⯑ſential 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. Villars, who has often [92] been diſguſted at her unmerciful propenſity to ſa⯑tire: 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 ut⯑moſt partiality could deſire.

I will continue to write to you, my dear Miſs Mirvan, with as much conſtancy as if I had no other correſpondent; tho', 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. Villars: 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.

LETTER XVI.
Evelina to the Rev. Mr. Villars.

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 in⯑commoded by three gentlemen, who were ſaun⯑tering 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, al⯑ternately [93] looking under my hat, and whiſpering one another. Mrs. Selwyn aſſumed an air of un⯑common 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 ſor⯑ry 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 ano⯑ther, advancing to me with a freedom that made me ſtart, ſaid, ‘"By my ſoul, I did not know you!—but I am ſure I cannot be miſtaken;—had not I the honour of ſeeing you, once, at the Pantheon?"’

I then recollected the nobleman who, at that place, had ſo much embarraſſed me. I courtſied 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 know I have been in ſearch of you this age? I could nei⯑ther find you out, nor hear of you; not a crea⯑ture could inform me what was become of you. I cannot imagine where you could be immured. I went to two or three public places every night, in hopes of meeting you. Pray did you leave town?"’

‘"Yes, my Lord."’

[94] ‘"So early in the ſeaſon!—what could poſſibly induce you to go before the birth-day?"’

‘"I had nothing, my Lord, to do with the birth-day."’

‘"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. Selwin, who had hitherto liſtened in ſi⯑lent contempt, ‘"that you ſhall ſee ſuch a beauti⯑ful 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 reflect⯑ing 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 opportun [...]ty of indulg⯑ing her humour.

‘"As to places,"’ returned he, totally unmov⯑ed, ‘"I am ſo indifferent to them, that the devil take me, if I care which way I go! objects, in⯑deed, I am not ſo eaſy about; and therefore I ex⯑pect [95] 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 com⯑pany of the upper regions?"’

‘"What do you do with yourſelf this even⯑ing?"’ ſaid his Lordſhip, turning to me.

‘"I ſhall be at home, my Lord."’

‘"O, a-propos—where are you?"’

‘"Young ladies, my Lord,"’ ſaid Mrs. Selwyn, ‘"are no where."’

‘"Prithee,"’ whiſpered his Lordſhip, ‘"is that queer woman your mother?"’

Good Heavens, Sir, what words for ſuch a queſtion!

‘"No, my Lord."’

‘"Your maiden aunt, 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 folks way. Shall you be at the aſſemb⯑ly?"’

‘"I believe not, my Lord."’

‘"No!—why then how in the world can you contrive to paſs your time?"’

‘"In a manner that your Lordſhip will think very extraordinary,"’ cried Mrs. Selwyn; ‘"for the young lady reads."’

‘"Ha, ha, ha! Egad, my Lord,"’ cried the facetious companion, ‘"you are got into bad hands"’

‘"You had better, Madam,"’ anſwered he, [96] ‘"attack Jack Coverley, here, for you will make nothing of me."’

‘"Of you, my Lord!"’ cried ſhe; ‘"Heaven forbid I ſhould ever entertain ſo idle an expectati⯑on! 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."’

‘"Do pray, Ma'am,"’ cried he, ‘"turn to Jack Coverley; he's the very man for you;—he'd be a wit himſelf if he was n't too modeſt."’

‘"Prithee, my Lord, be quiet,"’ returned the other; ‘if the Lady is contented 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, drily, ‘"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 a word can I ſpeak for that wo⯑man,"’ ſaid he, in a low voice; ‘"do, prithee, Jack, take her in hand."’

‘"Excuſe me, my Lord!"’ anſwered Mr. Coverley.

‘"When ſhall I ſee you again?"’ continued his Lordſhip; ‘"do you go to the pump-room every morning?"’

[97] ‘"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 how⯑ever, 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 her very lit⯑tle ſatisfaction, as I was ignorant even of his name. But, in the afternoon, Mr. Ridgeway, the apo⯑thecary, gave us very ample information.

As his perſon was eaſily deſcribed, for he is remarkably tall, Mr. Ridgeway told us he was Lord Merton, a nobleman but lately come to his title, though he had already diſſipated more than half his fortune: a profeſſed admirer of beauty, but a man of moſt licentious character: that among men, his companions conſiſted chiefly of gamblers and jockies, and among women, he was rarely admitted.

‘"Well, Miſs Anville,"’ ſaid Mrs. Selwyn, ‘"I am glad I was not more civil to him. You may depend upon me for keeping him at a diſ⯑tance."’

‘"O, Madam,"’ ſaid Mr. Ridgeway, ‘"he may now be admitted any where, for he is going to reform."’

‘"Has he, under that notion, perſuaded any fool to marry him?"’

[98] ‘"Not yet, Madam, but a marriage is expect⯑ed to take place ſhortly: it has been ſome time in agitation, but the friends of the Lady have ob⯑liged her to wait till ſhe is of age: however, her brother, who has chiefly oppoſed 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 Larpent, 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 re⯑lation 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, as 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 in⯑conveniency of being ſo diſtant from the pump⯑room made Mrs. Selwyn decline her civility.

Oh that the firſt meeting was over!—or that I could quit Briſtol without ſeeing him!—inexpreſ⯑ſibly do I dread an interview: ſhould the ſame impertinent freedom be expreſſed by his looks, which dictated his cruel letter, I ſhall not know how to endure either him or myſelf. Had I but returned it, I ſhould be eaſier, becauſe my ſenti⯑ments of it would then be known to him; but [99] now, he can only gather them from my behavi⯑our, and I tremble leſt he ſhould miſtake my in⯑dignation for confuſion!—leſt he ſhould miſcon⯑ſtrue my reſerve into embarraſſment!—for how, my deareſt Sir, how ſhall I be able totally to di⯑veſt 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 think of the letter at the moment of our meeting, and he will, pro⯑bably, 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 would he ſee how much he had miſ⯑taken my diſpoſition when he imagined them my due.

There was a time, when the very idea that ſuch a man as Lord Merton would ever be con⯑nected with Lord Orville, would have both ſurpriſed and ſhocked me, and even yet I am pleaſed to hear of his repugnance to the mar⯑riage.

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 im⯑portunate in gallantry to another woman! What a world is this we live in! how corrupt, how de⯑generate! well might I be contented 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!

LETTER XVII.
Evelina in continuation.

OH Sir, Lord Orville is ſtill himſelf! ſtill, what from the moment I beheld, I believed him to be, all that was amiable in man! and your hap⯑py Evelina, reſtored at once to ſpirits and tran⯑quility, is no longer ſunk in her own opinion, nor diſcontented with the world;—no longer, with dejected eyes, ſees the proſpect of paſſing her fu⯑ture days in ſadneſs, doubt, and ſuſpicion!—with revived courage ſhe now looks forward, and ex⯑pects to meet with goodneſs, even among man⯑kind;—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 intemperance 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 conti⯑nue. 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 reliev⯑ed from my perturbation, when I ſaw Mrs. Beau⯑mont was alone. We ſat with her for, I believe, [101] an hour without interruption, and then we ſaw a phaeton drive up to the gate, and a lady and gen⯑tleman alight from it.

They entered the parlour with the eaſe of peo⯑ple who were at home. The gentleman, I ſoon ſaw, 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 ſur⯑priſe 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 win⯑dow, without ſpeaking to any body.

Mean time, the lady, who ſeemed very young, hobbling rather than walking into the room, made a paſſing courtſie to Mrs. Beaumont, ſaying, ‘"How are you, Ma'am?"’ and then, without noticing any body 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, Ma'am, the roads are ſo monſtrous duſty,—you can't imagine how troubleſome the duſt is to one's eyes!—and the ſun, too, is mon⯑ſtrous diſagreeable!—I dare ſay I ſhall be ſo tanned I ſha'n'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 has ſo many excellencies to counterbalance par⯑tial [102] inconveniencies, that a little blame will not in⯑jure 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, Ma'am. Is he rode out this morn⯑ing?"’

I then found, what I had before ſuſpected, that this Lady was Lord Orville's ſiſter: how ſtrange, that ſuch near relations 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 faſt,"’ ſaid Lady Louiſa, ‘"that perhaps we paſſed him. He frighted me out of my ſenſes; I declare my head is quite giddy. Do you know, Ma'am, 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."’

‘"O 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. Beau⯑mont.

[103] ‘"Lord, Ma'am, you frighten me!"’ cried Lady Louiſa; and then turning to Lord Merton, ‘"why now, you wicked creature, you, did not you 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 Anville."’

Lady Louiſa then, raiſing her head from her hand, on which it had leant, 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 ſtrole in the garden?"’

‘"Me, Ma'am!—I declare I can't ſtir a ſtep; the heat is ſo exceſſive, it would kill me. I'm half dead with it already; beſides, I ſhall have no time to dreſs. Will any body be here to day, Ma'am?"’

‘"I believe not, unleſs Lord Merton will fa⯑vour us with his company."’

‘"With great pleaſure, Madam."’

‘"Well, I declare you don't deſerve to be aſk⯑ed,"’ cried Lady Louiſa, ‘"you wicked creature, you!—I muſt tell you one thing, Ma'am,—you can't think how abominable he was! do you know we met Mr. Lovel in his new phaeton, and my Lord was ſo cruel as to drive againſt it?—we real⯑ly 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.

[104] Do you remember a pretty but affected young la⯑dy 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 Lar⯑pent is the very perſon. I can now account for the piqued manner of her ſpeaking to Lord Mer⯑ton that evening, and I can now account for the air of diſpleaſure with which Lord Orville mark⯑ed the undue attention of his future brother-in-law to me.

We had not walked long, ere, at a diſtance, I perceived Lord Orville, who ſeemed juſt diſ⯑mounted from his horſe, enter the garden, All my perturbation returned at the ſight of him!—yet I endeavoured to repreſs every feel⯑ing but reſentment. As he approached us, he bowed to the whole party; but I turned away my head, to avoid taking any ſhare in his civi⯑lity. Addreſſing himſelf immediately to Mrs. Beaumont, he was beginning to enquire after his ſiſter, but upon ſeeing my face, he ſudden⯑ly exclaimed ‘"Miſs Anville!—"’ 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 charm⯑ing!—with a ſmile that indicated pleaſure, and eyes that ſparkled with delight! on my ſide was all the conſciouſneſs, for by him, I really believe, the letter was, at that moment, entirely forgot⯑ten.

With what politeneſs did he addreſs me! with what ſweetneſs did he look at me! the very tone of his voice ſeemed flattering! he congra⯑tulated himſelf upon his good fortune in meet⯑ing with me,—hoped I ſhould ſpend ſome time at Briſtol, and enquired, even with anxiety en⯑quired, [105] 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, or 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 had ſo cauſeleſsly given me: for ſurely he was not ſo wholly loſt to reaſon, as to 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, ne⯑ceſſity of ſhewing my diſpleaſure, I yet almoſt hated myſelf for receiving his politeneſs ſo un⯑graciouſly.

When we were taking leave, my eyes accident⯑ally meeting his, I could not but obſerve that his gravity equalled my own, for it had entirely tak⯑en place of the ſmiles and good-humour with which he had met me.

[106] ‘"I am afraid this young Lady,"’ ſaid Mrs. Beaumont, ‘"is too weak for another long walk till ſhe is again reſted."’

‘"If the Ladies will truſt to my driving,"’ ſaid Lord Orville, ‘"and are not afraid of a phaeton, 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 chuſe to venture in a phaeton with a young man while that is the caſe."’

‘"O,"’ cried Mrs. Beaumont, ‘"you need not be afraid of my Lord Orville, for he is remark⯑ably careful."’

‘"Well, Miſs Anville,"’ 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 trou⯑ble."’

Lord Orville brightening at theſe words, came forward, and preſſed his offer in a manner not to be denied;—ſo the phaeton was ordered! And in⯑deed, my dear Sir,—I know not how it was,—but, from that moment, my coldneſs and reſerve inſenſibly wore away! You muſt not be angry;—it was my intention, nay, my endeavour, to ſup⯑port 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 the ever-to-be regretted letter, your Evelina would not have forfeited her title to your eſteem, by contentedly ſubmitting to be treat⯑ed with indignity.

[107] We continued in the garden till the phaeton was ready. When we parted from Mrs. Beau⯑mont, ſhe repeated her invitation to Mrs. Selwyn to accept an apartment in her houſe, but the ſame reaſons made it be again declined.

Lord Orville drove very ſlow, and ſo cautiouſ⯑ly, that, notwithſtanding the height of the phae⯑ton, fear would have been ridiculous. I ſupport⯑ed no part in the converſation, but Mrs. Selwyn extremely well ſupplied the place of two. Lord Orville himſelf did not ſpeak much, but the ex⯑cellent ſenſe and refined good-breeding which ac⯑company every word he utters, give a zeſt 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 gentlemen who have the honour of knowing you."’

‘"If I had,"’ anſwered he, gallantly, ‘"it would have been from mere compaſſion at their envy."’

‘"No, my Lord,"’ anſwered ſhe, ‘"it would have been from mere ſhame, that, in an age ſo daring, you alone ſhould be ſuch a coward as to forbear to frighten women."’

‘"O,"’ cried he, laughing, ‘"when a man is in a fright for himſelf, the ladies cannot but be in ſecurity; for you have not had half the appre⯑henſion for the ſafety of your perſons, that I have for that of my heart."’

He then alighted, handed us out, took leave, and again mounting the phaeton, 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, undoubt⯑edly, [108] deſigned for the laſt age; for, if you ob⯑ſerved, he is really polite."’

And now, my dear Sir, do not you think, ac⯑cording to the preſent ſituation of affairs, I may give up my reſentment, without imprudence or impropriety? I hope you will not blame me. In⯑deed, had you, like me, ſeen his reſpectful beha⯑viour, you would have been convinced of the im⯑practicability of ſupporting any further indigna⯑tion.

LETTER XVIII.
Evelina in continuation.

YESTERDAY morning, Mrs. Selwyn receiv⯑ed a card from Mrs. Beaumont, to aſk her to din⯑ner to-day; and another, to the ſame purpoſe, came to me. The invitation was accepted, and we are but juſt arrived from Clifton-Hill.

We found Mrs. Beaumont alone in the parlour. I will write you that lady's character, as I heard it from our ſatirical friend Mrs. Selwyn, and in her own words. ‘"She is an abſolute Court Calendar bigot; for, chancing herſelf to be born of a no⯑ble and ancient family, ſhe thinks proper to be of opinion, that birth and virtue are one and the ſame thing. She has ſome good qualities, but they rather originate from pride than principle, as ſhe piques herſelf upon being too high born to be capable of an unworthy action, and thinks it incumbent upon her to ſupport the dignity of her anceſtry. Fortunately for the world in general, [109] ſhe has taken it into her head, that condeſcenſion is the moſt diſtinguiſhing virtue of high life; ſo that the ſame pride of family which renders others imperious, is with her the motive of affability. But her civility is too formal to be comfortable, and too mechanical to be flattering. That ſhe does me the honour of ſo much notice, is merely owing to an accident which, I am ſure, is very painful to her remembrance; for it ſo happened that I once did her ſome ſervice, in regard to an apartment, at Southampton; and I have ſince been informed, that, at the time ſhe accepted my aſſiſtance, ſhe thought I was a woman of quality: and I make no doubt but ſhe was miſerable when ſhe diſcovered me to be a mere country gentlewo⯑man: however, her nice notions of decorum have made her load me with favours ever ſince. But I am not much flattered by her civilities, as I am convinced I owe them neither to attachment nor gratitude, but ſolely to a deſire of cancelling an obligation which ſhe cannot brook being under, to one whoſe name is no where to be found in the Court Calendar."’

You well know, my dear Sir, the delight this lady takes in giving way to her ſatirical humour.

Mrs. Beaumont received us very graciouſly, though ſhe ſomewhat diſtreſſed me by the queſ⯑tions ſhe aſked concerning my family,—ſuch as, whether I was related to the Anvilles in the North?—Whether ſome of my name did not live in Lincolnſhire? and many other enquiries, which much embarraſſed me.

The converſation, next, turned upon the in⯑tended marriage in her family. She treated the ſubject with reſerve, but it was evident ſhe diſap⯑proved Lady Louiſa's choice. She ſpoke in terms of the higheſt eſteem of Lord Orville, calling [110] him, in Marmontel's words, Un jeune homme comme il y en a peu.

I did not think this converſation very agreeably interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Lovel. Indeed I am heartily ſorry he is now at the Hot-wells. He made his compliments with the moſt obſequi⯑ous reſpect to Mrs. Beaumont, but took no ſort of notice of any other perſon.

In a few minutes Lady Louiſa Larpent made her appearance. The ſame manners prevailed; for courtſying, ‘"I hope you are well, Ma'am,"’ to Mrs. Beaumont, ſhe paſſed ſtraight forward to her ſeat on the ſofa, where leaning her head on her hand, ſhe caſt her languiſhing eyes round the room, with a vacant ſtare, as if determined, though ſhe looked, not to ſee who was in it.

Mr. Lovel, preſently approaching her with re⯑verence the moſt profound, hoped her Ladyſhip was not indiſpoſed.

‘"Mr. Lovel,"’ cried ſhe, raiſing her head, ‘"I declare I did not ſee you: Have you been here long?"’

‘"By my watch, Madam,"’ ſaid he, ‘"only five minutes,—but by your ladyſhip's abſence, as many hours."’

‘"O! now I think of it,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"I am very angry with you,—ſo go along, do, for I ſhan't ſpeak to you all day."’

‘"Heaven forbid your La'ſhip's diſpleaſure ſhould laſt ſo long! in ſuch cruel circumſtances, a day would ſeem an age. But in what have I been ſo unfortunate as to offend?"’

‘"O, you half-killed me, the other morning, with terror! I have not yet recovered from my fright. How could you be ſo cruel as to drive your phaeton againſt my Lord Merton's?"’

[111] ‘"'Pon honour, Ma'am, your La'ſhip does me wrong; it was all owing to the horſes,—there was no curbing them. I proteſt I ſuffered more than your Ladyſhip from the terror of alarming you."’

Juſt then entered Lord Merton; ſtalking up to Mrs. Beaumont, to whom alone he bowed; he hoped he had not made her wait; and then ad⯑vancing to Lady Louiſa, ſaid, in a careleſs man⯑ner, ‘"How is your Ladyſhip this morning?"’

‘"Not well at all,"’ anſwered ſhe; ‘"I have been dying with the head-ach ever ſince I got up."’

‘"Indeed!"’ cried he, with a countenance wholly unmoved, ‘"I am very unhappy to hear it. But ſhould not your Ladyſhip have ſome advice?"’

‘"I am quite ſick of advice,"’ anſwered ſhe; ‘"Mr. Ridgeway has but juſt left me,—but he has done me no good. Nobody here knows what is the matter with me, yet they all ſee how indif⯑ferent I am."’

‘"Your Ladyſhip's conſtitution,"’ ſaid Mr. Lo⯑vel, ‘"is infinitely delicate."’

‘"Indeed it is,"’ cried ſhe, in a low voice, ‘I am nerve all over!"’

‘"I am glad, however,"’ ſaid Lord Merton, ‘"that you did not take the air this morning, for Coverly has been driving againſt me as if he was mad: he has got two of the fineſt ſpirited horſes I ever ſaw."’

‘"Pray, My Lord,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"why did not you bring Mr. Coverly with you? he's a droll creature; I like him monſtrouſly."’

‘"Why, he promiſed to be here as ſoon as me. I ſuppoſe he'll come before dinner's over."’

[112] In the midſt of this trifling converſation, Lord Orville made his appearance. O how dif⯑ferent was his addreſs! how ſuperior did he look, and move, to all about him! Having paid his reſpects to Mrs. Beaumont, and then to Mrs. Selwyn, he came up to me, and ſaid, ‘"I hope Miſs Anville has not ſuffered from the fatigue of Monday morning!"’ Then turning to Lady Louiſa, who ſeemed rather ſurpriſed at his ſpeak⯑ing to me, he added, ‘"give me leave, ſiſter, to introduce Miſs Anville to you."’

Lady Louiſa, half-riſing, ſaid, very coldly, that ſhe ſhould be glad of the honour of know⯑ing me; and then, very abruptly turning to Lord Merton and Mr. Lovel, continued, in a half-whiſper, her converſation.

For my part, I had riſen and courtſied, and now, feeling very fooliſh, I ſeated myſelf again; firſt I had bluſhed at the unexpected politeneſs of Lord Orville, and immediately afterwards, at the contemptuous failure of it in his ſiſter. How can that young Lady ſee her brother ſo univerſally admired for his manners and deport⯑ment, and yet be ſo unamiably oppoſite to him in her's!

Lord Orville, I am ſure, was hurt, and diſ⯑pleaſed: he bit his lips, and turning from her, addreſſed himſelf wholly to me, till we were ſummoned to dinner. Do you think I was not grateful for his attention? yes, indeed, and every angry idea I had entertained, was totally obli⯑terated.

As we were ſeating ourſelves at the table, Mr. Coverly came into the room: he made a thouſand apologies in a breath for being ſo late, but ſaid he had been retarded by a little accident, for that he had overturned his phaeton, and broke [113] it all to pieces. Lady Louiſa ſcreamed at this intelligence, and looking at Lord Merton, declar⯑ed ſhe would never go into a phaeton again.

‘"O,"’ cried he, ‘"never mind Jack Coverly, for he does not know how to drive."’

‘"My Lord,"’ cried Mr. Coverly, ‘"I'll drive againſt you for a thouſand pounds."’

‘"Done!"’ returned the other; ‘"Name your day, and we'll each chuſe a judge."’

‘"The ſooner the better,"’ cried Mr. Coverly; ‘"to-morrow, if the carriage can be repaired."’

‘"Theſe enterpriſes,"’ ſaid Mrs. Selwyn, ‘"are very proper for men of rank, ſince 'tis a million to one but both parties will be incapacitated for any better employment."’

‘"For Heaven's ſake,"’ cried Lady Louiſa, changing colour, ‘"don't talk ſo ſhockingly! Pray, my Lord, pray, Mr. Coverly, don't alarm me in this manner."’

‘"Compoſe yourſelf, Lady Louiſa,"’ ſaid Mrs. Beaumont, ‘"the gentlemen will think bet⯑ter of the ſcheme; they are neither of them in earneſt."’

‘"The very mention of ſuch a ſcheme,"’ ſaid Lady Louiſa, taking out her ſalts, ‘"makes me tremble all over! Indeed, my Lord, you have frightened me to death! I ſhan't eat a morſel of dinner."’

‘"Permit me,"’ ſaid Lord Orville, ‘"to pro⯑poſe ſome other ſubject for the preſent, and we will diſcuſs this matter ſome other time."’

‘"Pray, Brother, excuſe me; my Lord muſt give me his word to drop this project,—for, I declare it has made me ſick as death."’

‘"To compromiſe the matter,"’ ſaid Lord Orville, ‘"ſuppoſe, if both parties are unwil⯑ling to give up the bet, that, to make the ladies [114] eaſy, we change its object to ſomething leſs dan⯑gerous?"’

This propoſal was ſo ſtrongly ſeconded by all the party, that both Lord Merton, and Mr. Co⯑verly, were obliged to comply with it: and it was then agreed that the affair ſhould be finally ſet⯑tled in the afternoon.

‘"I ſhall now be entirely out of conceit with phaetons again,"’ ſaid Mrs. Selwyn, ‘"though Lord Orville had almoſt reconciled me to them."’

‘"My Lord Orville,’ "cried the witty Mr. Coverly, ‘"why, my Lord Orville is as careful,—egad, as careful as an old woman! Why, I'd drive a one-horſe cart againſt my Lord's phaeton for a hundred guineas!"’

This ſally occaſioned much laughter; for Mr. Coverly, I find, is regarded as a man of infinite humour.

‘"Perhaps, Sir,"’ ſaid Mrs. Selwyn, ‘"you have not diſcovered the reaſon my Lord Orville is ſo careful?"’

‘"Why, no, Ma'am; I muſt own, I never heard any particular reaſon for it."’

‘"Why then, Sir, I'll tell you; and I believe you will confeſs it to be very particular; his Lordſhip's friends are not yet tired of him."’

Lord Orville laughed and bowed. Mr. Cover⯑ly, a little confuſed, turned to Lord Merton, and ſaid, ‘"No foul play, my Lord! I remember your Lordſhip recommended me to the notice of this Lady the other morning, and, egad, I be⯑lieve you have been doing me the ſame office to-day."’

‘"Give you joy, Jack!"’ cried Lord Merton, with a loud laugh.

[115] After this, the converſation turned wholly up⯑on eating, a ſubject which was diſcuſſed with the utmoſt delight; and, had I not known they were men of rank and faſhion, I ſhould have imagined that Lord Merton, Mr. Lovel, and Mr. Coverly, had all been profeſſed cooks; for they diſplayed ſo much knowledge of ſauces and made diſhes, and of the various methods of dreſ⯑ſing the ſame things, that I am perſuaded they muſt have given much time, and much ſtudy, to make themſelves ſuch adepts in this art. It would be very difficult to determine, whether they were moſt to be diſtinguiſhed as gluttons or epicures; for they were, at once, dainty and vo⯑racious, underſtood the right and the wrong of every diſh, and alike emptied the one and the other. I ſhould have been quite ſick of their remarks, had I not been entertained by ſeeing that Lord Orville, who, I am ſure, was equally diſguſted, not only read my ſentiments, but, by his countenance, communicated to me his own.

When dinner was over, Mrs. Beaumont re⯑commended the gentlemen to the care of Lord Orville, and then attended the ladies to the draw⯑ing-room.

The converſation, till tea-time, was extreme⯑ly inſipid; Mrs. Selwyn reſerved herſelf for the gentlemen, Mrs. Beaumont was grave, and Lady Louiſa languid.

But, at tea, every body revived; we were joined by the gentlemen, and gaiety took place of dulneſs.

Since I, as Mr. Lovel ſays, am Nobody ^*, I ſeated myſelf quietly on a window, and not very [116] near to any body: Lord Merton, Mr. Coverly, and Mr. Lovel, ſeverally paſſed me without no⯑tice, and ſurrounded the chair of Lady Louiſa Larpent. I muſt own, I was rather piqued at the behaviour of Mr. Lovel, as he had formerly known me. It is true, I moſt ſincerely deſpiſed his foppery, yet I ſhould be grieved to meet with contempt from any body. But I was by no means ſorry to find that Lord Merton was determined not to know me before Lady Louiſa, as his ne⯑glect relieved me from much embarraſſment. As to Mr. Coverly, his attention or diſregard were equally indifferent to me. Yet, altogether, I felt extremely uncomfortable, in finding myſelf conſidered in a light very inferior to the reſt of the company.

But, when Lord Orville appeared, the ſcene changed: he came up ſtairs laſt, and ſeeing me ſit alone, not only ſpoke to me directly, but drew a chair next mine, and honoured me with his entire attention.

He enquired very particularly after my health, and hoped I had already found benefit from the Briſtol air. ‘"How little did I imagine,"’ ad⯑ded he, ‘"when I had laſt the pleaſure of ſeeing you in town, that ill health would, in ſo ſhort a time, have brought you hither! I am aſhamed of myſelf for the ſatisfaction I feel at ſeeing you,—yet how can I help it!"’

He then enquired after the Mirvan family, and ſpoke of Mrs. Mirvan in terms of the moſt juſt praiſe. ‘"She is gentle and amiable,"’ ſaid he, ‘"a true feminine character."’

‘"Yes, indeed,"’ anſwered I, ‘"and her ſweet daughter, to ſay every thing of her at once, is juſt the daughter ſuch a mother deſerves."’

[117] ‘"I am glad of it,"’ ſaid he, ‘"for both their ſakes, as ſuch near relations muſt always reflect credit or diſgrace on each other."’

After this, he began to ſpeak of the beauties of Clifton; but, in a few moments, was interrupt⯑ed by a call from the company, to diſcuſs the af⯑fair of the wager. Lord Merton and Mr. Co⯑verley, though they had been diſcourſing upon the ſubject ſome time, could not fix upon any thing that ſatisfied them both.

When they aſked the aſſiſtance of Lord Orville, he propoſed that every body preſent ſhould vote ſomething, and that the two gentlemen ſhould draw lots which, from the ſeveral votes, ſhould decide the bet.

‘"We muſt then begin with the ladies,"’ ſaid Lord Orville; and applied to Mrs. Selwyn.

‘"With all my heart,"’ anſwered ſhe, with her uſual readineſs; ‘"and, ſince the gentlemen are not allowed to riſk their necks, ſuppoſe we decide the bet by their heads?"’

‘"By our heads?"’ cried Mr. Coverly; Egad, ‘"I dont underſtand you."’

‘"I will then explain myſelf more fully. As I doubt not but you are both excellent claſſics, ſup⯑poſe, for the good of your own memories, and the entertainment and ſurpriſe of the company, the thouſand pounds ſhould fall to the ſhare of him who can repeat by heart the longeſt ode of Horace?"’

Nobody could help laughing, the two gentle⯑men applied to, excepted; who ſeemed, each of them, rather at a loſs in what manner to receive this unexpected propoſal. At length Mr. Lovel, bowing low, ſaid, ‘"Will your Lordſhip pleaſe to begin?’

[118] ‘"Devil take me if I do!"’ anſwered he, turn⯑ing on his heel, and ſtalking to the window.

‘"Come, Gentlemen,"’ ſaid Mrs. Selwyn, ‘"why do you heſitate? I am ſure you cannot be afraid of a weak woman? Beſides, if you ſhould chance to be out, Mr. Lovel, I dare ſay, will have the goodneſs to aſſiſt you."’

The laugh, now, turned againſt Mr. Lovel, whoſe change of countenance manifeſted no great pleaſure at the tranſition.

‘"Me, Madam!"’ ſaid he, colouring, ‘"no, "really I muſt beg to be excuſed."’

‘"Why ſo, Sir?"’

‘"Why ſo, Ma'am?—Why, really,—as to that,—'pon honour, Ma'am, you are rather—a little ſevere;—for how is it poſſible for a man who is in the Houſe, to ſtudy the claſſics? I aſ⯑ſure you, Ma'am,"’ (with an affected ſhrug) ‘"I find quite buſineſs enough for my poor head, in ſtudying politics."’

‘"But, did you ſtudy politics at ſchool, and at the univerſity?"’

‘"At the univerſity!"’ repeated he with an embarraſſed look; ‘"why, as to that, Ma'am,—no, I can't ſay I did; but then, what with riding,—and—and—and ſo forth,—really, one has not much time, even at the univerſity, for mere reading."’

‘"But to be ſure, Sir, you have read the claſſics?"’

‘"O dear, yes, Ma'am!—very often,—but not very—not very lately."’

‘"Which of the odes do you recommend to theſe gentlemen to begin with?"’

‘"Which of the odes!—Really, Ma'am, as to that, I have no very particular choice,—for, [119] to own the truth, that Horace was never a very great favourite with me."’

‘"In truth I believe you!"’ ſaid Mrs. Selwyn, very drily.

Lord Merton, again advancing into the circle, with a nod and a laugh, ſaid, ‘"Give you joy, Lovel!"’

Lord Orville next applied to Mrs. Beaumont for her vote.

‘"It would very agreeably remind me of paſt times,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘when bowing was in faſhion, if the bet was to depend upon the beſt-made bow."’

‘"Egad, my Lord!"’ cried Mr. Coverley, ‘"there I ſhould beat you hollow, for your Lord⯑ſhip never bows at all.’

‘"And, pray Sir, do you?’ ſaid Mrs. Selwyn.

‘Do I, Ma'am?"’ cried he, ‘"Why, only ſee!"’

‘"I proteſt,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"I ſhould have taken that for a ſhrug, if you had not told me 'twas a bow."’

‘"My Lord,"’ cried Mr. Coverly, ‘"let's prac⯑tiſe;"’ and then, moſt ridiculouſly, they pranced about the room, making bows.

‘"We muſt now,"’ ſaid Lord Orville, turning to me, ‘"call upon Miſs Anville."’

‘"O no, my Lord,"’ cried I, ‘"indeed I have nothing to propoſe."’ He would not, however, be refuſed, but urged me ſo much to ſay ſomething, that at laſt, not to make him wait any longer, I ventured to propoſe an extempore couplet upon ſome given ſubject.

Mr. Coverley inſtantly made me a bow, or, ac⯑cording to Mrs. Selwyn, a ſhrug, crying, ‘"Thank you, Ma'am; egad, that's my fort!—Why, my Lord, the Fates ſeem againſt you."’

[120] Lady Louiſa was then applied to; and every body ſeemed eager to hear her opinion. ‘"I don't know what to ſay, I declare,"’ cried ſhe, affected⯑ly; ‘"can't you paſs me?"’

‘"By no means!"’ ſaid Lord Merton.

‘"Is it poſſible your Ladyſhip can make ſo cruel a requeſt?"’ ſaid Mr. Lovel.

‘"Egad,"’ cried Mr. Coverley, ‘"if your La⯑dyſhip does not help us in this dilemma, we ſhall be forced to return to our phaetons."’

‘"Oh,"’ cried Lady Louiſa, ſcreaming, ‘"you frightful creature, you, how can you be ſo abo⯑minable!"’

I believe this trifling laſted near half an hour; when at length, every body being tired, it was given up, and ſhe ſaid ſhe would conſider againſt another time.

Lord Orville now called upon Mr. Lovel, who, after about ten minutes deliberation, propoſed, with a moſt important face, to determine the wager by who ſhould draw the longeſt ſtraw!

I had much difficulty to refrain laughing at this unmeaning ſcheme; but ſaw, to my great ſur⯑priſe, not the leaſt change of countenance in any other perſon: and, ſince we came home, Mrs. Selwyn has informed me, that to draw ſtraws is a faſhion of betting by no means uncommon! Good God! my dear Sir, does it not ſeem as if money were of no value or ſervice, ſince thoſe who poſſeſs ſquander it away in a manner ſo infi⯑nitely abſurd!

It now only remained for Lord Orville to ſpeak; and the attention of the company ſhewed the ex⯑pectations he had raiſed; yet, I believe, they by no means prevented his propoſal from being heard with amazement; for it was no other, than that [121] the money ſhould be his due, who, according to the opinion of two judges, ſhould bring the wor⯑thieſt object with whom to ſhare it!

They all ſtared, without ſpeaking. Indeed, I believe every one, for a moment at leaſt, expe⯑rienced ſomething like ſhame, from having either propoſed or countenanced an extravagance ſo uſe⯑leſs and frivolous. For my part, I was ſo much ſtruck and affected by a rebuke ſo noble to theſe ſpendthrifts, that I felt my eyes filled with tears.

The ſhort ſilence, and momentary reflection into which the company was ſurpriſed, Mr. Co⯑verly was the firſt to diſpel, by ſaying, ‘"Egad, my Lord, your Lordſhip has a moſt remarkable odd way of taking things."’

‘"Faith,"’ ſaid the incorrigible Lord Merton, ‘"if this ſcheme takes, I ſhall fix upon my Swiſs to ſhare with me; for I dont know a worthier fel⯑low breathing."’

After a few more of theſe attempts at wit, the two gentlemen agreed that they would ſettle the affair the next morning.

The converſation then took a different turn, but I did not give it ſufficient attention to write any account of it. Not long after, Lord Orville reſuming his ſeat next mine, ſaid, ‘"Why is Miſs Anville ſo thoughtful?"’

‘"I am ſorry, my Lord,"’ ſaid I, ‘"to conſi⯑der myſelf one among thoſe who have ſo juſtly in⯑curred your cenſure."’

‘"My cenſure!—you amaze me!"’

‘"Indeed, my Lord, you have made me quite aſhamed of myſelf, for having given my vote ſo fooliſhly; when an opportunity offered, had I but, like your Lordſhip, had the ſenſe to uſe it, of ſhewing ſome humanity."’

[122] ‘"You treat this too ſeriouſly,"’ ſaid he, ſmil⯑ing; ‘"and I hardly know if you do not now mean a rebuke to me."’

‘"To you, my Lord!"’

‘"Nay, which deſerves it moſt, the one who adapts the converſation to the company, or the one who chooſes to be above it?"’

‘"O, my Lord, who elſe would do you ſo little juſtice?"’

‘"I flatter myſelf,"’ anſwered he, ‘"that in fact, your opinion and mine, in this point, were the ſame, though you condeſcended to comply with the humour of the company. It is for me, therefore, to apologize for ſo unſeaſonable a gra⯑vity, which but for a particular intereſt which I now take in the affairs of Lord Merton, I ſhould not have been ſo officious to diſplay."’

Such a compliment as this could not fail to re⯑concile me to myſelf; and with revived ſpirits, I entered into a converſation, which he ſupported with me till Mrs. Selwyn's carriage was announc⯑ed, and we returned home.

During our ride, Mrs. Selwyn very much ſur⯑priſed me, by aſking if I thought my health would now permit me to give up my morning walks to the pump-room, for the purpoſe of ſpend⯑ing a week at Clifton? ‘"for this poor Mrs. Beau⯑mont,"’ added ſhe, ‘"is ſo eager to have a diſ⯑charge in full of her debt to me, that, out of mere compaſſion, I am induced to liſten to her. Be⯑ſides, ſhe has always a houſe full of people, and though they are chiefly fools and coxcombs, yet there is ſome pleaſure in cutting them up."’

I begged I might not, by any means, prevent her following her inclination, as my health was now very well eſtabliſhed. And ſo, my dear Sir, to⯑morrow [123] we are to be, actually, the gueſts of Mrs. Beaumont.

I am not much delighted at this ſcheme; for, flattered as I am by the attention of Lord Orville, it is not very comfortable to be neglected by every body elſe. Beſides, as I am ſure I owe the parti⯑cularity of his civility to a generous feeling for my ſituation, I cannot expect him to ſupport it ſo long as a week.

How often do I wiſh, ſince I am abſent from you, that I was under the protection of Mrs. Mirvan! It is true, Mrs. Selwyn is very obliging, and, in every reſpect, treats me as an equal; but ſhe is contented with behaving well herſelf, and does not, with a diſtinguiſhing politeneſs, raiſe and ſupport me with others. Yet I mean not to blame her, for I know ſhe is ſincerely my friend; but the fact is, ſhe is herſelf ſo much occupied in converſation, when in company, that ſhe has neither leiſure nor thought to attend to the ſilent.

Well, I muſt take my chance! But I knew not, till now, how requiſite are birth and fortune to the attainment of reſpect and civility.

LETTER XIX.
Evelina in continuation.

LETTER XX.
Evelina in continuation.

LETTER XXI.
Mr. Villars to Evelina.

DEAD to the world, and equally inſenſible to its pleaſures or its pains, I long ſince bid adieu to all joy, and defiance to all ſorrow, but what ſhould ſpring from my Evelina,—ſole ſource, to me, of all earthly felicity. How ſtrange, then, is it, that the letter in which ſhe tells me ſhe is the happieſt of human beings, ſhould give me the moſt mortal inquietude!

Alas, my child!—that innocence, the firſt, beſt gift of Heaven, ſhould, of all others, be the blindeſt to its own danger,—the moſt expoſed to treachery,—and the leaſt able to defend itſelf, in a world where it is little known, leſs valued, and perpe⯑tually deceived.

Would to Heaven you were here!—then, by degrees, and with gentleneſs, I might enter upon a ſubject too delicate for diſtant diſcuſſion. Yet it is too intereſting, and the ſituation too critical, to allow of delay.—Oh my Evelina, your ſitu⯑ation is critical indeed!—your peace of mind is at ſtake, and every chance for your future happineſs may depend upon the conduct of the preſent mo⯑ment.

Hitherto I have forborne to ſpeak with you upon the moſt important of all concerns, the ſtate of your heart:—alas, I needed no information! I have been ſilent, indeed, but I have not been blind.

Long, and with the deepeſt regret, have I per⯑ceived [144] the aſcendency which Lord Orville has gained upon your mind.—You will ſtart at the mention of his name,—you will tremble every word you read;—I grieve to give pain to my gen⯑tle Evelina, but I dare not any longer ſpare her.

Your firſt meeting with Lord Orville was de⯑ciſive. Lively, fearleſs, free from all other impreſ⯑ſions, ſuch a man as you deſcribe him could not fail exciting your admiration, and the more dange⯑rouſly, becauſe he ſeemed as unconſcious of his power as you of your weakneſs; and therefore you had no alarm, either from his vanity, or your own prudence.

Young, animated, entirely off your guard, and thoughtleſs of conſequences, imagination took the reins, and reaſon, ſlow-paced, though ſure-foot⯑ed, was unequal to a race with ſo eccentric and flighty a companion. How rapid was then my Eve⯑lina's progreſs through thoſe regions of fancy and paſſion whither her new guide conducted her!—She ſaw Lord Orville at a ball,—and he was the moſt amiable of men!—She met him again at ano⯑ther,—and he had every virtue under Heaven!

I mean not to depreciate the merit of Lord Or⯑ville, who, one myſterious inſtance alone ex⯑cepted, ſeems to have deſerved the idea you form⯑ed of his character; but it was not time, it was not the knowledge of his worth, obtained your regard; your new comrade had not patience to wait any trial; her glowing pencil, dipt in the vivid colours of her creative ideas, painted to you, at the moment of your firſt acquaintance, all the excellencies, all the good and rare qualities, which a great length of time, and intimacy, could alone have really diſcovered.

You flattered yourſelf, that your partiality was the effect of eſteem, founded upon a general love [145] of merit, and a principle of juſtice; and your heart, which fell the ſacrifice of your error, was totally gone ere you ſuſpected it was in danger.

A thouſand times have I been upon the point of ſhewing you the perils of your ſituation; but the ſame inexperience which occaſioned your miſ⯑take, I hoped, with the aſſiſtance of time and ab⯑ſence, would effect a cure: I was, indeed, moſt unwilling to deſtroy your illuſion, while I dared hope it might itſelf contribute to the reſtoration of your tranquillity; ſince your ignorance of the danger and force of your attachment, might poſ⯑ſibly prevent that deſpondency with which young people, in ſimilar circumſtances, are apt to per⯑ſuade themſelves that what is only difficult, is ab⯑ſolutely impoſſible.

But now, ſince you have again met, and are become more intimate than ever, all my hope from ſilence and ſeeming ignorance is at an end.

Awake, then, my dear, my deluded child, awake to the ſenſe of your danger, and exert your⯑ſelf to avoid the evils with which it threatens you,—evils which, to a mind like yours, are moſt to be dreaded, ſecret repining, and concealed, yet conſuming regret! Make a noble effort for the re⯑covery of your peace, which now, with ſorrow I ſee it, depends wholly upon the preſence of Lord Orville. This effort, may, indeed, be pain⯑ful, but truſt to my experience, when I aſſure you it is requiſite.

You muſt quit him!—his ſight is baneful to your repoſe, his ſociety is death to your future tranquillity! Believe me, my beloved child, my heart aches for your ſuffering, while it dictates its neceſſity.

Could I flatter myſelf that Lord Orville would, indeed, be ſenſible of your worth, and act with a [146] nobleneſs of mind, which ſhould prove it reci⯑procal, then would I leave my Evelina to the un⯑moleſted enjoyment of the chearful ſociety and in⯑creaſing regard of a man ſhe ſo greatly admires; but this is not an age in which we may truſt to appearances, and imprudence is much ſooner re⯑gretted than repaired. Your health, you tell me, is much mended,—can you then conſent to leave Briſtol?—not abruptly, that I do not deſire, but in a few days from the time you receive this? I will write to Mrs. Selwyn, and tell her how much I wiſh your return; and Mrs. Clinton can take ſufficient care of you.

I have meditated upon every poſſible expedient that might tend to your happineſs, ere I fixed upon exacting from you a compliance which I am con⯑vinced will be moſt painful to you; but I can ſa⯑tisfy myſelf in none. This will at leaſt be ſafe, and as to ſucceſs,—we muſt leave it to time.

I am very glad to hear of Mr. Macartney's wel⯑fare.

Adieu, my deareſt child; Heaven preſerve and ſtrengthen you!

LETTER XXII.
Evelina to the Rev. Mr. Villars.

SWEETLY, moſt ſweetly, have two days more paſſed ſince I wrote; but I have been too much engaged to be exact in my journal.

[147] To-day has been leſs tranquil. It was deſtined for the deciſion of the important bet, and has been productive of general confuſion throughout the houſe. It was ſettled that the race ſhould be run at five o'clock in the afternoon. Lord Mer⯑ton breakfaſted here, and ſtayed till noon. He wanted to engage the ladies to bet on his ſide, in the true ſpirit of gaming, without ſeeing the ra⯑cers. But he could only prevail on Lady Louiſa, as Mrs. Selwyn ſaid ſhe never laid a wager againſt her own wiſhes, and Mrs. Beaumont would not take ſides. As for me, I was not applied to. It is impoſſible for negligence to be more pointed, than that of Lord Merton to me, in the preſence of Lady Louiſa.

But, juſt before dinner, I happened to be alone in the drawing-room, when his Lordſhip ſuddenly returned, and coming in with his uſual familiarity, he was beginning, ‘"You ſee, Lady Louiſa,—"’ but ſtopping ſhort, ‘"Pray, where's every body gone?"’

‘"Indeed I don't know, my Lord."’

He then ſhut the door, and, with a great alter⯑ation in his face and manner, advanced eagerly towards me, and ſaid, ‘"How glad I am, my ſweet girl, to meet you, at laſt, alone! By my ſoul, I began to think there was a plot againſt me, for I've never been able to have you a minute to myſelf."’ And, very freely, he ſeized my hand.

I was ſo much ſurpriſed at this addreſs, after having been ſo long totally neglected, that I could make no other anſwer than ſtaring at him with un⯑feigned aſtoniſhment.

‘"Why now,"’ continued he, ‘"if you was not the cruelleſt little angel in the world, you would have helped me to ſome expedient: for you ſee how I am watched here; Lady Louiſa's [148] eyes are never off me. She gives me a charming foretaſte of the pleaſures of a wife! however, it won't laſt long."’

Diſguſted to the greateſt degree, I attempted to draw away my hand, but I believe I ſhould not have ſucceeded, had not Mrs. Beaumont made her appearance. He turned from me with the greateſt aſſurance, and ſaid, ‘"How are you, Ma'am?—how is Lady Louiſa?—you ſee I can't live a moment out of the houſe."’

Could you, my deareſt Sir, have believed it poſſible for ſuch effrontery to be in man?

Before dinner, came Mr. Coverley, and before five o'clock, Mr. Lovel and ſome other company. The place marked out for the race, was a gravel⯑walk in Mrs. Beaumont's garden, and the length of the ground twenty yards. When we were ſummoned to the courſe, the two poor old women made their appearance. Though they ſeemed very healthy for their time of life, they yet looked ſo weak, ſo infirm, ſo feeble, that I could feel no ſenſation but that of pity at the ſight. However, this was not the general ſenſe of the company, for they no ſooner came forward, than they were greeted with a laugh from every beholder, Lord Orville excepted, who looked very grave during the whole tranſaction. Doubtleſs he muſt be greatly diſ⯑contented at the diſſipated conduct and extrava⯑gance, of a man with whom he is, ſoon, to be ſo nearly connected.

For ſome time, the ſcene was truly ridiculous; the agitation of the parties concerned, and the bets that were laid upon the old women, were abſurd beyond meaſure. Who are you for? and whoſe ſide are you of? was echoed from mouth to mouth by the whole company. Lord Merton and Mr. Coverley were both ſo exceſſively gay and noiſy, [149] that I ſoon found they had been too free in drink⯑ing to their ſucceſs. They handed, with loud ſhouts, the old women to the race-ground, and encouraged them, by liberal promiſes, to exert themſelves.

When the ſignal was given them to ſet off, the poor creatures, ſeeble and frightened, ran againſt each other, and, neither of them able to ſupport the ſhock, they both fell on the ground.

Lord Merton and Mr. Coverley flew to their aſſiſtance. Seats were brought for them, and they each drank a glaſs of wine. They complained of being much bruiſed, for, heavy and helpleſs, they had not been able to ſave themſelves, but fell with their whole weight upon the gravel. However, as they ſeemed equal ſufferers, both parties were too eager to have the affair deferred.

Again, therefore, they ſet off, and hobbled along, nearly even with each other, for ſome time, yet frequently, and to the inexpreſſible di⯑verſion of the company, they ſtumbled and tot⯑tered; and the confuſed hallowing of ‘"Now Co⯑verley!"’ ‘"Now Merton!"’ rung from ſide to ſide during the whole affair.

Not long after, a foot of one of the poor wo⯑men ſlipt, and, with great force, ſhe came again to the ground. Involuntarily, I ſprung forward to aſſiſt her, but Lord Merton, to whom ſhe did not belong, ſtopped me, calling out ‘"No foul play! no foul play!"’

Mr. Coverley, then, repeating the ſame words, went himſelf to help her, and inſiſted that the other ſhould ſtop. A debate enſued; but the poor creature was too much hurt to move, and declared her utter inability to make another at⯑tempt. Mr. Coverley was quite brutal; he ſwore [150] at her with unmanly rage, and ſeemed ſcarce able to refrain even from ſtriking her.

Lord Merton then, in great rapture, ſaid it was a hollow thing; but Mr. Coverley contended that the fall was accidental, and time ſhould be allow⯑ed for the woman to recover. However, all the company being againſt him, he was pronounced the loſer.

We then went to the drawing-room, to tea. After which, the evening being delightful, we all walked in the garden. Lord Merton was quite riotous, and Lady Louiſa in high ſpirits; but Mr. Coverley endeavoured in vain to conceal his cha⯑grin.

As Lord Orville was thoughtful, and walked by himſelf, I expected that, as uſual, I ſhould paſs unnoticed, and be left to my own medita⯑tions; but this was not the caſe, for Lord Mer⯑ton, entirely off his guard, giddy equally from wine and ſucceſs, was very troubleſome to me; and, regardleſs of the preſence of Lady Louiſa, which, hitherto, has reſtrained him even from common civility, he attached himſelf to me, du⯑ring the walk, with a freedom of gallantry that put me extremely out of countenance. He paid me the moſt high-flown compliments, and fre⯑quently and forcibly ſeized my hand, though I repeatedly, and with undiſſembled anger, drew it back. Lord Orville, I ſaw, watched us with earneſtneſs, and Lady Louiſa's ſmiles were con⯑verted into looks of diſdain.

I could not bear to be thus ſituated, and com⯑plaining I was tired, I quickened my pace, with intention to return to the houſe; but Lord Mer⯑ton haſtily following, caught my hand, and ſay⯑ing the day was his own, vowed he would not let me go.

[151] ‘"You muſt, my Lord,"’ cried I, extremely flurried.

‘"You are the moſt charming girl in the world,"’ ſaid he, ‘"and never looked better than at this moment."’

‘"My Lord,"’ cried Mrs. Selwyn, advancing to us, ‘"you don't conſider, that the better Miſs Anville looks, the more ſtriking is the contraſt with your Lordſhip; therefore, for your own ſake, I would adviſe you not to hold her."’

‘"Egad, my Lord,"’ cried Mr. Coverley, ‘"I don't ſee what right you have to the beſt old, and the beſt young woman too, in the ſame day."’

‘"Beſt young woman!"’ repeated Mr. Lovel; ‘"'pon honour, Jack, you have made a moſt unfortunate ſpeech; however, if Lady Louiſa can pardon you,—and her Ladyſhip is all good⯑neſs,—I am ſure nobody elſe can, for you have committed an outrageous ſoleciſm in good man⯑ners."’

‘"And pray, Sir,"’ ſaid Mrs. Selwyn, ‘"un⯑der what denomination may your own ſpeech paſs?"’

Mr. Lovel, turning another way, affected not to hear her: and Mr. Coverley, bowing to Lady Louiſa, ſaid, ‘"Her Ladyſhip is well acquainted with my devotion,—but egad, I don't know how it is,—I had always an unlucky turn at an epigram, and never could reſiſt a ſmart play upon words in my life."’

‘"Pray, my Lord,"’ cried I, ‘"let go my hand! pray, Mrs. Selwyn, ſpeak for me."’

‘"My Lord,"’ ſaid Mrs. Selwyn, ‘"in detain⯑ing Miſs Anville any longer, you only loſe time, for we are already as well convinced of your va⯑lour [152] and your ſtrength as if you were to hold her an age."’

‘"My Lord,"’ ſaid Mrs. Beaumont, ‘"I muſt beg leave to interfere; I know not if Lady Lou⯑iſa can pardon you, but, as this young Lady is at my houſe, I do not chuſe to have her made uneaſy."’

‘"I pardon him!"’ cried Lady Louiſa, ‘"I declare I am monſtrous glad to get rid of him."’

‘"Egad, my Lord,"’ cried Mr. Coverley, ‘"while you are graſping at a ſhadow, you'll loſe a ſubſtance; you'd beſt make your peace while you can."’

‘"Pray, Mr. Coverley, be quiet,"’ ſaid Lady Louiſa, peeviſhly, ‘"for I declare I won't ſpeak to him. Brother,"’ (taking hold of Lord Orville's arm) ‘"will you walk in with me?"’

‘"Would to Heaven,"’ cried I, frightened to ſee how much Lord Merton was in liquor, ‘"that I, too, had a brother!—and then I ſhould not be expoſed to ſuch treatment!"’

Lord Orville, inſtantly quitting Lady Louiſa, ſaid, ‘"Will Miſs Anville allow me the honour of taking that title?"’ and then, without waiting for any anſwer, he diſengaged me from Lord Merton, and, handing me to Lady Louiſa, ‘"Let me,"’ added he, ‘"take equal care of both my ſiſters;"’ and then, deſiring her to take hold of one arm, and begging me to make uſe of the other, we reached the houſe in a moment. Lord Mer⯑ton, diſordered as he was, attempted not to ſtop us.

As ſoon as we entered the houſe, I withdrew my arm, and courtſied my thanks, for my heart was too full for ſpeech. Lady Louiſa, evidently hurt at her brother's condeſcenſion, and piqued extremely by Lord Merton's behaviour, ſilent⯑ly [153] drew away her's, and biting her lips, with a look of infinite vexation, walked ſullenly up the hall.

Lord Orville aſked her if ſhe would not go into the parlour.

‘"No,"’ anſwered ſhe, haughtily; ‘"I leave you and your new ſiſter together,"’ and then ſhe walked up ſtairs.

I was quite confounded at the pride and rude⯑neſs of this ſpeech. Lord Orville himſelf ſeemed thunderſtruck; I turned from him, and went into the parlour; he followed me, ſaying, ‘"Muſt I, now, apologiſe to Miſs Anville for the liberty of my interference?—or ought I to apologiſe that I did not, as I wiſhed, interfere ſooner?"’

‘"O my Lord,"’ cried I, with an emotion I could not repreſs, ‘"it is from you alone I meet with any reſpect,—all others treat me with imper⯑tinence or contempt!"’

I am ſorry I had not more command of myſelf, as he had reaſon, juſt then, to ſuppoſe I particu⯑larly meant his ſiſter, which, I am ſure, muſt very much hurt him.

‘"Good Heaven,"’ cried he, ‘"that ſo much ſweetneſs and merit can fail to excite the love and admiration ſo juſtly their due! I cannot,—I dare not expreſs to you half the indignation I feel at this moment!"’

‘"I am ſorry, my Lord,"’ ſaid I, more calmly, ‘"to have raiſed it; but yet,—in a ſituation that calls for protection, to meet only with mortifi⯑cations,—indeed I am but ill formed to bear them!"’

‘"My dear Miſs Anville,"’ cried he, warmly, ‘"allow me to be your friend; think of me as if I were indeed your brother, and let me entreat you to accept my beſt ſervices, if there is any thing in [154] which I can be ſo happy as to ſhew my regard,—my reſpect for you!"’

Before I had time to ſpeak, the reſt of the party entered the parlour, and, as I did not wiſh to ſee any thing more of Lord Merton, at leaſt before he had ſlept, I determined to leave it. Lord Orville, ſeeing my deſign, ſaid, as I paſſed him, ‘"Will you go?"’ ‘"Had not I beſt, my Lord?"’ ſaid I. ‘"I am afraid,"’ ſaid he, ſmiling, ‘"ſince I muſt now ſpeak as your brother, I am afraid you had;—you ſee you may truſt me, ſince I can adviſe againſt my own intereſt."’

I then left the room, and have been writing ever ſince. And methinks I can never lament the rudeneſs of Lord Merton, as it has more than ever confirmed to me the eſteem of Lord Orville.

LETTER XXIII.
Evelina in continuation.

OH Sir, what a ſtrange incident have I to re⯑cite! what a field of conjecture to open!

Yeſterday evening, we all went to an aſſembly. Lord Orville preſented tickets to the whole fami⯑ly, and did me the honour, to the no ſmall ſur⯑priſe of all here, I believe, to dance with me. But every day abounds in freſh inſtances of his condeſcending politeneſs, and he now takes every opportunity of calling me his friend, and his ſiſter.

[155] Lord Merton offered a ticket to Lady Louiſa; but ſhe was ſo much incenſed againſt him, that ſhe refuſed it with the utmoſt diſdain; neither could he prevail upon her to dance with him; ſhe ſat ſtill the whole evening, and deigned not to look at, or ſpeak to him. To me, her behaviour is almoſt the ſame, for ſhe is cold, diſtant, and haughty, and her eyes expreſs the greateſt con⯑tempt. But for Lord Orville, how miſerable would my reſidence here make me!

We were joined, in the ball-room, by Mr. Co⯑verley, Mr. Lovel, and Lord Merton, who look⯑ed as if he was doing penance, and ſat all the evening next to Lady Louiſa, vainly endeavouring to appeaſe her anger.

Lord Orville began the minuets; he danced with a young Lady who ſeemed to engage the ge⯑neral attention, as ſhe had not been ſeen here before. She is pretty, and looks mild and good⯑humoured.

‘"Pray, Mr. Lovel,"’ ſaid Lady Louiſa, ‘"who is that?"’

‘"Miſs Belmont,"’ anſwered he, ‘"the young heireſs; ſhe came to the Wells yeſterday."’

Struck with the name, I involuntarily repeated it, but nobody heard me.

‘"What is her family?"’ ſaid Mrs. Beau⯑mont.

‘"Have you not heard of her, Ma'am?"’ cried he, ‘"ſhe is only daughter and heireſs of Sir John Belmont."’

Good Heaven, how did I ſtart! the name ſtruck my ear like a thunder-bolt. Mrs. Sel⯑wyn, who immediately looked at me, ſaid, ‘"Be calm, my dear, and we will learn the truth of all this."’

[156] Till then, I had never imagined her to be ac⯑quainted with my ſtory; but ſhe has ſince told me, that ſhe knew my unhappy mother, and was well informed of the whole affair.

She aſked Mr. Lovel a multitude of queſtions, and I gathered from his anſwers, that this young Lady was juſt come from abroad, with Sir John Belmont, who was now in London; that ſhe was under the care of his ſiſter, Mrs. Paterſon; and that ſhe would inherit a conſiderable eſtate.

I cannot expreſs the ſtrange feelings with which I was agitated during this recital. What, my dear⯑eſt Sir, can it poſſibly mean? Did you ever hear of any after-marriage?—or muſt I ſuppoſe, that, while the lawful child is rejected, another is adopt⯑ed?—I know not what to think! I am bewildered with a contrariety of ideas!

When we came home, Mrs. Selwyn paſſed more than an hour in my room, converſing upon this ſubject. She ſays that I ought inſtantly to go to town, find out my father, and have the affair cleared up. She aſſures me I have too ſtrong a reſemblance to my dear, though unknown mother, to allow of the leaſt heſitation in my being owned, when once I am ſeen. For my part, I have no wiſh but to act by your direction.

I can give no account of the evening; ſo diſ⯑turbed, ſo occupied am I by this ſubject, that I can think of no other. I have entreated Mrs. Sel⯑wyn to obſerve the ſtricteſt ſecrecy, and ſhe has promiſed that ſhe will. Indeed, ſhe has too much ſenſe to be idly communicative.

Lord Orville took notice of my being abſent and ſilent, but I ventured not to entruſt him with the cauſe. Fortunately, he was not of the party at the time Mr. Lovel made the diſcovery.

[157] Mrs. Selwyn ſays that if you approve my going to town, ſhe will herſelf accompany me. I had a thouſand times rather aſk the protection of Mrs. Mirvan, but, after this offer, that will not be poſſible.

Adieu, my deareſt Sir. I am ſure you will write immediately, and I ſhall be all impatience till your letter arrives.

LETTER XXIV.
Evelina in continuation.

LETTER XXV.
Evelina in continuation.

I HAVE only time, my deareſt Sir, for three words, to overtake my laſt letter, and prevent your expecting me immediately; for, when I communicated my intention to Mrs. Sel⯑wyn, ſhe would not hear of it, and declared, it would be highly ridiculous for me to go be⯑fore I received an anſwer to my intelligence, concerning the journey from Paris. She has, therefore, inſiſted upon my waiting till your next letter arrives. I hope you will not be diſpleaſed at my compliance, though it is rather againſt my own judgment; but Mrs. Selwyn quite overpowered me with the force of her argu⯑ments. I will, however, ſee very little of Lord Orville; I will never come down ſtairs before breakfaſt; give up all my walks in the garden,—ſeat myſelf next to Mrs. Selwyn, and not merely avoid his converſation, but ſhun his preſence. I will exert all the prudence, and all the reſolution in my power,—to prevent this ſhort delay from giving you any further uneaſineſs.

Adieu, my deareſt Sir. I ſhall not now leave Clifton till I have your directions.

LETTER XXVI.
Evelina in continuation.

YESTERDAY, from the time I received your kind, though heart-piercing letter, I kept my room,—for I was equally unable and unwilling to ſee Lord Orville: but this morning, finding I ſeemed deſtined to paſs a few days longer here, I endeavoured to calm my ſpirits, and to appear as uſual; though I determined to avoid him as much as ſhould be in my power. Indeed, as I entered the parlour, when called to breakfaſt, my thoughts were ſo much occupied with your letter, that I felt as much confuſion at his ſight, as if he had himſelf been informed of its con⯑tents.

Mrs. Beaumont made me a ſlight compliment upon my recovery, for I had pleaded illneſs to excuſe keeping my room: Lady Louiſa ſpoke not a word: but Lord Orville, little imagining himſelf the cauſe of my indiſpoſition, enquired concerning my health with the moſt diſtinguiſh⯑ing politeneſs. I hardly made any anſwer, and, for the firſt time ſince I have been here, contriv⯑ed to ſit at ſome diſtance from him.

I could not help obſerving that my reſerve ſurpriſed him; yet he perſiſted in his civilities, and ſeemed to wiſh to remove it. But I paid him but very little attention; and the moment breakfaſt was over, inſtead of taking a book, or walking in the garden, I retired to my own room.

[168] Soon after, Mrs. Selwyn came to tell me that Lord Orville had been propoſing I ſhould take an airing, and perſuading her to let him drive us both in his phaeton. She delivered the meſ⯑ſage with an archneſs that made me bluſh, and added, that an airing, in my Lord Orville's car⯑riage, could not fail to revive my ſpirits. There is no poſſibility of eſcaping her diſcernment; ſhe has frequently rallied me upon his Lordſhip's at⯑tention,—and, alas!—upon the pleaſure with which I have received it! However, I abſolute⯑ly refuſed the offer.

‘"Well,"’ ſaid ſhe, laughing, ‘"I cannot juſt now indulge you with any ſolicitation; for, to tell you the truth, I have buſineſs to tranſact at the Wells, and am glad to be excuſed myſelf. I would aſk you to walk with me,—but, ſince Lord Orville is refuſed, I have not the preſumption to hope for ſucceſs."’

‘"Indeed,"’ cried I, ‘"you are miſtaken; I will attend you with pleaſure."’

‘"O rare coquetry!"’ cried ſhe, ‘"ſurely it muſt be inherent in our ſex, or it could not have been imbibed at Berry Hill."’

I had not ſpirits to anſwer her, and therefore put on my hat and cloak in ſilence.

‘"I preſume,"’ continued ſhe, drily, ‘"his Lordſhip may walk with us?"’

‘"If ſo, Madam,"’ ſaid I, ‘"you will have a companion, and I will ſtay at home."’

‘"My dear child,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"did you bring the certificate of your birth with you?"’

‘"Dear Madam, no!"’

‘"Why then, we ſhall never be known again at Berry Hill."’

I felt too conſcious to enjoy her pleaſantry; but I believe ſhe was determined to torment me; [169] for ſhe aſked if ſhe ſhould inform Lord Orville that I deſired him not to be of the party?

‘"By no means, Madam;—but, indeed, I had rather not walk myſelf."’

‘"My dear,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"I really do not know you this morning,—you have certainly been taking a leſſon of Lady Louiſa."’

She then went down ſtairs; but preſently re⯑turning, told me ſhe had acquainted Lord Orville that I did not chooſe to go out in the phaeton, but preferred a walk, tete-a-tete with her, by way of variety.

I ſaid nothing, but was really vexed. She bid me go down ſtairs, and ſaid ſhe would follow im⯑mediately.

Lord Orville met me in the hall. ‘"I fear,"’ ſaid he, ‘"Miſs Anville is not yet quite well?"’ and he would have taken my hand, but I turned from him, and courtſying ſlightly, went into the parlour.

Mrs. Beaumont and Lady Louiſa were at work: Lord Merton was talking with the latter; for he has now made his peace, and been again received into favour.

I ſeated myſelf, as uſual, by the window. Lord Orville, in a few minutes, came to me, and ſaid, ‘"Why is Miſs Anville ſo grave?"’

‘"Not grave, my Lord,"’ ſaid I, ‘"only ſtu⯑pid;"’ and I took up a book.

‘"You will go,"’ ſaid he, after a ſhort pauſe, ‘"to the aſſembly to-night?"’

‘"No, my Lord, certainly not."’

‘"Neither, then, will I; for I ſhould be ſorry to ſully the remembrance I have of the happineſs I enjoyed at the laſt."’

Mrs. Selwyn then coming in, general enquiries were made, to all but me, of who would go to [170] the aſſembly. Lord Orville inſtantly declared he had letters to write at home; but every one elſe [...]ettled to go.

I then haſtened Mrs. Selwyn away, tho' not be⯑fore ſhe had ſaid to Lord Orville, ‘"Pray has your Lordſhip obtained Miſs Anville's leave to favour us with your company?"’

‘"I have not, Madam,"’ anſwered he, ‘"had the vanity to aſk it."’

During our walk, Mrs. Selwyn tormented me unmercifully. She told me, that ſince I declined any addition to our party, I muſt, doubtleſs, be conſcious of my own powers of entertainment; and begged me, therefore, to exert them freely. I repented a thouſand times having conſented to walk alone with her; for though I made the moſt painful efforts to appear in ſpirits, her raillery quite overpowered me.

The firſt place we went to was the pump-room. It was full of company; and the moment we en⯑tered, I heard a murmuring of, ‘"That's ſhe!"’ and, to my great confuſion, I ſaw every eye turn⯑ed towards me. I pulled my hat over my face, and, by the aſſiſtance of Mrs. Selwyn, endeavour⯑ed to ſcreen myſelf from obſervation: neverthe⯑leſs, I found I was ſo much the object of general attention, that I entreated her to haſten away. But, unfortunately, ſhe had entered into conver⯑ſation, very earneſtly, with a gentleman of her acquaintance, and would not liſten to me, but ſaid, that if I was tired of waiting, I might walk on to the milliner's with the Miſs Watkins, two young ladies I had ſeen at Mrs. Beaumont's who were going thither.

I accepted the offer very readily, and away we went. But we had not gone three yards, ere we were followed by a party of young men, who [171] took every poſſible opportunity of looking at us, and, as they walked behind, talked aloud, in a manner at once unintelligible and abſurd. ‘"Yes,"’ cried one, ‘"'tis certainly ſhe!"’—mark but her bluſhing cheek!

‘"And then her eye,—her downcaſt eye!"’ cried another.

‘"True, oh moſt true,"’ ſaid a third, ‘every beauty is her own!"’

‘"But then,"’ ſaid the firſt, ‘"her mind,—now the difficulty is, to find out the truth of that,—for ſhe will not ſay a word."’

‘"She is timid,"’ anſwered another; ‘"mark but her timid air."’

During this converſation, we all walked on, ſi⯑lent and quick; as we knew not to whom it was particularly addreſſed, we were all equally aſham⯑ed, and equally deſirous to avoid ſuch unaccoun⯑table obſervations.

Soon after, we were caught in a violent ſhower of rain. We hurried on, and the care of our cloaths occupying our hands, we were ſeparated from one another. Theſe gentlemen offered their ſervices in the moſt preſſing manner, begging us to make uſe of their arms; and two of them were ſo particularly troubleſome to me, that, in my haſte to avoid them, I unfortunately ſtumbled, and fell down. They both aſſiſted in helping me up; and that very inſtant, while I was yet between them, upon raiſing my eyes, the firſt object they met was Sir Clement Willough⯑by!

He ſtarted; ſo, I am ſure, did I. ‘"Good God!"’ exclaimed he, with his uſual quickneſs, ‘"Miſs Anville!—I hope to Heaven you are not hurt?"’

[172] ‘"No,"’ cried I, ‘"not at all; but I am ter⯑ribly dirtied."’ I then, without much difficulty, diſengaged myſelf from my tormentors, who im⯑mediately gave way to Sir Clement, and entirely quitted us.

He teized me to make uſe of his arm; and, when I declined it, aſked, very ſignificantly, if I was much acquainted with thoſe gentlemen who had juſt left me?

‘"No,"’ anſwered I, ‘"they are quite un⯑known to me."’

‘"And yet,"’ ſaid he, ‘"you allowed them the honour of aſſiſting you. Oh, Miſs Anville, to me alone will you ever be thus cruel?"’

‘"Indeed, Sir Clement, their aſſiſtance was forced upon me, for I would have given the world to have avoided them."’

‘"Good God!"’ cried he, ‘"why did I not ſooner know your ſituation?—But I only arrived here this morning, and I had not even learnt where you lodged."’

‘"Did you know, then, that I was at Briſ⯑tol?"’

‘"Would to Heaven,"’ cried he, ‘"that I could remain in ignorance of your proceedings with the ſame contentment you do of mine! then ſhould I not for ever journey upon the wings of hope, to meet my own deſpair! You cannot even judge of the cruelty of my fate, for the eaſe and ſerenity of your mind, incapacitates you from feel⯑ing for the agitation of mine."’

The eaſe and ſerenity of my mind! alas, how little do I merit thoſe words!

‘"But;"’ added he, ‘"had accident brought me hither, had I not known of your journey, the voice of fame would have proclaimed it to me in⯑ſtantly upon my arrival."’

‘"The voice of fame!"’ repeated I.

[173] ‘"Yes, for your's was the firſt name I heard at the pump-room. But, had I not heard your name, ſuch a deſcription could have painted no one elſe."’

‘"Indeed,"’ ſaid I, ‘"I do not underſtand you."’ But, juſt then arriving at the milliner's, our con⯑verſation ended; for I ran up ſtairs to wipe the dirt off my gown. I ſhould have been glad to have remained there till Mrs. Selwyn came, but the Miſs Watkins called me into the ſhop, to look at caps and ribbons.

I found Sir Clement buſily engaged in looking at lace ruffles. Inſtantly, however, approaching me, ‘"How charmed I am,"’ ſaid he, ‘"to ſee you look ſo well! I was told you were ill,—but I never ſaw you in better health,—never more infi⯑nitely lovely!"’

I turned away to examine the ribbons, and ſoon after Mrs. Selwyn made her appearance. I found that ſhe was acquainted with Sir Clement, and her manner of ſpeaking to him, convinced me that he was a favourite with her.

When their mutual compliments were over, ſhe turned to me, and ſaid, ‘"Pray, Miſs An⯑ville, how long can you live without nouriſh⯑ment?"’

‘"Indeed, Ma'am,"’ ſaid I, laughing, ‘"I have never tried."’

‘"Becauſe ſo long, and no longer,"’ anſwered ſhe, ‘"you may remain at Briſtol."’

‘"Why, what is the matter, Ma'am?"’

‘"The matter!—why, all the ladies are at open war with you,—the whole pump-room is in con⯑fuſion; and you, innocent as you pretend to look, are the cauſe. However if you take my advice, you will be very careful how you eat and drink during your ſtay."’

[174] I begged her to explain herſelf: and ſhe then told me, that a copy of verſes had been dropt in the pump-room, and read there aloud: ‘"The beauties of the well,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"are all menti⯑oned, but you are the Venus to whom the prize is given."’

‘"Is it then poſſible,"’ cried Sir Clement, ‘"that you have not ſeen theſe verſes?"’

‘"I hardly know,"’ anſwered I, ‘"whether any body has."’

‘"I aſſure you,"’ ſaid Mrs. Selwyn, ‘"if you give me the invention of them, you do me an ho⯑nour I by no means deſerve."’

‘"I wrote down in my tablets,"’ ſaid Sir Cle⯑ment, ‘"the ſtanzas which concern Miſs Anville, this morning at the pump-room; and I will do myſelf the honour of copying them for her this evening."’

‘"But why the part that concerned Miſs Anvil⯑le?"’ ſaid Mrs. Selwyn; ‘"Did you ever ſee her before this morning?"’

‘"Oh yes,"’ anſwered he, ‘"I have had that happineſs frequently at Captain Mirvan's. Too, too frequently!"’ added he, in a low voice, as Mrs. Selwyn turned to the milliner: and, as ſoon as ſhe was occupied in examining ſome trimmings, he came to me, and, almoſt whe⯑ther I would or not, entered into converſation with me.

‘"I have a thouſand things,"’ cried he, ‘"to ſay to you. Pray where are you?"’

‘"With Mrs. Selwyn, Sir."’

‘"Indeed!—then, for once, Chance is my friend. And how long have you been here?"’

‘"About three weeks."’

‘"Good Heaven! what an anxious ſearch have I had, to diſcover your abode, ſince you ſo ſud⯑denly [175] left town! The termagant Madame Duval refuſed me all intelligence. Oh, Miſs Anville, did you know what I have endured! the ſleep⯑leſs, reſtleſs ſtate of ſuſpence I have been tortur⯑ed with, you could not, all cruel as you are, you could not have received me with ſuch frigid indif⯑ference!"’

‘"Received you, Sir!"’

‘"Why, is not my viſit to you? Do you think I ſhould have made this journey, but for the hap⯑pineſs of again ſeeing you?"’

‘"Indeed it is poſſible I might,—ſince ſo many others do."’

‘"Cruel, cruel girl! you know that I adore you!—you know you are the miſtreſs of my ſoul, and arbitreſs of my fate!"’

Mrs. Selwyn then advancing to us, he aſſumed a more diſengaged air, and aſked if he ſhould not have the pleaſure of ſeeing her, in the evening, at the aſſembly?

‘"Oh yes,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"we ſhall certainly be there; ſo you may bring the verſes with you, if Miſs Anville can wait for them ſo long."’

‘"I hope, then,"’ returned he, ‘"that you will do me the honour to dance with me?"’

I thanked him, but ſaid I ſhould not be at the aſſembly.

‘"Not be at the aſſembly!"’ cried Mrs. Selwyn, ‘"Why, have you, too, letters to write?"’

She looked at me with a ſignificant archneſs that made me colour; and I haſtily anſwered, ‘"No, indeed, Ma'am!"’

‘"You have not!"’ cried ſhe, yet more drily, ‘"then pray, my dear, do you ſtay at home to help,—or to hinder others?"’

[176] ‘"To do neither, Ma'am,"’ anſwered I, in much confuſion; ‘"ſo, if you pleaſe, I will not ſtay at home."’

‘"You allow me, then,"’ ſaid Sir Clement, ‘"to hope for the honour of your hand?"’

I only bowed,—for the dread of Mrs. Selwyn's raillery made me not dare to refuſe him.

Soon after this, we walked home; Sir Cle⯑ment accompanied us, and the converſation that paſſed between Mrs. Selwyn and him was ſup⯑ported in ſo lively a manner, that I ſhould have been much entertained, had my mind been more at eaſe: but alas! I could think of nothing but the capricious, the unmeaning appearance which the alteration in my conduct muſt make in the eyes of Lord Orville! And, much as I wiſh to avoid him, greatly as I deſire to ſave myſelf from having my weakneſs known to him,—yet I can⯑not endure to incur his ill opinion,—and, unac⯑quainted as he is with the reaſons by which I am actuated, how can he fail contemning a change, to him ſo unaccountable?

As we entered the garden, he was the firſt ob⯑ject we ſaw. He advanced to meet us, and I could not help obſerving, that at ſight of each other, both he and Sir Clement changed colour.

We went into the parlour, where we found the ſame party we had left. Mrs. Selwyn preſented Sir Clement to Mrs. Beaumont; Lady Louiſa and Lord Merton he ſeemed well acquainted with already.

The converſation was upon the general ſubjects, of the weather, the company at the Wells, and the news of the day. But Sir Clement, drawing his chair next to mine, took every opportunity of addreſſing himſelf to me in particular.

I could not but remark the ſtriking difference of [177] his attention, and that of Lord Orville: the lat⯑ter has ſuch gentleneſs of manners, ſuch delicacy of conduct, and an air ſo reſpectful, that, when he flatters moſt, he never diſtreſſes, and when he moſt confers honour, appears to receive it! The former obtrudes his attention, and forces mine; it is ſo pointed, that it always confuſes me, and ſo public, that it attracts general notice. Indeed I have ſometimes thought that he would rather wiſh, than diſlike to have his partiality for me known, as he takes great care to prevent my be⯑ing ſpoken to by any body but himſelf.

When, at length, he went away, Lord Or⯑ville took his ſeat, and ſaid with a half-ſmile, ‘"Shall I call Sir Clement,—or will you call me an uſurper, for taking this place?—You make me no anſwer?—Muſt I then ſuppoſe that Sir Clement—"’

‘"It is little worth your Lordſhip's while,"’ ſaid I, ‘"to ſuppoſe any thing upon ſo inſignificant an occaſion."’

‘"Pardon me,"’ cried he,—‘"to me nothing is inſignificant in which you are concerned."’

To this I made no anſwer, neither did he ſay any thing more, till the ladies retired to dreſs; and then, when I would have followed them, he ſtopped me, ſaying, ‘"One moment, I entreat you!"’

I turned back, and he went on. ‘"I greatly fear that I have been ſo unfortunate as to offend you; yet ſo repugnant to my very ſoul is the idea, that I know not how to ſuppoſe it poſſible I can un⯑wittingly have done the thing in the world that, deſignedly, I would moſt wiſh to avoid."’

‘"No, indeed, my Lord, you have not!"’ ſaid I.

‘"You ſigh,"’ cried he, taking my hand, [178] ‘"would to Heaven I were the ſharer of your un⯑eaſineſs whenceſoever it ſprings! with what earn⯑eſtneſs would I not ſtruggle to alleviate it!—Tell me, my dear Miſs Anville,—my new-adopted ſiſ⯑ter, my ſweet and moſt amiable friend!—tell me, I beſeech you, if I can afford you any aſſiſtance?"’

‘"None, none, my Lord!"’ cried I, with⯑drawing my hand, and moving towards the door.

‘"Is it then impoſſible I can ſerve you?—per⯑haps you wiſh to ſee Mr. Macartney again?"’

‘"No, my Lord."’ And I held the door open.

‘"I am not, I own, ſorry for that. Yet, oh, Miſs Anville, there is a queſtion,—there is a con⯑jecture,—I know not how to mention, becauſe I dread the reſult!—But I ſee you are in haſte;—perhaps in the evening I may have the honour of a longer converſation.—Yet one thing will you have the goodneſs to allow me to aſk?—Did you, this morning when you went to the Wells,—did you know who you ſhould meet there?"’

‘"Who, my Lord?"’

‘"I beg your pardon a thonſand times for a curioſity ſo unlicenſed,—but I will ſay no more at preſent."’

He bowed, expecting me to go,—and then, with quick ſteps, but a heavy heart, I came to my own room. His queſtion, I am ſure, meant Sir Clement Willoughby; and, had I not impoſ⯑ed upon upon myſelf the ſevere taſk of avoiding, flying Lord Orville with all my power, I would inſtantly have ſatisfied him of my ignorance of Sir Clement's journey. And yet more did I long to ſay ſomething of the aſſembly, ſince I found he depended upon my ſpending the evening at home.

I did not go down ſtairs again till the family was aſſembled to dinner. My dreſs, I ſaw, ſtruck Lord Orville with aſtoniſhment; and I was my⯑ſelf [179] ſo much aſhamed of appearing whimſical and unſteady, that I could not look up.

‘"I underſtood,"’ ſaid Mrs. Beaumont, ‘"that Miſs Anville did not go out this evening?"’

‘"Her intention in the morning,"’ ſaid Mrs. Selwyn, ‘was to ſtay at home; but there is a faſ⯑cinating power in an aſſembly, which upon ſecond thoughts, is not to be reſiſted."’

‘"The aſſembly!"’ cried Lord Orville, ‘"are you then going to the aſſembly?"’

I made no anſwer; and we all took our places at table.

It was not without difficulty that I contrived to give up my uſual ſeat; but I was determined to adhere to the promiſe in my yeſterday's letter, though I ſaw that Lord Orville ſeemed quite con⯑founded at my viſible endeavours to avoid him.

After dinner, we all went into the drawing⯑room together, as there were no gentlemen to de⯑tain his Lordſhip; and then, before I could place myſelf out of his way, he ſaid, ‘"You are then really going to the aſſembly?—May I aſk if you ſhall dance?"’

‘"I believe not,—my Lord."’

‘"If I did not fear,"’ continued he, ‘"that you would be tired of the ſame partner at two follow⯑ing aſſemblies, I would give up my letter-writing till to-morrow, and ſolicit the honour of your hand."’

‘"If I do dance,"’ ſaid I, in great confuſion, ‘"I believe I am engaged."’

‘"Engaged!"’ cried he, with earneſtneſs, ‘"May I aſk to whom?"’

‘"To—Sir Clement Willoughby, my Lord?"’

He ſaid nothing, but looked very little pleaſed, and did not addreſs himſelf to me any more all the [180] afternoon. Oh, Sir!—thus ſituated, how com⯑fortleſs were the feelings of your Evelina!

Early in the evening, with his accuſtomed aſſiduity, Sir Clement came to conduct us to the aſſembly. He ſoon contrived to ſeat himſelf next me, and, in a low voice, paid me ſo many compliments, that I knew not which way to look.

Lord Orville hardly ſpoke a word, and his countenance was grave and thoughtful; yet when⯑ever I raiſed my eyes, his, I perceived, were di⯑rected towards me, though inſtantly, upon meet⯑ing mine, he looked another way.

In a ſhort time, Sir Clement, taking from his pocket a folded paper, ſaid, almoſt in a whiſ⯑per, ‘"Here, lovelieſt of women, you will ſee a faint, a ſucceſsleſs attempt, to paint the ob⯑ject of all my adoration! yet, weak as are the lines for the purpoſe, I envy beyond expreſ⯑ſion the happy mortal who has dared make the effort."’

‘"I will look at them,"’ ſaid I, ‘"ſome other time."’ For, conſcious that I was obſerved by Lord Orville, I could not bear he ſhould ſee me take a written paper, ſo privately offered, from Sir Clement. But Sir Clement is an im⯑practicable man, and I never yet ſucceeded in any attempt to fruſtrate whatever he had plan⯑ned.

‘"No,"’ ſaid he, ſtill in a whiſper, ‘"you muſt take it now, while Lady Louiſa is away,"’ (for ſhe and Mrs. Selwyn were gone up ſtairs to finiſh their dreſs,) ‘"as ſhe muſt by no means ſee them."’

‘"Indeed,"’ ſaid I, ‘"I have no intention to ſhew them."’

[181] ‘"But the only way,"’ anſwered he, ‘"to avoid ſuſpicion, is to take them in her ab⯑ſence. I would have read them aloud myſelf, but that they are not proper to be ſeen by any body in this houſe, yourſelf and Mrs. Selwyn excepted."’

Then again he preſented me the paper, which I now was obliged to take, as I found declin⯑ing it was vain. But I was ſorry that this action ſhould be ſeen, and the whiſpering remarked, though the purport of the converſation was left to conjecture.

As I held it in my hand, Sir Clement teaz⯑ed me to look at it immediately; and told me, that the reaſon he could not produce the lines publicly, was, that, among the ladies who were mentioned, and ſuppoſed to be rejected, was Lady Louiſa Larpent. I am much concerned at this circumſtance, as I cannot doubt but that it will render me more diſagreeable to her than ever, if ſhe ſhould hear of it.

I will now copy the verſes, which Sir Clement would not let me reſt till I had read.

I am ſure, my dear Sir, you will not won⯑der that a panegyric ſuch as this, ſhould, in [182] reading, give me the greateſt confuſion; and, un⯑fortunately, before I had finiſhed it, the ladies re⯑turned

‘"What have you there, my dear?"’ ſaid Mrs. Selwyn.

‘"Nothing, Ma'am,"’ ſaid I, haſtily ſolding, and putting it in my pocket.

‘"And has nothing,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"the power of rouge?"’

I made no anſwer; a deep ſigh which eſcap⯑ed Lord Orville, at that moment, reached my ears, and gave me ſenſations—which I dare not mention!

Lord Merton then handed Lady Louiſa, and Mrs. Beaumont, to the latter's carriage. Mrs. Selwyn led the way to Sir Clement's, who handed me in after her.

During the ride, I did not once ſpeak; but when I came to the aſſembly-room, Sir Clement took care that I ſhould not preſerve my ſilence. He aſked me immediately to dance; I begged him to excuſe me, and ſeek ſome other partner. But on the contrary, he told me he was very glad I would ſit ſtill, as he had a million of things to ſay to me.

He then began to tell me how much he had ſuf⯑fered from abſence; how greatly he was alarmed when he heard I had left town, and how cruelly difficult he had found it to trace me; which, at laſt, he could only do by ſacrificing another week to Captain Mirvan.

‘"And Howard Grove,"’ ſtill continued he, ‘"which, at my firſt viſit, I thought the moſt delightful ſpot upon earth, now appeared to be the moſt diſmal; the face of the country ſeemed al⯑tered: the walks, which I had thought moſt pleaſant, were now moſt ſtupid: Lady Howard, [183] who had appeared a chearful and reſpectable old lady, now ſeemed in the common John Trot ſtyle of other aged dames: Mrs. Mirvan, whom I had eſteemed as an amiable piece of ſtill-life, now became ſo inſipid, that I could hardly keep awake in her company: the daughter too, whom I had regarded as a good-humoured, pretty ſort of girl, now ſeemed too inſignificant for no⯑tice: and as to the Captain, I had always thought him a booby,—but now, he appeared a ſa⯑vage!"’

‘"Indeed, Sir Clement,"’ cried I, angrily, ‘"I will not hear you talk thus of my beſt friends."’

‘"I beg your pardon,"’ ſaid he, ‘"but the con⯑traſt of my two viſits was too ſtriking, not to be mentioned."’

He then aſked me what I thought of the verſes?

‘"Either,"’ ſaid I, ‘"that they are written iron⯑ically, or by ſome madman."’

Such a profuſion of compliments enſued, that I was obliged to propoſe dancing, in my own de⯑fence. When we ſtood up, ‘"I intended,"’ ſaid he, ‘"to have diſcovered the author by his looks; but I find you ſo much the general load⯑ſtone of attention, that my ſuſpicions change their object every moment. Surely you muſt your⯑ſelf have ſome knowledge who he is?"’

I told him, No. But, my dear Sir, I muſt own to you, I have no doubt but that Mr. Macartney, muſt be the author; no one elſe would ſpeak of me ſo partially; and, indeed, his poetical turn puts it, with me, beyond diſ⯑pute.

He aſked me a thouſand queſtions concerning Lord Orville; how long he had been at Briſtol? [184] —what time I had ſpent at Clifton?—whether he rode out every morning?—whether I ever truſted myſelf in a phaeton?—and a multitude of other enquiries, all made with his uſual freedom and impetuoſity.

Fortunately, as I much wiſhed to retire early, Lady Louiſa makes a point of being among the firſt who quit the rooms, and therefore we got home in very tolerable time.

Lord Orville's reception of us was grave and cold: far from diſtinguiſhing me, as uſual, by particular civilities, Lady Louiſa herſelf could not have ſeen me enter the room with more fri⯑gid unconcern, nor have more ſcrupulouſly a⯑voided honouring me with any notice. But, chiefly I was ſtruck to ſee, that he ſuffered Sir Clement, who ſtayed ſupper, to ſit between us, without any effort to prevent him, though, till then, he had ſeemed to be even tenacious of a ſeat next mine.

This little circumſtance affected me more than I can expreſs: yet I endeavoured to re⯑joice at it, ſince neglect and indifference from him may be my beſt friends.—But, alas!—ſo ſuddenly, ſo abruptly to forfeit his attention!—to loſe his friendſhip!—Oh, Sir, theſe thoughts pierced my ſoul!—ſcarce could I keep my ſeat; for not all my efforts could reſtrain the tears from trickling down my cheeks: however, as Lord Orville ſaw them not, (for Sir Clement's head was conſtantly between us,) I tried to col⯑lect my ſpirits, and ſucceeded ſo far as to keep my ſeat with decency, till Sir Clement took leave: and then, not daring to truſt my eyes to meet thoſe of Lord Orville, I retired.

I have been writing ever ſince; for, certain that I could not ſleep, I would not go to bed. [185] Tell me, my deareſt Sir, if you poſſibly can, tell me that you approve my change of con⯑duct,—tell me that my altered behaviour to Lord Orville is right,—that my flying his ſoci⯑ety, and avoiding his civilities, are actions which you would have dictated.—Tell me this, and the ſacrifices I have made will comfort me in the midſt of my regret,—for never, never can I ceaſe to regret that I have loſt the friendſhip of Lord Orville!—Oh, Sir, I have ſlighted,—have rejected,—have thrown it away!—No matter; it was an honour I merited not to pre⯑ſerve, and I now ſee,—that my mind was une⯑qual to ſuſtaining it without danger.

Yet, ſo ſtrong is the deſire you have implant⯑ed in me, to act with uprightneſs and propriety, that, however the weakneſs of my heart may diſtreſs and afflict me, it will never, I humbly truſt, render me wilfully culpable. The wiſh of doing well governs every other, as far as concerns my conduct,—for am I not your child?—the creature of your own forming?—Yet, oh Sir, friend, parent of my heart!—my feel⯑ings are all at war with my duties; and, while I moſt ſtruggle to acquire ſelf-approbation, my peace, my hopes, my happineſs,—are loſt!

'Tis you alone can compoſe a mind ſo cruelly agitated; you, I well know, can feel pity for the weakneſs to which you are a ſtranger; and, though you blame the affliction, ſoothe and com⯑fort the afflicted.

LETTER XXVII.
Mr. Villars to Evelina.

YOUR laſt communication, my deareſt child, is indeed aſtoniſhing; that an acknowledged daughter, and heireſs of Sir John Belmont ſhould be at Briſtol, and ſtill my Evelina bear the name of Anville, is to me inexplicable; yet the myſ⯑tery of the letter to Lady Howard prepared me to expect ſomething extraordinary upon Sir John Belmont's return to England.

Whoever this young lady may be, it is cer⯑tain ſhe now takes a place to which you have a right indiſputable. An after-marriage I never heard of; yet, ſuppoſing ſuch a one to have hap⯑pened, Miſs Evelyn was certainly the firſt wife, and therefore her daughter muſt, at leaſt, be en⯑titled to the name of Belmont.

Either there are circumſtances in this affair at preſent utterly incomprehenſible, or elſe ſome ſtrange and moſt atrocious fraud has been prac⯑tiſed; which of theſe two is the caſe, it now be⯑hoves us to enquire.

My reluctance to this ſtep, gives way to my conviction of its propriety, ſince the reputation of your dear, and much-injured mother muſt now either be fully cleared from blemiſh, or receive its final and indelible wound.

The public appearance of a daughter of Sir John Belmont will revive the remembrance of Miſs Evelyn's ſtory to all who have heard it,—who the mother was, will be univerſally demanded, [187] —and if any other Lady Belmont ſhall be named,—the birth of my Evelina will receive a ſtigma, againſt which, honour, truth, and in⯑nocence, may appeal in vain! a ſtigma which will eternally blaſt the fair fame of her vir⯑tuous mother, and caſt upon her blameleſs ſelf, the odium of a title, which not all her purity can reſcue from eſtabliſhed ſhame and diſ⯑honour.

No, my dear child, no; I will not quietly ſuffer the aſhes of your mother to be treated with ignominy. Her ſpotleſs character ſhall be juſti⯑fied to the world,—her marriage ſhall be ac⯑knowledged, and her child ſhall bear the name to which ſhe is lawfully entitled.

It is true, that Mrs. Mirvan would conduct this affair with more delicacy than Mrs. Sel⯑wyn;—yet, perhaps, to ſave time, is of all conſiderations, the moſt important, ſince the longer this myſtery is ſuffered to continue, the more difficult my be rendered its expla⯑nation. The ſooner, therefore, my dear, you can ſet out for town, the leſs formidable will be your taſk.

Let not your timidity, my dear love, depreſs your ſpirits: I ſhall, indeed, tremble for you, at a meeting ſo ſingular, and ſo affecting, yet there can be no doubt of the ſucceſs of your application:—I encloſe a letter from your un⯑happy mother, written, and reſerved purpoſe⯑ly, for this occaſion: Mrs. Clinton, too, who attended her in her laſt illneſs, muſt accom⯑pany you to town.—But, without any other certificate of your birth, that which you carry in your countenance, as it could not be effected by artifice, ſo it cannot admit of the ſmalleſt doubt.

[188] And now, my Evelina, committed, at length, to the care of your real parent, receive the fer⯑vent prayers, wiſhes, and bleſſings, of him who ſo fondly adopted you!

May'ſt thou, oh child of my boſom! may'ſt thou, in this change of ſituation, experience no change of diſpoſition! but receive with humility, and ſupport with meekneſs, the elevation to which thou art riſing! May thy manners, language, and deportment, all evince that modeſt equanimi⯑ty, and chearful gratitude, which not merely de⯑ſerve, but dignify proſperity! May'ſt thou, to the laſt moments of an unblemiſhed life, retain thy genuine ſimplicity, thy ſingleneſs of heart, thy guileleſs ſincerity! and may'ſt thou, ſtranger to oſtentation, and ſuperior to inſolence, with true greatneſs of ſoul, ſhine forth conſpicuous on⯑ly in beneficence!

LETTER XXVIII.
Lady Belmont to Sir John Belmont.

IN the firm hope that the moment of anguiſh which approaches will prove the period of my ſuf⯑ferrings, once more I addreſs myſelf to Sir John Belmont, in behalf of the child, who, if it ſur⯑vives its mother, will hereafter be the bearer of this letter.

[189] Yet in what terms,—oh moſt cruel of men!—can the loſt Caroline addreſs you, and not ad⯑dreſs you in vain? Oh deaf to the voice of com⯑paſſion,—deaf to the ſting of truth,—deaf to every tie of honour,—ſay, in what terms may the loſt Caroline addreſs you, and not addreſs you in vain?

Shall I call you by the loved, the reſpected ti⯑tle of huſband?—No, you diſclaim it!—the fa⯑ther of my infant?—No, you doom it to infamy!—the lover who reſcued me from a forced mar⯑riage?—No, you have yourſelf betrayed me!—the friend from whom I hoped ſuccour and protec⯑tion?—No, you have conſigned me to miſery and deſtruction!

Oh hardened againſt every plea of juſtice, re⯑morſe, or pity! how, and in what manner, may I hope to move thee? Is there one method I have left untried? remains there one reſource uneſſayed? No; I have exhauſted all the bit⯑terneſs of reproach, and drained every ſluice of compaſſion!

Hopeleſs, and almoſt deſperate, twenty times have I flung away my pen;—but the feelings of a mother, a mother agonizing for the fate of her child, again animating my courage, as often I have reſumed it.

Perhaps when I am no more, when the meaſure of my woes is compleated, and the ſtill, ſilent, un⯑reproaching duſt has received my ſad remains,—then, perhaps, when accuſation is no longer to be feared, nor detection to be dreaded, the voice of equity, and the cry of nature may be heard.

Liſten, oh Belmont, to their dictates! repro⯑bate not your child, though you have reprobated its mother. The evils that are paſt, perhaps, [190] when too late, you may wiſh to recall; the young creature you have perſecuted, perhaps, when too late, you may regret that you have deſtroyed;—you may think with horror of the deceptions you have practiſed, and the pangs of remorſe may follow me to the tomb:—oh Belmont, all my re⯑ſentment ſoftens into pity at the thought! what will become of thee, good Heaven, when with the eye of penitence, thou revieweſt thy paſt con⯑duct!

Hear, then, the ſolemn, the laſt addreſs with which the unhappy Caroline will importune thee.

If, when the time of thy contrition arrives,—for arrive it muſt!—when the ſenſe of thy trea⯑chery ſhall rob thee of almoſt every other, if then thy tortured heart ſhall ſigh to expiate thy guilt,—mark the conditions upon which I leave thee my forgiveneſs.

Thou know'ſt I am thy wife!—clear, then to the world the reputation thou haſt ſullied, and re⯑ceive as thy lawful ſucceſſor the child who will preſent thee this my dying requeſt.

The worthieſt, the moſt benevolent, the beſt of men, to whoſe conſoling kindneſs I owe the little tranquility I have been able to preſerve, has plighted me his faith that, upon no other conditi⯑ons, he will part with his helpleſs charge.

Should'ſt thou, in the features of this deſerted innocent, trace the reſemblance of the wretched Caroline,—ſhould its face bear the marks of its birth, and revive in thy memory the image of its mother, wilt thou not, Belmont, wilt thou not therefore renounce it?—Oh babe of my fondeſt affection! for whom already I experience all the tenderneſs of maternal pity!—look not like thy unfortunate mother,—left the parent whom the [191] hand of death may ſpare, ſhall be ſnatched from thee by the more cruel means of unnatural anti⯑pathy!

I can write no more. The ſmall ſhare of ſe⯑renity I have painfully acquired, will not bear the ſhock of the dreadful ideas that crowd upon me.

Adieu,—for ever!—

Yet oh!—ſhall I not, in this laſt farewell, which thou wilt not read till every ſtormy paſſion is extinct,—and the kind grave has emboſomed all my ſorrows,—ſhall I not offer to the man once ſo dear to me, a ray of conſolation to thoſe afflictions he has in reſerve? Suffer me, then, to tell thee, that my pity far exceeds my indignation,—that I will pray for thee in my laſt moments,—and that the recollection of the love I once bore thee, ſhall ſwallow up every other!

Once more, adieu!

LETTER XXIX.
Evelina to the Rev. Mr. Villars.

LETTER XXX.
Evelina in continuation.

AND now, my deareſt Sir, if the perturba⯑tion of my ſpirits will allow me, I will finiſh my laſt letter from Clifton Hill.

This morning, though I did not go down ſtairs early, I was the only perſon in the parlour when Lord Orville entered it. I felt no ſmall confuſion at ſeeing him alone, after having ſo long and ſucceſsfully avoided ſuch a meeting. As ſoon as the uſual compliments were over, I would have left the room, but he ſtopped me by ſaying, ‘"If I diſturb you, Miſs Anville, I am gone."’

‘"My Lord,"’ ſaid I, rather embarraſſed, ‘"I was juſt going."’

‘"I flattered myſelf,"’ cried he, ‘"I ſhould have had a moment's converſation with you."’

[204] I then turned back; and he ſeemed himſelf in ſome perplexity: but after a ſhort pauſe, ‘"You are very good,"’ ſaid he, ‘"to indulge my re⯑queſt; I have, indeed, for ſome time paſt, moſt ardently deſired an opportunity of ſpeaking to you."’

Again he pauſed; but I ſaid nothing, ſo he went on.

‘"You allowed me, Madam, a few days ſince, you allowed me to lay claim to your friendſhip,—to intereſt myſelf in your concerns,—to call you by the affectionate title of ſiſter,—and the ho⯑nour you did me, no man could have been more ſenſible of; I am ignorant, therefore, how I have been ſo unfortunate as to forfeit it:—but at preſent, all is changed! you fly me,—your averted eye ſhuns to meet mine, and you ſedulouſ⯑ly avoid my converſation."’

I was extremely diſconcerted at this grave, and but too juſt accuſation, and I am ſure I muſt look very ſimple;—but I made no anſwer.

‘"You will not, I hope,"’ continued he, ‘"con⯑demn me unheard; if there is any thing I have done,—or any thing I have neglected, tell me, I beſeech you, what, and it ſhall be the whole ſtudy of my thoughts how to deſerve your par⯑don."’

‘"Oh, my Lord,"’ cried I, penetrated at once with ſhame and gratitude, ‘"your too, too great politeneſs oppreſſes me!—you have done nothing,—I have never dreamt of offence;—if there is any pardon to be aſked, it is rather for me, than for you, to aſk it."’

‘"You are all ſweetneſs and condeſcenſion!"’ cried he, ‘"and I flatter myſelf, you will again allow me to claim thoſe titles, which I find my⯑ſelf ſo unable to forego. Yet, occupied as I am, [205] with an idea that gives me the ſevereſt uneaſineſs, I hope you will not think me impertinent, if I ſtill ſolicit, ſtill entreat, nay implore you tell me, to what cauſe your late ſudden, and to me moſt painful reſerve, was owing?"’

‘"Indeed, my Lord,"’ ſaid I, ſtammering, ‘"I dont,—I can't,—indeed, my Lord,—"’

‘"I am ſorry to diſtreſs you,"’ ſaid he, ‘"and aſhamed to be ſo urgent,—yet I know not how to be ſatisfied while in ignorance,—and the time when the change happened, makes me apprehend—may I, Miſs Anville, tell you what it makes me apprehend?"’

‘"Certainly, my Lord."’

‘"Tell me, then,"’—and pardon a queſtion moſt eſſentially important to me;—Had, or had not, Sir Clement Willoughby, any ſhare in cauſ⯑ing your inquietude?

‘"No, my Lord,"’ anſwered I, with firmneſs, ‘"none in the world."’

‘"A thouſand, thouſand thanks!"’ cried he: ‘"you have relieved me from a weight of con⯑jecture which I ſupported very painfully. But one thing more; is it, in any meaſure, to Sir Clement that I may attribute the alteration in your behaviour to myſelf, which, I could not but obſerve, began the very day of his arrival at the Hotwells?"’

‘"To Sir Clement, my Lord,"’ ſaid I, ‘"at⯑tribute nothing. He is the laſt man in the world who would have any influence over my conduct."’

‘"And will you, then, reſtore to me that ſhare of confidence and favour with which you honour⯑ed me before he came?"’

Juſt then, to my great relief,—for I knew not what to ſay,—Mrs. Beaumont opened the door, [206] and, in a few minutes, we went to breakfaſt.

Lord Orville was all gaiety; never did I ſee him more lively or more agreeable. Very ſoon after, Sir Clement Willoughby called to pay his reſpects, he ſaid, to Mrs. Beaumont. I then came to my own roon, where, indulging my re⯑flections, which now ſoothed, and now alarmed me, I remained very quietly, till I received your moſt kind letter.

Oh, Sir, how ſweet are the prayers you offer for your Evelina! how grateful to her are the bleſſings you pour upon her head!—You commit me to my real parent.—Ah, Guardian, Friend, Protector of my youth!—by whom my helpleſs infancy was cheriſhed, my mind formed, my ve⯑ry life preſerved,—you are the parent my heart acknowledges, and to you do I vow eternal duty, gratitude, and affection.

I look forward to the approaching interview with more fear than hope; but important as is this ſubject, I am, juſt now, wholly engroſſ⯑ed with another, which I muſt haſten to com⯑municate.

I immediately acquainted Mrs. Selwyn with the purport of your letter. She was charmed to find your opinion agreed with her own, and ſettled that we ſhould go to town to-morrow morning. And a chaiſe i [...] actually ordered to be here by one o'clock.

She then deſired me to pack up my cloaths; and ſaid ſhe muſt go, herſelf, to make ſpeeches, and tell lies to Mrs. Beaumont.

When I went down ſtairs to dinner, Lord Or⯑ville, who was ſtill in excellent ſpirits, reproached me for ſecluding myſelf ſo much from the com⯑pany. He ſat next me,—he would ſit next me,—at table; and he might, I am ſure, repeat what [207] heonce ſaid of me before, that he almoſt exhauſted himſelf in fruitleſs endeavours to entertain me;—for, indeed, I was not to be entertained: I was totally ſpiritleſs and dejected; the idea of the approaching meeting,—and oh Sir, the idea of the approaching parting,—gave a heavineſs to my heart, that I could neither conquer nor repreſs. I even regretted the half explanation that had paſſed, and wiſhed Lord Orville had ſupport⯑ed his own reſerve, and ſuffered me to ſupport mine.

However, when, during dinner, Mrs. Beau⯑mont ſpoke of our journey, my gravity was no longer ſingular; a cloud inſtantly overſpread the countenance of Lord Orville, and he became near⯑ly as thoughtful and as ſilent as myſelf.

We all went together to the drawing-room. After a ſhort and unentertaining converſation, Mrs. Selwyn ſaid ſhe muſt prepare for her jour⯑ney, and begged me to ſee for ſome books ſhe had left in the parlour.

And here, while I was looking for them, I was followed by Lord Orville. He ſhut the door after he came in, and approaching me with a look of great anxiety, ſaid, ‘"Is this true, Miſs Anville, are you going?"’

‘"I believe ſo, my Lord,"’ ſaid I, ſtill looking for the books.

‘"So ſuddenly, ſo unexpectedly muſt I loſe you?"’

‘"No great loſs, my Lord,"’ cried I, endea⯑vouring to ſpeak chearfully.

‘"Is it poſſible,"’ ſaid he, gravely, ‘"Miſs An⯑ville can doubt my ſincerity?"’

‘"I can't imagine,"’ cried I, ‘"what Mrs. Sel⯑wyn has done with theſe books."’

[208] ‘"Would to Heaven,"’ continued he, ‘"I might flatter myſelf you would allow me to prove it?"’

‘"I muſt run up ſtairs,"’ cried I, greatly confuſed, ‘"and aſk what ſhe has done with them."’

‘"You are going, then,"’ cried he, taking my hand, ‘"and you give me not the ſmalleſt hope of your return!—will you not, then, my too lovely friend!—will you not, at leaſt, teach me, with fortitude like your own, to ſupport your ab⯑ſence?"’

‘"My Lord,"’ cried I, endeavouring to diſen⯑gage my hand, ‘"pray let me go!"’

‘"I will,"’ cried he, to my inexpreſſible con⯑fuſion, dropping on one knee, ‘"if you wiſh to leave me!"’

‘"Oh, my Lord,"’ exclaimed I, ‘"riſe, I beſeech you, riſe!—ſuch a poſture to me!—ſurely your Lordſhip is not ſo cruel as to mock me!"’

‘"Mock you!"’ repeated he earneſtly, ‘"no, I revere you! I eſteem and I admire you above all human beings!—you are the friend to whom my ſoul is attached as to its better half! you are the moſt amiable, the moſt perfect of women! and you are dearer to me than language has the power of telling!"’

I attempt not to deſcribe my ſenſations at that moment; I ſcarce breathed; I doubted if I ex⯑iſted,—the blood forſook my cheeks, and my feet refuſed to ſuſtain me: Lord Orville, haſtily riſing, ſupported me to a chair, upon which I ſunk, almoſt lifeleſs.

For a few minutes, we neither of us ſpoke; and then, ſeeing me recover, Lord Orville, though in terms hardly articulate, entreated my pardon [209] for his abruptneſs. The moment my ſtrength re⯑turned, I attempted to riſe, but he would not per⯑mit me.

I cannot write the ſcene that followed, though every word is engraven on my heart: but his proteſtations, his expreſſions, were too flattering for repetition: nor would he, in ſpite of my re⯑peated efforts to leave him, ſuffer me to eſcape;—in ſhort, my dear Sir, I was not proof againſt his ſolicitations—and he drew from me the moſt ſacred ſecret of my heart!

I know not how long we were together, but Lord Orville was upon his knees, when the door was opened by Mrs. Selwyn! To tell you, Sir, the ſhame with which I was overwhelmed, would be impoſſible;—I ſnatched my hand from Lord Orville,—he, too, ſtarted and roſe, and Mrs. Selwyn, for ſome inſtants, ſtood facing us both in ſilence.

At laſt, ‘"My Lord,"’ ſaid ſhe, ſarcaſtically, ‘"have you been ſo good as to help Miſs Anville to look for my books?"’

‘"Yes, Madam,"’ ſaid he, attempting to ral⯑ly, ‘"and I hope we ſhall ſoon be able to find them."’

‘"Your Lordſhip is extremely kind,"’ ſaid ſhe, drily, ‘"but I can by no means conſent to take up any more of your time."’ Then looking on the window-ſeat, ſhe preſently found the books, and added, ‘"Come, here are juſt three, and ſo, like the ſervants in the Drummer, this important affair may give employment to us all."’ She then preſented one to Lord Orville, another to me, and taking a third herſelf, with a moſt provoking look, ſhe left the room.

I would inſtantly have followed her; but Lord Orville, who could not help laughing, begged me [210] to ſtay a minute, as he had many important mat⯑ters to diſcuſs.

‘"No, indeed, my Lord, I cannot,—perhaps I have already ſtayed too long."’

‘"Does Miſs Anville ſo ſoon repent her good⯑neſs?"’

‘"I ſcarce know what I do, my Lord,—I am quite bewildered!"’

‘"One hour's converſation,"’ cried he, ‘"will I hope compoſe your ſpirits, and confirm my hap⯑pineſs. When, then, may I hope to ſee you alone?—ſhall you walk in the garden to-morrow before breakfaſt?"’

‘"No, no, my Lord; you muſt not, a ſe⯑cond time, reproach me with making an appoint⯑ment."’

‘"Do you, then,"’ ſaid he, laughing, ‘"re⯑ſerve that honour only for Mr. Macartney?"’

‘"Mr. Macartney,"’ ſaid I, ‘"is poor, and thinks himſelf obliged to me; otherwiſe—"’

‘"Poverty,"’ cried he, ‘"I will not plead; but if being obliged to you has any weight, who ſhall diſpute my title to an appointment?"’

‘"My Lord, I can ſtay no longer,—Mrs. Sel⯑wyn will loſe all patience."’

‘"Deprive her not of the pleaſure of her con⯑jectures;—but, tell me, are you under Mrs. Sel⯑wyn's care?"’

‘"Only for the preſent, my Lord."’

‘"Not a few are the queſtions I have to aſk Miſs Anville: among them, the moſt important is, whether ſhe depends wholly on herſelf, or whether there is any other perſon for whoſe inte⯑reſt I muſt ſolicit?"’

‘"I hardly know, my Lord, I hardly know my⯑ſelf to whom I moſt belong!’

[211] ‘"Suffer, ſuffer me then,"’ cried he, with warmth, ‘"to haſten the time when that ſhall no longer admit a doubt!—when your grateful Orville may call you all his own!"’

At length, but with difficulty, I broke from him. I went, however, to my own room, for I was too much agitated to follow Mrs. Selwyn. Good God, my dear Sir, what a ſcene! ſurely the meeting for which I ſhall prepare to-morrow, cannot ſo greatly affect me! To be loved by Lord Orville,—to be the honoured choice of his noble heart,—my happineſs ſeemed too infinite to be borne, and I wept, even bitterly I wept, from the exceſs of joy which over-powered me.

In this ſtate of almoſt painful felicity, I conti⯑nued, till I was ſummoned to tea. When I re⯑entered the drawing-room, I rejoiced much to find it full of company, as the confuſion with which I met Lord Orville was rendered the leſs obſerv⯑able.

Immediately after tea, moſt of the company played at cards, and then,—and till ſupper⯑time, Lord Orville devoted himſelf wholly to me.

He ſaw that my eyes were red, and would not let me reſt till he had made me confeſs the cauſe; and when, though moſt reluctantly, I had acknowledged my weakneſs, I could with difficul⯑ty refrain from weeping again at the gratitude he expreſſed.

He earneſtly deſired to know if my journey could not be poſtponed; and when I ſaid no, en⯑treated permiſſion to attend me to town.

‘"Oh, my Lord,"’ cried I, ‘"what a re⯑queſt!"’

‘"The ſooner,"’ anſwered he, ‘"I make my devotion to you public, the ſooner I may expect, [212] from your delicacy, you will convince the world you encourage no mere danglers."’

‘"You teach me, then, my Lord, the inference I might expect, if I complied."’

‘"And can you wonder I ſhould ſeek to haſten [...]he happy time, when no ſcruples, no diſcretion, will demand our ſeparation? and when the moſt punctilious delicacy will rather promote, than op⯑poſe, my happineſs in attending you?"’

To this I was ſilent, and he re-urged his re⯑queſt.

‘"My Lord,"’ ſaid I, ‘"you aſk what I have no power to grant. This journey will deprive me of all right to act for myſelf."’

‘"What does Miſs Anville mean?"’

‘"I cannot now explain myſelf; indeed, if I could, the taſk would be both painful and te⯑dious."’

‘"O Miſs Anville,"’ cried he, ‘"when may I hope to date the period of this myſtery? when flatter myſelf that my promiſed friend will indeed honour me with her confidence?"’

‘"My Lord,"’ cried I, ‘"I mean not to affect any myſtery,—but my affairs are ſo circum⯑ſtanced, that a long and moſt unhappy ſtory, can alone explain them. However, if a ſhort ſuſpence will give your Lordſhip any uneaſi⯑neſs,—"’

‘"My beloved Miſs Anville,"’ cried he eagerly, ‘"pardon my impatience!—You ſhall tell me no⯑thing you would wiſh to conceal,—I will wait your own time for information, and truſt to your good⯑neſs for its ſpeed."’

‘"There is nothing, my Lord, I wiſh to conceal;—to poſtpone an explanation is all I deſire."’

[213] He then requeſted, that, ſince I would not al⯑low him to accompany me to town, I would permit him to write to me, and promiſe to anſwer his letters.

A ſudden recollection of the two letters which had already paſſed between us, occurring to me, I haſtily anſwered, ‘"No, indeed, my Lord!—"’

‘"I am extremely ſorry,"’ ſaid he, gravely, ‘"that you think me too preſumptuous. I muſt own I had flattered myſelf that to ſoften the in⯑quietude of an abſence which ſeems attended by ſo many inexplicable circumſtances, would not have been to incur your diſpleaſure."’

This ſeriouſneſs hurt me; and I could not forbear ſaying, ‘"Can you indeed deſire, my Lord, that I ſhould, a ſecond time, expoſe myſelf, by an unguarded readineſs to write to you?"’

‘"A ſecond time! unguarded readineſs!"’ re⯑peated he; ‘"you amaze me!"’

‘"Has your Lordſhip then quite forgot the fool⯑iſh letter I was ſo imprudent as to ſend you when in town?"’

‘"I have not the leaſt idea,"’ cried he, ‘"of what you mean."’

‘"Why then, my Lord,"’ ſaid I, ‘"we had better let the ſubject drop."’

‘"Impoſſible!"’ cried he, ‘"I cannot reſt with⯑out an explanation!"’

And then, he obliged me to ſpeak very openly of both the letters; but, my dear Sir, imagine my ſurpriſe, when he aſſured me, in the moſt ſo⯑lemn manner, that far from having ever written me a ſingle line, he had never received, ſeen, or heard of my letter!

[214] This ſubject, which cauſed mutual aſtoniſh⯑ment and perplexity to us both, entirely engroſſed us for the reſt of the evening; and he made me promiſe to ſhew him the letter I had received in his name to-morrow morning, that he might en⯑deavour to diſcover the author.

After ſupper, the converſation became gene⯑ral.

And now, my deareſt Sir, may I not call for your congratulations upon the events of this day? a day never to be recollected by me but with the moſt grateful joy! I know how much you are in⯑clined to think well of Lord Orville, I cannot, therefore, apprehend that my frankneſs to him will diſpleaſe you. Perhaps the time is not very diſtant when your Evelina's choice may receive the ſanction of her beſt friend's judgment and approbation,—which ſeems now all ſhe has to wiſh!

In regard to the change in my ſituation which muſt firſt take place, ſurely I cannot be blamed for what has paſſed! the partiality of Lord Or⯑ville muſt not only reflect honour upon me, but upon all to whom I do, or may belong.

Adieu, moſt dear Sir. I will write again when I arrive at London.

LETTER XXXI.
Evelina in continuation.

YOU will ſee, my dear Sir, that I was miſta⯑ken in ſuppoſing I ſhould write no more from this [215] place, where my reſidence, now, ſeems more un⯑certain than ever.

This morning, during breakfaſt, Lord Orville took an opportunity to beg me, in a low voice, to allow him a moment's converſation before I left Clifton; ‘"May I hope,"’ added he, ‘"that you will ſtroll into the garden after breakfaſt?"’

I made no anſwer, but I believe my looks gave no denial; for, indeed, I much wiſhed to be ſa⯑tisfied concerning the letter. The moment, there⯑fore, that I could quit the parlour I ran up ſtairs for my calaſh; but before I reached my room, Mrs. Selwyn called after me, ‘"If you are go⯑ing to walk, Miſs Anville, be ſo good as to bid Jenny bring down my hat, and I'll accompany you."’

Very much diſconcerted, I turned into the draw⯑ing-room, without making any anſwer, and there I hoped to wait unſeen, till ſhe had otherwiſe diſ⯑poſed of herſelf. But, in a few minutes, the door opened, and Sir Clement Willoughby en⯑tered.

Starting at the ſight of him, in riſing haſtily, I let drop the letter which I had brought for Lord Orville's inſpection, and, before I could recover it, Sir Clement, ſpringing forward, had it in his hand. He was juſt preſenting it to me, and, at the ſame time, enquiring after my health, when the ſignature caught his eye, and he read aloud ‘"Orville."’

I endeavoured, eagerly, to ſnatch it from him, but he would not permit me, and, holding it faſt, in a paſſionate manner exclaimed, ‘"Good God, Miſs Anville, is it poſſible you can value ſuch a letter as this?"’

The queſtion ſurpriſed and confounded me, and I was too much aſhamed to anſwer him; but [216] finding he made an attempt to ſecure it, I pre⯑vented him, and vehemently demanded him to re⯑turn it.

‘"Tell me firſt,"’ ſaid he, holding it above my reach, ‘"tell me if you have, ſince, received any more letters from the ſame perſon?"’

‘"No, indeed,"’ cried I, ‘"never!"’

‘"And will you, alſo, ſweeteſt of women, promiſe that you never will receive any more? Say that, and you will make me the happieſt of men."’

‘"Sir Clement,"’ cried I, greatly confuſed, ‘"pray give me the letter."’

‘"And will you not firſt ſatisfy my doubts?—will you not relieve me from the torture of the moſt diſtracting ſuſpence?—tell me but that the deteſted Orville has written to you no more!"’

‘"Sir Clement,"’ cried I, angrily, ‘"you have no right to make any conditions,—ſo pray give me the letter directly."’

‘"Why ſuch ſolicitude about this hateful let⯑ter? can it poſſibly deſerve your eagerneſs? tell me, with truth, with ſincerity tell me; Does it really merit the leaſt anxiety?"’

‘"No matter, Sir,"’ cried I, in great perplex⯑ity, ‘"the letter is mine, and therefore—"’

‘"I muſt conclude, then,"’ ſaid he, ‘"that the letter deſerves your utmoſt contempt,—but that the name of Orville is ſufficient to make you prize it."’

‘"Sir Clement,"’ cried I, colouring, ‘"you are quite—you are very much—the letter is not—"’

‘"O Miſs Anville,"’ cried he, ‘"you bluſh!—you ſtammer!—Great Heaven! it is then all as I feared!"’

[217] ‘"I know not,"’ cried I, half frightened, ‘"what you mean; but I beſeech you to give me the letter, and to compoſe yourſelf."’

‘"The letter,"’ cried he, gnaſhing his teeth, ‘"you ſhall never ſee more. You ought to have burnt it the moment you had read it!"’ And, in an inſtant, he tore it into a thouſand pieces.

Alarmed at a fury ſo indecently outrageous, I would have run out of the room; but he caught hold of my gown, and cried, ‘"Not yet, not yet muſt you go! I am but half-mad yet, and you muſt ſtay to finiſh your work. Tell me, there⯑fore, does Orville know your fatal partiality?—Say yes,"’ added he, trembling with paſſion, ‘"and I will fly you for ever!"’

‘"For Heaven's ſake, Sir Clement,"’ cried I, ‘"releaſe me!—if you do not, you will force me to call for help."’

‘"Call then,"’ cried he, ‘"inexorable and moſt unfeeling girl; call, if you pleaſe, and bid all the world witneſs your triumph!—but could ten worlds obey your call, I would not part from you till you had anſwered me. Tell me, then, does Orville know you love him?"’

At any other time, an enquiry ſo groſs would have given me inexpreſſible confuſion; but now, the wildneſs of his manner terrified me, and I only ſaid, ‘"Whatever you wiſh to know, Sir Clement, I will tell you another time; but for the preſent, I entreat you to let me go!"’

‘"Enough,"’ cried he, ‘"I underſtand you!—the art of Orville has prevailed;—cold, inani⯑mate, phlegmatic as he is, you have rendered him the moſt envied of men!—One thing more, and I have done:—Will he marry you?’

What a queſtion! my cheeks glowed with in⯑dignation, [218] and I felt too proud to make any an⯑ſwer.

‘"I ſee, I ſee how it is,"’ cried he, after a ſhort pauſe, ‘"and I find I am undone for ever!"’ Then, letting looſe my gown, he put his hand to his forehead, and walked up and down the room in a haſty and agitated manner.

Though now at liberty to go, I had not the courage to leave him: for his evident diſtreſs ex⯑cited all my compaſſion. And this was our ſitua⯑tion, when Lady Louiſa, Mr. Coverley, and Mrs. Beaumont, entered the room.

‘"Sir Clement Willoughby,"’ ſaid the latter, ‘"I beg pardon for making you wait ſo long, but—"’

She had not time for another word; Sir Cle⯑ment, too much diſordered to know or care what he did, ſnatched up his hat, and bruſhing haſtily paſt her, flew down ſtairs, and out of the houſe.

And with him went my ſincereſt pity, though I earneſtly hope I ſhall ſee him no more. But what, my dear Sir, am I to conclude from his ſtrange ſpeeches concerning the letter? does it not ſeem as if he was himſelf the author of it? How elſe ſhould he be ſo well acquainted with the contempt it me⯑rits? Neither do I know another human being who could ſerve any intereſt by ſuch a deception. I remember too, that juſt as I had given my own letter to the maid, Sir Clement came into the ſhop; probably he prevailed upon her, by ſome bribery, to give it to him, and afterwards, by the ſame means, to deliver to me an anſwer of his own writing. Indeed I can in no other manner account for this affair. Oh, Sir Clement, were you not yourſelf unhappy, I know not how I could pardon an artifice that has cauſed me ſo much uneaſineſs!

[219] His abrupt departure occaſioned a kind of gene⯑ral conſternation.

‘"Very extraordinary behaviour this!"’ cried Mrs. Beaumont.

‘"Egad,"’ ſaid Mr. Coverley, ‘"the Baronet has a mind to tip us a touch of the heroicks this morning!’

‘"I declare,"’ cried Lady Louiſa, ‘"I never ſaw any thing ſo monſtrous in my life! it's quite abominable,—I fancy the man's mad;—I'm ſure he has given me a ſhocking fright!"’

Soon after, Mrs. Selwyn came up ſtairs, with Lord Merton. The former, advancing haſtily to me, ſaid, ‘"Miſs Anville, have you an alma⯑nack?"’

‘"Me!—no, Ma'am."’

‘"Who has one, then?"’

‘"Egad,"’ cried Mr. Coverley, ‘"I never bought one in my life; it would make me quite melancholy to have ſuch a time-keeper in my pocket. I would as ſoon walk all day before an hour-glaſs."’

‘"You are in the right,"’ ſaid Mrs. Selwyn, ‘"not to watch time, leſt you ſhould be betrayed, unawares, into reflecting how you employ it."’

‘"Egad, Ma'am,"’ cried he, ‘"if Time thought no more of me, than I do of Time, I be⯑lieve I ſhould bid defiance, for one while to old⯑age and wrinkles;—for deuce take me if ever I think about it at all."’

‘"Pray, Mr. Coverley,"’ ſaid Mrs. Selwyn, ‘"why do you think it neceſſary to tell me this ſo often?"’

‘"Often!"’ repeated he, ‘"Egad, Madam, I don't know, why I ſaid it now,—but I'm ſure I can't recollect that I ever owned as much before."’

[220] ‘"Owned it before!"’ cried ſhe, ‘"why, my dear Sir, you own it all day long; for every word, every look, every action proclaims it."’

I know not if he underſtood the full ſeverity of her ſatire, but he only turned off with a laugh: and ſhe then applied to Mr. Lovel, and aſked if he had an almanack?

Mr. Lovel, who always looks alarmed when ſhe addreſſes him, with ſome heſitation, anſwer⯑ed, ‘"I aſſure you, Ma'am, I have no manner of antipathy to an almanack,—none in the leaſt, I aſſure you;—I dare ſay I have four or five."’

‘"Four or five!—pray may I aſk what uſe you make of ſo many?"’

‘"Uſe!—really, Ma'am, as to that,—I don't make any particular uſe of them,—but one muſt have them, to tell one the day of the month;—I'm ſure, elſe, I ſhould never keep it in my head."’

‘"And does your time paſs ſo ſmoothly un⯑marked, that, without an almanack, you could not diſtinguiſh one day from another?"’

‘"Really, Ma'am,"’ cried he, colouring, ‘"I don't ſee any thing ſo very particular in having a few almanacks; other people have them, I be⯑lieve, as well as me."’

‘"Don't be offended,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"I have but made a little digreſſion. All I want to know, is the ſtate of the moon,—for if it is at the full I ſhall be ſaved a world of conjectures, and know at once to what cauſe to attribute the inconſiſten⯑cies I have witneſſed this morning. In the firſt place, I heard Lord Orville excuſe himſelf from going out, becauſe he had buſineſs of importance to tranſact at home,—yet have I ſeen him ſaunter⯑ing alone in the garden this half-hour. Miſs An⯑ville, on the other hand, I invited to walk out [221] with me; and, after ſeeking her every where round the houſe, I find her quietly ſeated in the drawing-room. And, but a few minutes ſince, Sir Clement Willoughby, with even more than his uſual politeneſs, told me he was come to ſpend the morning here,—when, juſt now, I met him flying down ſtairs, as if purſued by the Fu⯑ries; and, far from repeating his compliments, or making any excuſe, he did not even anſwer a queſtion I aſked him, but ruſhed paſt me, with the rapidity of a thief from a bailiff!"’

‘"I proteſt,"’ ſaid Mrs. Beaumont, ‘"I can't think what he meant; ſuch rudeneſs from a man of any family is quite incomprehenſible."’

‘"My Lord,"’ cried Lady Louiſa to Lord Mer⯑ton, ‘"do you know he did the ſame by me?—I was juſt going to aſk him what was the matter, but he ran paſt me ſo quick, that I declare he quite dazzled my eyes. You can't think, my Lord, how he frighted me; I dare ſay I look as pale—don't I look very pale, my Lord?"’

‘"Your Ladyſhip,"’ ſaid Mr. Lovel, ‘"ſo well becomes the lilies, that the roſes might bluſh to ſee themſelves ſo excelled."’

‘"Pray, Mr. Lovel,"’ ſaid Mrs. Selwyn, ‘"if the roſes ſhould bluſh, how would you find it out?"’

‘"Egad,"’ cried Mr. Coverley, ‘"I ſuppoſe they muſt bluſh, as the ſaying is, like a blue dog,—for they are red already."’

‘"Prithee, Jack,"’ ſaid Lord Merton, ‘"don't you pretend to talk about bluſhes, that never knew what they were in your life."’

‘"My Lord,"’ ſaid Mrs. Selwyn, ‘"if experi⯑ence alone can juſtify mentioning them, what an admirable treatiſe upon the ſubject may we not expect from your Lordſhip!"’

[222] ‘"O, pray, Ma'am,"’ anſwered he, ‘"ſtick to Jack Coverley,—he's your only man; for my part, I confeſs I have a mortal averſion to argu⯑ments."’

‘"O fie, my Lord,"’ cried Mrs. Selwyn, ‘a ſe⯑nator of the nation! a member of the nobleſt parliament in the world!—and yet neglect the art of oratory!"’

‘"Why, faith my Lord,"’ ſaid Mr. Lovel, ‘"I think, in general, your Houſe is not much addicted to ſtudy; we of the lower Houſe have indubitably moſt application; and, if I did not ſpeak before a ſuperior power,"’ (bowing low to Lord Merton) ‘I ſhould preſume to add, we have likewiſe the moſt able ſpeakers."’

‘"Mr. Lovel,"’ ſaid Mrs. Selwyn, ‘"you de⯑ſerve immortality for that diſcovery! But for this obſervation, and the confeſſion of Lord Merton, I proteſt I ſhould have ſuppoſed that a peer of the realm, and an able logician, were ſynonymous terms."’

Lord Merton, turning upon his heel, aſked Lady Louiſa, if ſhe ſhould take the air before dinner?

‘"Really,"’ anſwered ſhe, ‘"I don't know;—I'm afraid it's monſtrous hot; beſides,"’ (put⯑ting her hand to her forehead) ‘"I a'n't half well; it's quite horrid to have ſuch weak nerves—the leaſt thing in the world diſcompoſes me: I declare, that man's oddneſs has given me ſuch a ſhock,—I don't know when I ſhall recover from it. But I'm a ſad weak creature,—don't you think I am, my Lord?"’

‘"O, by no means,"’ anſwered he, ‘"your Ladyſhip is merely delicate,—and devil take me if ever I had the leaſt paſſion for an amazon."’

[223] ‘"I have the honour to be quite of your Lord⯑ſhip's opinion,"’ "ſaid Mr. Lovel, looking ma⯑liciouſly at Mrs. Selwyn, ‘"for I have an inſu⯑perable averſion to ſtrength, either of body or mind in a female."’

‘"Faith, and ſo have I,"’ ſaid Mr. Coverley; ‘"for egad I'd as ſoon ſee a woman chop wood, as hear her chop logic."’

‘"So would every man in his ſenſes,"’ ſaid Lord Merton; ‘"for a woman wants nothing to recommend her but beauty and good-nature; in every thing elſe ſhe is either impertinent or unna⯑tural. For my part, deuce take me if ever I wiſh to hear a word of ſenſe from a woman as long as live!"’

‘"It has always been agreed,"’ ſaid Mrs Sel⯑wyn, looking round her with the utmoſt con⯑tempt, ‘"that no man ought to be connected with a woman whoſe underſtanding is ſuperior to his own. Now I very much fear, that to accommodate all this good company, according to ſuch a rule, would be utterly impracticable, unleſs we ſhould chuſe ſubjects from Swift's hoſpital of idiots."’

How many enemies, my dear Sir, does this un⯑bounded ſeverity excite! Lord Merton, however, only whiſtled; Mr. Coverley ſang; and Mr. Lo⯑vel, after biting his lips ſome time, ſaid, ‘"'Pon honour, that lady—if ſhe was not a lady,—I ſhould be half tempted to obſerve,—that there is ſomething,—in ſuch ſeverity,—that is rather, I muſt ſay,—rather—oddiſh."’

Juſt then, a ſervant brought Lady Louiſa a note, upon a waiter, which is a ceremony always uſed to her Ladyſhip; and I took the opportunity of this interruption to the converſation, to ſteal out of the room.

[224] I went immediately to the parlour, which I found quite empty; for I did not dare walk in the garden after what Mrs. Selwyn had ſaid.

In a few minutes, a ſervant announced Mr. Macartney, ſaying, as he entered the room, that he would acquaint Lord Orville he was there.

Mr. Macartney rejoiced much at finding me alone. He told me he had taken the liberty to enquire for Lord Orville, by way of pretext for coming to the houſe.

I then very eagerly enquired if he had ſeen his father.

‘"I have, Madam,"’ ſaid he; ‘"and the ge⯑nerous compaſſion you have ſhewn made me haſten to acquaint you, that upon reading my un⯑happy mother's letter, he did not heſitate to ac⯑knowledge me."’

‘Good God,"’ cried I, with no little emotion, ‘"how ſimilar are our circumſtances! And did he receive you kindly?"’

‘"I could not, Madam, expect that he would: the cruel tranſaction that obliged me to fly Paris, was too recent in his memory."’

‘"And,—have you ſeen the young lady?"’

‘"No, Madam,"’ ſaid he mournfully, ‘"I was forbid her ſight."’

‘"Forbid her ſight!—and why?"’

‘"Partly, perhaps, from prudence,—and part⯑ly from the remains of a reſentment which will not eaſily ſubſide. I only requeſted leave to ac⯑quaint her with my relationſhip, and be allowed to call her ſiſter;—but it was denied me!—You have [...] ſiſter, ſaid Sir John, you muſt forget her exiſtence. Hard and vain command!"’

[225] ‘"You have, you have a ſiſter!"’ cried I, from an impulſe of pity which I could not repreſs, ‘"a ſiſter who is moſt warmly intereſted in all your concerns, and who only wants opportunity to ma⯑nifeſt her friendſhip and regard."’

‘"Gracious Heaven!"’ cried he, ‘"what does Miſs Anville mean?’

‘"Anville,"’ ſaid I, ‘"is not my real name; Sir John Belmont is my father,—he is your's,—and I am your ſiſter!—You ſee, therefore, the claim we mutually have to each other's regard; we are not merely bound by the ties of friend⯑ſhip, but by thoſe of blood. I feel for you, al⯑ready, all the affection of a ſiſter,—I felt it, in⯑deed, before I knew I was one.—Why, my dear brother, do you not ſpeak?—do you heſitate to acknowledge me?"’

‘"I am ſo loſt in aſtoniſhment,"’ cried he, ‘"that I know not if I hear right!—"’

‘"I have then found a brother,"’ cried I, holding out my hand, ‘"and he will not own me!"’

‘"Own you!—Oh, Madam,"’ cried he ac⯑cepting my offered hand, ‘"is it, indeed, poſſi⯑ble you can own me?—a poor wretched adven⯑turer! who ſo lately had no ſupport but from your generoſity?—whom your benevolence ſnatch⯑ed from utter deſtruction?—Can you,—Oh Madam, can you indeed, and without a bluſh, condeſcend to own ſuch an outcaſt for a bro⯑ther?"’

‘"Oh, forbear, forbear,"’ cried I, ‘"is this language proper for a ſiſter? are we not recipro⯑cally bound to each other?—Will you not ſuffer me to expect from you all the good offices in your power?—But tell me, where is our father at preſent?"’

[226] ‘"At the Hotwell, Madam; he arrived there yeſterday morning."’

I would have proceeded with further queſtions, but the entrance of Lord Orville prevented me. The moment he ſaw us, he ſtarted, and would have retreated; but, drawing my hand from Mr. Macartney's I begged him to come in.

For a few moments we were all ſilent, and, I believe all in equal confuſion. Mr. Macartney, however, recollecting himſelf, ſaid, ‘"I hope your Lordſhip will forgive the liberty I have taken in making uſe of your name?"’

Lord Orville, rather coldly, bowed, but ſaid nothing.

Again we were all ſilent, and then Mr. Macart⯑ney took leave.

‘"I fancy,"’ ſaid Lord Orville, when he was gone, ‘"I have ſhortened Mr. Macartney's viſit?"’

‘"No, my Lord, not at all."’

‘"I had preſumed,"’ ſaid he, with ſome heſi⯑tation, ‘"I ſhould have ſeen Miſs Anville in the garden;—but I knew not ſhe was ſo much better engaged."’

Before I could anſwer, a ſervant came to tell me the chaiſe was ready, and that Mrs. Selwyn was enquiring for me.

‘"I will wait on her immediately,"’ cried I, and away I was running; but Lord Orville, ſtopping me, ſaid, with great emotion, ‘"Is it thus, Miſs Anville, you leave me?"’

‘"My Lord,"’ cried I, ‘"how can I help it?—perhaps, ſoon, ſome better opportunity may offer—"’

‘"Good Heaven!"’ cried he, ‘"do you indeed take me for a Stoic? What better opportunity [227] may I hope for?—is not the chaiſe come?—are you not going? have you even deigned to tell me whither?"’

‘"My journey, my Lord, will now be de⯑ferred. Mr. Macartney has brought me intel⯑ligence which renders it, at preſent, unneceſ⯑ſary."’

‘"Mr. Macartney,"’ ſaid he, gravely, ‘"ſeems to have great influence,—yet he is a very young counſellor."’

‘"Is it poſſible, my Lord, Mr. Macartney can give you the leaſt uneaſineſs?"’

‘"My deareſt Miſs Anville,"’ ſaid he, taking my hand, ‘"I ſee, and I adore the purity of your mind, ſuperior as it is to all little arts, and all ap⯑prehenſions of ſuſpicion; and I ſhould do myſelf, as well as you, injuſtice, if I were capable of har⯑bouring the ſmalleſt doubts of that goodneſs which makes you mine for ever: nevertheleſs, pardon me, if I own myſelf ſurpriſed,—nay, alarmed, at theſe frequent meetings with ſo young a man as Mr. Macartney."’

‘"My Lord,"’ cried I, eager to clear myſelf, ‘"Mr. Macartney is my brother!"’

‘"Your brother! you amaze me!—What ſtrange myſtery, then, makes his relationſhip a ſecret?"’

Juſt then, Mrs. Selwyn opened the door. ‘"O, you are here!"’ cried ſhe; ‘"Pray is my Lord ſo kind as to aſſiſt you in preparing for your journey,—or in retarding it?"’

‘"I ſhould be moſt happy,"’ ſaid Lord Or⯑ville, ſmiling, ‘"if it were in my power to do the latter."’

I then acquainted her with Mr. Macartney's communication.

[228] She immediately ordered the chaiſe away, and then took me into her own room, to conſider what ſhould be done.

A few minutes ſufficed to determine her, and ſhe wrote the following note.

She then ordered her man to enquire at the pump room for a direction, and went herſelf to Mrs. Beaumont to apologiſe for deferring her journey.

An anſwer was preſently returned, that he would be glad to ſee her.

She would have had me immediately accom⯑pany her to the Hotwells; but I entreated her to ſpare me the diſtreſs of ſo abrupt an introduction, and to pave the way for my reception. She con⯑ſented rather reluctantly, and, attended only by her ſervant, walked to the Wells.

She was not abſent two hours, yet ſo miſerably did time ſeem to linger, that I thought a thouſand accidents had happened, and feared ſhe would ne⯑ver return. I paſſed the whole time in my own room, for I was too much agitated even to con⯑verſe with Lord Orville.

The inſtant that, from my window, I ſaw her returning, I flew down ſtairs, and met her in the garden.

We both walked to the arbour.

[229] Her looks, in which diſappointment and anger were expreſſed, preſently announced to me the failure of her embaſſy. Finding that ſhe did not ſpeak, I aſked her, in a faultering voice, Whether or not I had a father?

‘"You have not, my dear!"’ ſaid ſhe, ab⯑ruptly.

‘"Very well, Madam,"’ ſaid I, with tolerable calmneſs, ‘"let the chaiſe, then, be ordered again,—I will go to Berry Hill,—and there, I truſt, I ſhall ſtill find one!"’

It was ſome time ere ſhe could give, or I could hear, the account of her viſit; and then ſhe related it in a haſty manner; yet I believe I can recollect every word.

‘"I found Sir John alone. He received me with the utmoſt politeneſs. I did not keep him a moment in ſuſpence as to the purport of my viſit. But I had no ſooner made it known, than, with a ſupercilious ſmile, he ſaid, ‘"And have you, Madam, been prevailed upon to revive that ridi⯑culous old ſtory?"’ Ridiculous, I told him, was a term which he would find no one elſe do him the favour to make uſe of, in ſpeaking of the horri⯑ble actions belonging to the old ſtory he made ſo light of; ‘"actions,"’ continued I, ‘"which would dye ſtill deeper the black annals of Nero or Cali⯑gula."’ He attempted in vain to rally, for I pur⯑ſued him with all the ſeverity in my power, and ceaſed not painting the enormity of his crime, till I ſtung him to the quick, and, in a voice of paſſion and impatience, he ſaid, ‘"No more, Madam,—this is not a ſubject upon which I need a monitor."’ ‘"Make, then,"’ cried I, ‘"the only reparation in your power.—Your daughter is now at Clifton; ſend for her hither, and, in the face of the world, proclaim the legitimacy [230] of her birth, and clear the reputation of your injured wife."’ ‘"Madam,"’ ſaid he, ‘"you are much miſtaken, if you ſuppoſe I waited for the honour of this viſit, before I did what little juſ⯑tice now depends upon me, to the memory of that unfortunate woman: her daughter has been my care from her infancy; I have taken her into my houſe; ſhe bears my name, and ſhe will be my ſole heireſs."’ For ſome time this aſſertion appeared ſo abſurd, that I only laughed at it; but at laſt, he aſſured me, I had myſelf been im⯑poſed upon, for that the very woman who at⯑tended Lady Belmont in her laſt illneſs conveyed the child to him while he was in London, before ſhe was a year old. ‘"Unwilling,"’ he added, ‘"at that time to confirm the rumour of my be⯑ing married, I ſent the woman with the child to France; as ſoon as ſhe was old enough, I put her into a convent, where ſhe has been properly edu⯑cated; and now I have taken her home, I have acknowledged her for my lawful child, and paid, at length, to the memory of her unhappy mother, a tribute of fame which has made me wiſh to hide myſelf hereafter from all the world."’ This whole ſtory ſounded ſo improbable, that I did not ſcruple to tell him I diſcredited every word. He then rung his bell, and enquiring if his hair⯑dreſſer was come, ſaid he was ſorry to leave me, but that, if I would favour him with my compa⯑ny to-morrow, he would do himſelf the honour of introducing Miſs Belmont to me, inſtead of troubling me to introduce her to him. I roſe in great indignation, and, aſſuring him I would make his conduct as public as it was infamous, I left the houſe."’

"Good Heaven, how ſtrange a recital! how incomprehenſible an affair! The Miſs Belmont, [231] then, who is actually at Briſtol, paſſes for the daughter of my unhappy mother!—paſſes, in ſhort, for your Evelina! Who ſhe can be or what this tale can mean, I have not any idea.

Mrs. Selwyn ſoon after left me to my own reflections. Indeed they were not very pleaſant. Quietly as I had borne her relation, the mo⯑ment I was alone I felt moſt bitterly both the diſ⯑grace and the ſorrow of a rejection ſo cruelly in⯑explicable.

I know not how long I might have continued in this ſituation, had I not been awakened from my melancholy reverie by the voice of Lord Or⯑ville. ‘"May I come in,"’ cried he, ‘"or ſhall I interrupt you?"’ I was ſilent, and he ſeated himſelf next me.

‘"I fear,"’ he continued, ‘"Miſs Anville will think I perſecute her; yet ſo much as I have to ſay, and ſo much as I wiſh to hear, with ſo few opportunities for either, ſhe cannot wonder,—and I hope ſhe will not be offended,—that I ſeize with ſuch avidity every moment in my power to converſe with her. You are grave,"’ added he, taking my hand; ‘"I hope you do not regret the delay of your journey?—I hope the pleaſure it gives to me, will not be a ſubject of pain to you?—You are ſilent?—Something, I am ſure, has afflicted you:—Would to Heaven I were able to conſole you!—Would to Heaven I were worthy to participate in your ſorrows!"’

My heart was too full to bear this kindneſs, and I could only anſwer by my tears. ‘"Good Hea⯑ven,"’ cried he, ‘"how you alarm me!—My love, my ſweet Miſs Anville, deny me no longer to be the ſharer of your griefs!—tell me, at leaſt, that you have not withdrawn your eſteem!—that you do not repent the goodneſs you have ſhewn [232] me!—that you ſtill think me the ſame grate⯑ful Orville whoſe heart you have deigned to ac⯑cept!"’

‘"Oh, my Lord,"’ cried I, ‘"your generoſity overpowers me!"’ And I wept like an infant. For now that all my hopes of being acknowledged ſeemed finally cruſhed, I felt the nobleneſs of his diſintereſted attachment ſo forcibly, that I could ſcarce breathe under the weight of gratitude that oppreſſed me.

He ſeemed greatly ſhocked, and in terms the moſt flattering, the moſt reſpectfully tender, he at once ſoothed my diſtreſs, and urged me to tell him its cauſe.

‘"My Lord,"’ ſaid I, when I was able to ſpeak, ‘"you little know what an outcaſt you have ho⯑noured with your choice!—a child of bounty,—an orphan from infancy,—dependent, even for ſubſiſtence dependent, upon the kindneſs of com⯑paſſion!—Rejected by my natural friends,—diſ⯑owned for ever by my neareſt relation,—Oh, my Lord, ſo circumſtanced, can I deſerve the diſ⯑tinction with which you honour me? No, no; I feel the inequality too painfully;—you muſt leave me, my Lord, you muſt ſuffer me to return to obſcurity,—and there, in the boſom of my firſt, beſt,—my only friend,—I will pour forth all the grief of my heart!—while you, my Lord, muſt ſeek elſewhere—"’

I could not proceed; my whole ſoul recoiled againſt the charge I would have given, and my voice refuſed to utter it.

‘"Never!"’ cried he, warmly; ‘"my heart is your's, and I ſwear to you an attachment eter⯑nal!—You prepare me, indeed, for a tale of hor⯑ror, and I am almoſt breathleſs with expectation,—but ſo firm is my conviction, that, whatever [233] are your misfortunes, to have merited them is not of the number, that I feel myſelf more ſtrongly, more invincibly attached to you than ever!—Tell me but where I may find this noble friend, whoſe virtues you have already taught me to re⯑verence,—and I will fly to obtain his conſent and interceſſion,—that henceforward our fates may be indiſſolubly united,—and, then ſhall it be the ſole ſtudy of my life to endeavour to ſoften your paſt,—and guard you from future misfor⯑tunes!"’

I had juſt raiſed my eyes, to anſwer this moſt generous of men, when the firſt object they met was Mrs. Selwyn!

‘"So, my dear,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"what, ſtill courting the rural ſhades!—I thought, ere now, you would have been ſatiated with this retired ſeat, and I have been ſeeking you all over the Houſe. But I now ſee the only way to meet with you,—is to enquire for Lord Orville. However, don't let me diſturb your meditations; you are poſſibly planning ſome paſtoral dialogue."’

And, with this provoking ſpeech, ſhe walked on.

In the greateſt confuſion, I was quitting the ar⯑bour, when Lord Orville ſaid, ‘"permit me to follow Mrs. Selwyn;—it is time to put an end to all impertinent conjectures; will you allow me to ſpeak to her openly?’

I aſſented in ſilence; and he left me.

I then went to my own room, where I conti⯑nued till I was ſummoned to dinner; after which, Mrs. Selwyn invited me to her's.

The moment ſhe had ſhut the door, ‘"Your Ladyſhip,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"will, I hope, be ſeat⯑ed."’

‘"Ma'am!"’ cried I, ſtaring.

[234] ‘"O the ſweet innocent! ſo you don't know what I mean?—but, my dear, my ſole view is to accuſtom you a little to your dignity elect, leſt, when you are addreſſed by your title, you ſhould look another way, from an apprehenſion of liſtening to a diſcourſe not meant for you to hear."’

Having, in this manner, diverted herſelf with my confuſion, till her raillery was almoſt exhauſt⯑ed, ſhe congratulated me, very ſeriouſly, upon the attachment of Lord Orville, and painted to me, in the ſtrongeſt terms, his diſintereſted deſire of being married to me immediately. She had told him, ſhe ſaid, my whole ſtory; and yet he was willing, nay eager, that our union ſhould take place of any further application to my fami⯑ly. ‘"Now, my dear,"’ continued ſhe, ‘"I adviſe you, by all means, to marry him directly; nothing can be more precarious than our ſucceſs with Sir John; and the young men of this age are not to be truſted with too much time for de⯑liberation, where their intereſts are concern⯑ed."’

‘"Good God, Madam,"’ cried I, ‘"do you think I would hurry Lord Orville?’

‘"Well, do as you will;"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"luckily you have an excellent ſubject for Quixotiſm;—otherwiſe, this delay might prove your ruin: but Lord Orville is almoſt as romantic as if he had been born and bred at Berry Hill."’

She then propoſed, as no better expedient ſeemed likely to be ſuggeſted, that I ſhould ac⯑company her at once, in her viſit to the Hot-wells to-morrow morning.

The very idea made me tremble; yet ſhe re⯑preſented ſo ſtrongly the neceſſity of purſuing this unhappy affair with ſpirit, or giving it totally up, [235] that, wanting her force of argument, I was al⯑moſt obliged to yield to her propoſal.

In the evening, we all walked in the garden: and Lord Orville, who never quitted my ſide, told me, he had been liſtening to a tale, which, though it had removed the perplexities that had ſo long tormented him, had penetrated him with ſorrow and compaſſion. I acquainted him with Mrs. Selwyn's plan for to-morrow, and confeſſed the extreme terror it gave me. He then, in a manner almoſt unanſwerable, beſought me to leave to him the conduct of the affair, by conſenting to be his before an interview took place.

I could not but acknowledge my ſenſe of his generouſity; but I told him I was wholly depen⯑dent upon you, and that I was certain your opi⯑nion would be the ſame as mine, which was, that it would be highly improper I ſhould diſpoſe of myſelf for ever, ſo very near the time which muſt finally decide by whoſe authority I ought to be guided. The ſubject of this dreaded meeting, with the thouſand conjectures and apprehenſions to which it gives birth, employed all our conver⯑ſation then, as it has all my thoughts ſince.

Heaven only knows how I ſhall ſupport myſelf, when the long-expected,—the wiſhed,—yet ter⯑rible moment arrives, that will proſtrate me at the feet of the neareſt, the moſt reverenced of all relations, whom my heart yearns to know, and longs to love!

LETTER XXXII.
Evelina in continuation.

I COULD not write yeſterday, ſo violent was the agitation of my mind,—but I will not, now, loſe a moment till I have haſtened to my beſt friend an account of the tranſactions of a day, I can never recollect without emotion.

Mrs. Selwyn determined upon ſending no meſ⯑ſage, ‘"Leſt,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"Sir John, fatigued with the very idea of my reproaches, ſhould en⯑deavour to avoid a meeting: all we have to do, is to take him by ſurprize. He cannot but ſee who you are, whether he will do you juſtice or not."’

We went early, and in Mrs. Beaumont's chariot; into which, Lord Orville, uttering words of the kindeſt encouragement, handed us both.

My uneaſineſs, during the ride, was exceſſive, but, when we ſtopped at the door, I was almoſt ſenſeleſs with terror! the meeting at laſt, was not ſo dreadful as that moment! I believe I was car⯑ried into the houſe; but I ſcarce recollect what was done with me: however, I know we remain⯑ed ſome time in the parlour, ere Mrs. Selwyn could ſend any meſſage up ſtairs.

When I was ſomewhat recovered, I entreat⯑ed her to let me return home, aſſuring her I felt myſelf quite unequal to ſupporting the in⯑terview.

[237] ‘"No,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"you muſt ſtay now; your fears will but gain ſtrength by delay, and we muſt not have ſuch a ſhock as this repeated."’ Then, turning to the ſervant, ſhe ſent up her name.

An anſwer was brought, that he was going out in great haſte, but would attend her immediate⯑ly. I turned ſo ſick, that Mrs. Selwyn was ap⯑prehenſive I ſhould have fainted; and opening a door which led to an inner apartment, ſhe beg⯑ged me to wait there till I was ſomewhat com⯑poſed, and till ſhe had prepared for my recep⯑tion.

Glad of every moment's reprieve, I willingly agreed to the propoſal, and Mrs. Selwyn had but juſt time to ſhut me in, ere her preſence was ne⯑ceſſary.

The voice of a father,—Oh dear and re⯑vered name!—which then, for the firſt time, ſtruck my ears,—affected me in a manner I cannot deſcribe, though it was only employ⯑ed to give orders to a ſervant as he came down ſtairs.

Then, entering the parlour, I heard him ſay, ‘"I am ſorry, madam, I made you wait, but I have an engagement which now calls me away: however, if you have any commands for me, I ſhall be glad of the honour of your company ſome other time."’

‘"I am come, Sir,"’ anſwered Mrs. Selwyn, ‘"to introduce to you your daughter."’

‘"I am infinitely obliged to you,"’ anſwered he, ‘"but I have juſt had the ſatisfaction of breakfaſting with her. Ma'am, your moſt obe⯑dient."’

‘"You refuſe, then, to ſee her?"’

[238] ‘"I am much indebted to you, Madam, for this deſire of encreaſing my family, but you muſt excuſe me if decline taking advantage of it. I have already a daughter, to whom I owe every thing; and it is not three days ſince, that I had the pleaſure of diſcovering a ſon; how many more ſons and daughters may be brought to me, I am yet to learn;—but I am, already, perfectly well ſatisfied with the ſize of my fa⯑mily."’

‘"Had you a thouſand children, Sir John,"’ ſaid Mrs. Selwyn, warmly, ‘"this only one, of which Lady Belmont was the mother, ought to be moſt diſtinguiſhed; and, far from avoiding her ſight, you ſhould thank your ſtars, in humble gratitude, that there vet remains in your power, the ſmalleſt opportunity of doing the injured wife you have deſtroyed, the poor juſtice of acknow⯑ledging her child!"’

‘"I am very unwilling, Madam,"’ anſwered he, ‘"to enter into any diſcuſſion of this point; but you are determined to compel me to ſpeak. There lives not, at this time, the human being who ſhould talk to me of the regret due to the me⯑mory of that ill-fated woman; no one can feel it ſo ſeverely as myſelf: but let me, nevertheleſs, aſſure you I have already done all that remained in my power to prove the reſpect ſhe merited from me; her child I have educated, and owned for my lawful heireſs, if, Madam, you can ſug⯑geſt to me any other means by which I may more fully do her juſtice, and more clearly manifeſt her innocence, name them to me, and though they ſhould wound my character ſtill deeper, I will per⯑form them readily."’

‘"All this ſounds vaſtly well,"’ returned Mrs. Selwyn, ‘"but I muſt own it is rather too enig⯑matical [239] for my faculties of comprehenſion. You can, however, have no objection to ſeeing this young lady?"’

‘"None in the world."’

‘"Come forth, then, my dear,"’ cried ſhe, opening the door, ‘"come forth, and ſee your father!"’ Then, taking my trembling hand, ſhe led me forward. I would have withdrawn it, and retreated, but as he advanced inſtantly towards me, I found myſelf already before him.

What a moment for your Evelina!—an invo⯑luntary ſcream eſcaped me, and covering my face with my hands, I ſunk on the floor.

He had, however, ſeen me firſt; for in a voice ſcarce articulate he exclaimed, ‘"My God! does Caroline Evelyn ſtill live!"’

Mrs. Selwyn ſaid ſomething, but I could not liſten to her; and, in a few minutes, he added, ‘"Lift up thy head,—if my ſight has not blaſted thee,—lift up thy head, thou image of my long⯑loſt Caroline!"’

Affected beyond meaſure, I half aroſe, and embraced his knees, while yet on my own.

‘"Yes, yes,"’ cried he, looking earneſtly in my face, ‘"I ſee, I ſee thou art her child! ſhe lives—ſhe breathes—ſhe is preſent to my view!—Oh God, that ſhe indeed lived!—Go, child, go,"’ added he, wildly ſtarting, and puſhing me from him, ‘"take her away, Madam,—I cannot bear to look at her!"’ And then, breaking haſtily from me, he ruſhed out of the room.

Speechleſs, motionleſs myſelf, I attempted not to ſtop him: but Mrs. Selwyn, haſtening after him, caught hold of his arm. ‘"Leave me, Madam,"’ cried he, with quickneſs, ‘"and take care of the poor child;—bid her not think me un⯑kind,—tell her I would at this moment plunge a [240] dagger in my heart to ſerve her,—but ſhe has ſet my brain on fire, and I can ſee her no more!"’ Then, with violence almoſt frantic, he ran up ſtairs.

Oh Sir, had I not indeed cauſe to dread this in⯑terview?—an interview ſo unſpeakably painful and afflicting to us both! Mrs. Selwyn would have immediately returned to Clifton; but I in⯑treated her to wait ſome time, in the hope that my unhappy father, when his firſt emotion was over, would again bear me in his ſight. How⯑ever, he ſoon after ſent his ſervant to enquire how I did, and to tell Mrs. Selwyn he was much indiſ⯑poſed, but would hope for the honour of ſeeing her to-morrow, at any time ſhe would pleaſe to appoint.

She fixed upon ten o'clock in the morning, and then, with a heavy heart, I got into the chariot. Thoſe afflicting words, I can ſee her no more were never a moment abſent from my mind.

Yet the ſight of Lord Orville, who handed us from the carriage, gave ſome relief to the ſadneſs of my thoughts. I could not, however, enter upon the painful ſubject, but begging Mrs. Sel⯑wyn to ſatisfy him, I went to my own room.

As ſoon as I communicated to the good Mrs. Clinton the preſent ſituation of my affairs, an idea occurred to her, which ſeemed to clear up all the myſtery of my having been ſo long diſowned.

The woman, ſhe ſays, who attended my ever⯑to-be-regretted mother in her laſt illneſs, and who nurſed me the firſt four months of my life, ſoon after being diſcharged from your houſe, left Berry Hill entirely with her baby, who was but ſix weeks older than myſelf. Mrs. Clinton remem⯑bers, that her quitting the place appeared, at the time, very extraordinary to the neighbours, but, [241] as ſhe was never heard of afterwards, ſhe was, by degrees, quite forgotten.

The moment this was mentioned, it ſtruck Mrs. Selwyn, as well as Mrs. Clinton herſelf, that my father had been impoſed upon, and that the nurſe who ſaid ſhe had brought his child to him, had, in fact, carried her own.

The name by which I was known, the ſecrecy obſerved in regard to my family, and the retire⯑ment in which I lived, all conſpired to render this ſcheme, however daring and fraudulent, by no means impracticable, and, in ſhort, the idea was no ſooner ſtarted, than conviction ſeemed to fol⯑low it.

Mrs. Selwyn determined immediately to diſco⯑ver the truth or miſtake of this conjecture; there⯑fore, the moment ſhe had dined, ſhe walked to the Hotwells, attended by Mrs. Clinton.

I waited in my room till her return, and then heard the following account of her viſit.

She found my poor father in great agitation. She immediately informed him of the occaſion of her ſo ſpeedy return, and of her ſuſpicions of the woman who had pretended to convey to him his child. Interrupting her with quickneſs, he ſaid he had juſt ſent her from his preſence: that the certainty I carried in my countenance, of my real birth, made him, the moment he had recovered from a ſurpriſe which had almoſt deprived him of reaſon, ſuſpect, himſelf, the impoſition ſhe men⯑tioned. He had, therefore, ſent for the woman, and queſtioned her with the utmoſt auſterity: ſhe turned pale, and was extremely embarraſſed, but ſtill ſhe perſiſted in affirming, that ſhe had really brought him the daughter of Lady Belmont. His perplexity, he ſaid, almoſt diſtracted him; he had always obſerved that his daughter bore no re⯑ſemblance [242] of either of her parents, but, as he had never doubted the veraci [...]y of the nurſe, this cir⯑cumſtance did not give birth to any ſuſpicion.

At Mrs. Selwyn's deſire, the woman was again called, and interrogated with equal art and ſeve⯑rity; her confuſion was evident, and her anſwers often contradictory, yet ſhe ſtill declared ſhe was no impoſtor. ‘"We will ſee that in a minute,"’ ſaid Mrs. Selwyn, and then deſired Mrs. Clinton might be called up ſtairs. The poor wretch, changing colour, would have eſcaped out of the room, but, being prevented, dropt on her knees, and implored forgiveneſs. A confeſſion of the whole affair was then extorted from her.

Doubtleſs, my dear Sir, you muſt remember Dame Green, who was my firſt nurſe? The de⯑ceit ſhe has practiſed, was ſuggeſted, ſhe ſays, by a converſation ſhe overheard, in which my un⯑happy mother beſought you, that, if her child ſurvived her, you would take the ſole care of its education; and, in particular, if it ſhould be a female, you would by no means part with her early in life. You not only conſented, ſhe ſays, but aſſured her you would even retire abroad with me yourſelf, if my father ſhould importunately demand me. Her own child, ſhe ſaid, was then in her arms, and ſhe could not forbear wiſhing it were poſſible to give her the fortune which ſeemed ſo little valued for me. This wiſh once raiſed, was not eaſily ſuppreſſed; on the contrary, what at firſt appeared a mere idle deſire, in a ſhort time ſeemed a feaſible ſcheme. Her huſband was dead, and ſhe had little regard for any body but her child; and, in ſhort, having ſaved money for the journey, ſhe contrived to enquire a direction to my father, and, telling her neighbours ſhe was [243] going to ſettle in Devonſhire, ſhe ſet out on her expedition.

When Mrs. Selwyn aſked her, how ſhe dared to perpetrate ſuch a fraud, ſhe proteſted ſhe had no ill deſigns, but that, as Miſs would be never the worſe for it, ſhe thought it a pity nobody ſhould be the better.

Her ſucceſs we are already acquainted with. Indeed every thing ſeemed to contribute to wards it: my father had no correſpondent at Berry Hill, the child was inſtantly ſent to France, where be⯑ing brought up in as much retirement as myſelf, nothing but accident could diſcover the fraud.

And here, let me indulge myſelf in obſerving, and rejoicing to obſerve, that the total neglect I thought I met with, was not the effect of inſenſi⯑bility or unkindneſs, but of impoſition and error; and that, at the very time we concluded I was unnaturally rejected, my deluded father meant to ſhew me moſt favour and protection.

He acknowledges that lady Howard's letter flung him into ſome perplexity; he immediately communicated it to Dame Green, who confeſſed it was the greateſt ſhock ſhe had ever received in her life; yet ſhe had the art and boldneſs to aſſert, that Lady Howard muſt herſelf have been deceiv⯑ed: and as ſhe had, from the beginning of her enterprize, declared ſhe had ſtolen away the child without your knowledge, ſhe concluded that ſome deceit was then intended him; and this thought occaſioned his abrupt anſwer.

Dame Green owned, that from the moment the journey to England was ſettled, ſhe gave herſelf up for loſt. All her hope was to have had her daughter married before it took place, for which reaſon ſhe had ſo much promoted Mr. Macart⯑ney's addreſſes: for though ſuch a match was in⯑adequate [244] to the pretenſions of Miſs Belmont, ſhe well knew it was far ſuperior to thoſe her daughter could form, after the diſcovery of her birth.

My firſt enquiry was, if this innocent daughter was yet acquainted with the affair? No, Mrs. Sel⯑wyn ſaid, nor was any plan ſettled how to divulge it to her. Poor unfortunate girl! how hard is her fate! ſhe is entitled to my kindeſt offices, and I ſhall always conſider her as my ſiſter.

I then aſked whether my father would again al⯑low me to ſee him?

‘"Why, no, my dear, not yet,"’ anſwered ſhe; ‘"he declares the ſight of you is too much for him: however, we are to ſettle every thing concerning you to-morrow, for this woman took up all our time to-day."’

This morning, therefore, ſhe is again gone to the Hotwells. I am waiting in all impatience for her return; but as I know you will be anxious for the account this letter contains, I will not de⯑lay ſending it.

LETTER XXXIII.
Evelina in continuation.

HOW agitated, my dear Sir, is the preſent life of your Evelina! every day ſeems important, and one event only a prelude to another.

Mrs. Selwyn, upon her return this morning from the Hotwell, entering my room very abrupt⯑ly, [245] ſaid, ‘"O my dear, I have terrible news for you!"’

‘"For me, Ma'am!—Good God! what now?"’

‘"Arm yourſelf,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"with all your Berry Hill philoſophy;—con over every leſſon of fortitude or reſignation you ever learnt in your life,—for know,—you are next week to be married to Lord Orville!"’

Doubt, aſtoniſhment, and a kind of perturba⯑tion I cannot deſcribe, made this abrupt commu⯑nication alarm me extremely, and, almoſt breath⯑leſs, I could only exclaim, ‘"Good God, Ma⯑dam, what do you tell me?"’

‘"You may well be frightened, my dear,"’ ſaid ſhe, ironically, ‘"for really there is ſomething mighty terrific, in becoming, at once, the wife of the man you adore,—and a Counteſs!"’

I entreated her to ſpare her raillery, and tell me her real meaning. She could not prevail with her⯑ſelf to grant the firſt requeſt, though ſhe readily complied with the ſecond.

My poor father, ſhe ſaid, was ſtill in the ut⯑moſt uneaſineſs. He entered upon his affairs with great openneſs, and told her he was equally di⯑ſturbed how to diſpoſe either of the daughter he had diſcovered, or the daughter he was now to give up: the former he dreaded to truſt himſelf with again beholding, and the latter he knew not how to ſhock with the intelligence of her diſ⯑grace. Mrs. Selwyn then acquainted him with my ſituation in regard to Lord Orville; this de⯑lighted him extremely, and, when he heard of his Lordſhip's eagerneſs, he ſaid he was himſelf of opinion, the ſooner the union took place the better: and, in return, he informed her of the af⯑fair of Mr. Macartney. ‘"And, after a very long [246] converſation,’ continued Mrs. Selwyn, ‘"we agreed, that the moſt eligible ſcheme for all par⯑ties, would be to have both the real and the ficti⯑tious daughter married without delay. There⯑fore, if either of you have any inclination to pull caps for the title of Miſs Belmont, you muſt do it with all ſpeed, as next week will take from both of you all pretenſions to it."’

‘"Next week!"—dear Madam, what a ſtrange plan!—without my being conſulted—without ap⯑plying to Mr. Villars,—without even the concur⯑rence of Lord Orville!"’

‘"As to conſulting you, my dear, it was out of all queſtion, becauſe, you know, young ladies hearts and hands are always to be given with re⯑luctance;—as to Mr. Villars, it is ſufficient we know him for your friend;—and as for Lord Or⯑ville, he is a party concerned."’

‘"A party concerned!—you amaze me!"’

‘"Why, yes; for as I found our conſultation likely to redound to his advantage, I perſuaded Sir John to ſend for him."’

‘"Send for him!—Good God!"’

‘"Yes, and Sir John agreed. I told the ſer⯑vant, that if he could not hear of his Lordſhip in the houſe, he might be pretty certain of encoun⯑tering him in the arbour.—Why do you colour, my dear?—Well, he was with us in a moment; I introduced him to Sir John, and we proceeded to buſineſs."’

‘"I am very, very ſorry for it!—Lord Orville muſt, himſelf, think this conduct ſtrangely preci⯑pitate."’

‘"No, my dear, you are miſtaken, Lord Or⯑ville has too much good ſenſe. Every thing was then diſcuſſed in a rational manner. You are to be married privately, tho' not ſecretly, and then [247] go to one of his Lordſhip's country ſeats: and poor little Miſs Green and your brother, who have no houſe of their own, muſt go to one of Sir John's."’

‘"But why, my dear Madam, why all this haſte? why may we not be allowed a little longer ti me?"’

‘"I could give you a thouſand reaſons,"’ an⯑ſwered ſhe, ‘"but that I am tolerably certain two or three will be more than you can controvert, even with all the logic of genuine coquetry. In the firſt place, you doubtleſs wiſh to quit the houſe of Mrs. Beaumont,—to whoſe, then, can you with ſuch propriety remove, as to Lord Or⯑ville's?"’

‘"Surely, Madam,"’ cried I, ‘"I am not more deſtitute now, than when I thought myſelf an orphan?"’

‘"Your father, my dear,"’ anſwered ſhe, ‘"is willing to ſave the little impoſtor as much of the mortification of her diſgrace as it is in his power: now if you immediately take her place, according to your right, as Miſs Belmont, why not all that either of you can do for her, will prevent her be⯑ing eternally ſtigmatized, as the bantling of Dame Green, waſh-woman and wet nurſe of Berry Hill, Dorſetſhire. Now ſuch a genealogy will not be very flattering, even to Mr. Macartney, who, all⯑diſmal as he is, you will find by no means wanting in pride and ſelf conſequence."’

‘"For the univerſe,"’ interrupted I, ‘"I would not be acceſſary to the degradation you mention; but, ſurely, Madam, I may return to Berry Hill."’

‘"By no means,"’ ſaid ſhe; ‘"for though com⯑paſſion may make us wiſh to ſave the poor girl the confuſion of an immediate and public fall, yet juſ⯑tice demands you ſhould appear, henceforward, [248] in no other light than that of Sir John Belmont's daughter. Beſides, between friends, I, who know the world, can ſee that half this prodigious delicacy for the little uſurper, is the mere reſult of ſelf-intereſt; for while her affairs are huſht up, Sir John's, you know, are kept from being brought further to light. Now the double marriage we have projected, obviates all rational objections. Sir John will give you, immediately, £ 30,000; all ſettlements, and ſo forth, will be made for you in the name of Evelina Belmont;—Mr. Ma⯑cartney will, at the ſame time, take poor Polly Green,—and yet, at firſt, it will only be generally known, that a daughter of Sir John Belmont's is married."’

In this manner, though ſhe did not convince me, yet the quickneſs of her arguments ſilenced and perplexed me. I enquired, however, if I might not be permitted to again ſee my father, or whether I muſt regard myſelf as baniſhed his pre⯑ſence for ever?

‘"My dear,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"he does not know you; he concludes that you have been brought up to deteſt him, and therefore he is rather pre⯑pared to dread, than to love you."’

This anſwer made me very unhappy; I wiſh⯑ed, moſt impatiently, to remove his prejudice, and endeavour, by dutiful aſſiduity, to engage his kindneſs, yet knew not how to propoſe ſeeing him, while conſcious he wiſhed to avoid me.

This evening, as ſoon as the company was en⯑gaged with cards, Lord Orville exerted his ut⯑moſt eloquence to reconcile me to this haſty plan; but how was I ſtartled, when he told me that next Tueſday was the day appointed by my father to be the moſt important of my life!

[249] ‘"Next Tueſday!’ repeated I, quite out of breath, ‘"Oh my Lord!—"’

‘"My ſweet Evelina,"’ ſaid he, ‘"the day which will make me the happieſt of mortals, would probably appear awful to you, were it to be deferred a twelvemonth: Mrs. Selwyn has, doubtleſs, acquainted you with the many motives which, independent of my eagerneſs, require it to be ſpeedy; ſuffer, therefore, its acceleration, and generouſly complete my felicity, by endea⯑vouring to ſuffer it without repugnance."’

‘"Indeed, my Lord, I would not wilfully raiſe objections, nor do I deſire to appear inſenſible of the honour of your good opinion;—but there is ſomething in this plan, ſo very haſty,—ſo unrea⯑ſonably precipitate,—beſides, I ſhall have no time to hear from Berry Hill,—and believe me, my Lord, I ſhould be for ever miſerable, were I, in an affair ſo important, to act without the ſanction of Mr. Villars' advice."’

He offered to wait on you himſelf; but I told him I had rather write to you. And then he pro⯑poſed, that, inſtead of my immediately accom⯑panying him to Lincolnſhire, we ſhould, firſt, paſs a month at my native Berry Hill.

This was, indeed, a grateful propoſal to me, and I liſtened to it with undiſguiſed pleaſure. And,—in ſhort, I was obliged to conſent to a com⯑promiſe, in merely deferring the day till Thurſ⯑day! He readily undertook to engage my father's concurrence in this little delay, and I beſought him, at the ſame time, to make uſe of his influ⯑ence to obtain me a ſecond interview, and to re⯑preſent the deep concern I felt in being thus ba⯑niſhed his ſight.

He would then have ſpoken of ſettlements, but [250] I aſſured him, I was almoſt ignorant even of the word.

And now, my deareſt Sir, what is your opinion of theſe haſty proceedings? believe me, I half re⯑gret the ſimple facility with which I have ſuffered myſelf to be hurried into compliance, and, ſhould you ſtart but the ſmalleſt objection, I will yet in⯑ſiſt upon being allowed more time.

I muſt now write a conciſe account of the ſtate of my affairs to Howard Grove, and to Madame Duval.

Adieu, deareſt and moſt honoured Sir! every thing, at preſent, depends upon your ſingle deci⯑ſion, to which, though I yield in trembling, I yield implicitly.

LETTER XXXIV.
Evelina in continuation.

YESTERDAY morning, as ſoon as breakfaſt was over, Lord Orville went to the Hotwells, to wait upon my father with my double petition.

Mrs. Beaumont then, in general terms, propoſ⯑ed a walk in the garden. Mrs. Selwyn ſaid ſhe had letters to write, but Lady Louiſa aroſe to ac⯑company her.

I had ſome reaſon to imagine, from the notice with which her Ladyſhip had honoured me during breakfaſt, that her brother had acquainted her with my preſent ſituation: and her behaviour now confirmed my conjecture; for, when I would have gone up ſtairs, inſtead of ſuffering me, as [251] uſual, to paſs diſregarded, ſhe called after me, with an affected ſurpriſe, ‘"Miſs Anville, don't you walk with us?"’

There ſeemed ſomething ſo little-minded in this ſudden change of conduct, that, from an invo⯑luntary emotion of contempt, I thanked her, with a coldneſs like her own, and declined her offer. Yet, obſerving that ſhe bluſhed extremely at my refuſal, and recollecting ſhe was ſiſter to Lord Orville, my indignation ſubſided, and upon Mrs. Beaumont's repeating the invitation, I accepted it.

Our walk proved extremely dull; Mrs. Beau⯑mont, who never ſays much, was more ſilent than uſual; Lady Louiſa ſtrove in vain to lay aſide the reſtraint and diſtance ſhe has hitherto preſerv⯑ed; and as to me, I was too conſcious of the cir⯑cumſtances to which I owed their attention, to feel either pride or pleaſure from receiving it.

Lord Orville was not long abſent; he joined us in the garden, with a look of gaiety and good-hu⯑mour that revived us all. ‘"You are juſt the party,"’ ſaid he, ‘"I wiſhed to ſee together. Will you, Madam,"’ taking my hand, ‘"allow me the honour of introducing you, by your real name, to two of my neareſt relations? Mrs. Beaumont, give me leave to preſent to you the daughter of Sir John Belmont; a young lady who, I am ſure, muſt long ſince have engaged your eſteem and ad⯑miration, tho' you were a ſtranger to her birth."’

‘"My Lord,"’ ſaid Mrs. Beaumont, graciouſly ſaluting me, ‘"the young lady's rank in life,—your Lordſh p's recommendation,—or her own merit, would any one of them have been ſuffi⯑cient to have entitled her to my regard; and I hope ſhe has always met with that reſpect in my houſe which is ſo much her due; though, had I been [252] ſooner made acquainted with her family, I ſhould, doubtleſs, have the better known how to have ſecured it."’

‘"Miſs Belmont,"’ ſaid Lord. Orville, ‘"can receive no luſtre from family, whatever ſhe may give to it. Louiſa, you will, I am ſure, be hap⯑py to make yourſelf an intereſt in the friendſhip of Miſs Belmont, whom I hope ſhortly,"’ kiſſing my hand, and joining it with her Ladyſhip's, ‘"to have the happineſs of preſenting to you by yet another name, and by the moſt endearing of all titles."’

I believe it would be difficult to ſay whoſe cheeks were, at that moment, of the deepeſt dye, Lady Louiſa's or my own; for the conſcious pride with which ſhe has hitherto ſlighted me, gave to her an embarraſſment which equalled the confuſion that an introduction ſo unexpected gave to me. She ſaluted me, however, and, with a faint ſmile, ſaid, ‘"I ſhall eſteem myſelf very happy to profit by the honour of Miſs Belmont's acquaintance."’

I only courtſied, and we walked on; but it was evident, from the little ſurpriſe they expreſſed, that they had been already informed of the ſtate of the affair.

We were, ſoon after, joined by more compa⯑ny: and Lord Orville then, in a low voice, took an opportunity to tell me the ſucceſs of his viſit. In the firſt place, Thurſday was agreed to; and, in the ſecond, my father, he ſaid, was much con⯑cerned to hear of my uneaſineſs, ſent me his bleſ⯑ſing, and complied with my requeſt of ſeeing him, with the ſame readineſs he ſhould agree to any other I could make. Lord Orville, therefore, ſettled that I ſhould wait upon him in the evening, [253] and, at his particular requeſt, unaccompanied by Mrs. Selwyn.

This kind meſſage, and the proſpect of ſo ſoon ſeeing him, gave me ſenſations of mixed pleaſure and pain, which wholly occupied my mind till the time of my going to the Hotwells.

Mrs. Beaumont lent me her chariot, and Lord Orville abſolutely inſiſted upon attending me. ‘"If you go alone,"’ ſaid he, ‘"Mrs. Selwyn will certainly be offended; but, if you allow me to conduct you, tho' ſhe may give the freer ſcope to her raillery, ſhe cannot poſſibly be affronted: and we had much better ſuffer her laughter, than provoke her ſatire."’

Indeed, I muſt own I had no reaſon to regret being ſo accompanied; for his converſation ſup⯑ported my ſpirits from drooping, and made the ride ſeem ſo ſhort, that we actually ſtopt at my father's door, ere I knew we had proceeded ten yards.

He handed me from the carriage, and conduct⯑ed me to the parlour, at the door of which I was met by Mr. Macartney. ‘"Ah, my dear bro⯑ther,"’ cried I, ‘"how happy am I to ſee you here!"’

He bowed and thanked me. Lord Orville, then, holding out his hand, ſaid, ‘"Mr. Macart⯑ney, I hope we ſhall be better acquainted; I pro⯑miſe myſelf much pleaſure from cultivating your friendſhip.’

‘"Your Lordſhip does me but too much ho⯑nour,"’ anſwered Mr. Macartney.

‘"But where,"’ cried I, ‘"is my ſiſter? for ſo I muſt already call, and always conſider her:—I am afraid ſhe avoids me;—you muſt endeavour, my dear brother, to prepoſſeſs her in my favour, and reconcile her to owning me."’

[254] ‘"Oh, Madam,"’ cried he, ‘"you are all goodneſs and benevolence! but at preſent, I hope you will excuſe her, for I fear ſhe has hardly for⯑titude ſufficient to ſee you: in a ſhort time, per⯑haps—"’

‘"In a very ſhort time, then,"’ ſaid Lord Or⯑ville, ‘"I hope you will yourſelf introduce her, and that we ſhall have the pleaſure of wiſhing you both joy: allow me, my Evelina, to ſay we, and permit me, in your name, as well as my own, to entreat that the firſt gueſts we ſhall have the hap⯑pineſs of receiving, may be Mr. and Mrs. Ma⯑Macartney."’

A ſervant then came to beg I would walk up ſtairs.

I beſought Lord Orville to accompany me; but he feared the diſpleaſure of Sir John, who had deſired to ſee me alone. He led me, however, to the head of the ſtairs, and made the kindeſt ef⯑forts to give me courage; but indeed he did not ſucceed, for the interview appeared to me in all its terrors, and left me no feeling but apprehen⯑ſion.

The moment I reached the landing-place, the drawing-room door was opened, and my father, with a voice of kindneſs, called out, ‘"My child, is it you?"’

‘"Yes, Sir,"’ cried I, ſpringing forward, and kneeling at his feet, ‘"it is your child, if you will own her!"’

He knelt by my ſide, and folding me in his arms, ‘"own thee!"’ repeated he, ‘"yes, my poor girl, and Heaven knows with what bitter contrition!"’ Then, raiſing both himſelf and me, he brought me into the drawing-room, ſhut the door, and took me to the window, where, look⯑ing at me with great earneſtneſs, ‘"Poor unhap⯑py [255] Caroline!"’ cried he, and, to my inexpreſſible concern, he burſt into tears. Need I tell you, my dear Sir, how mine flowed at the ſight?

I would again have embraced his knees; but, hurrying from me, he flung himſelf upon a ſo⯑pha, and leaning his face on his arms, ſeemed, for ſome time, abſorbed in bitterneſs of grief.

I ventured not to interrupt a ſorrow I ſo much reſpected, but waited in ſilence, and at a diſ⯑tance, till he recovered from its violence. But then it ſeemed, in a moment, to give way to a kind of frantic fury; for, ſtarting ſuddenly, with a ſternneſs which at once ſurpriſed and frightened me, ‘"Child,"’ cried he, ‘"haſt thou yet ſuffi⯑ciently humbled thy father?—if thou haſt, be contented with this proof of my weakneſs, and no longer force thyſelf into my preſence!"’

Thunderſtruck by a command ſo unexpected, I ſtood ſtill and ſpeechleſs, and doubted whether my own ears did not deceive me:

‘"Oh, go, go!"’ cried he, paſſionately, ‘"in pity—in compaſſion,—if thou valueſt my ſenſes, leave me,—and for ever!"’

‘"I will, I will!"’ cried I, greatly terrified; and I moved haſtily towards the door: yet ſtop⯑ping when I reached it, and, almoſt involuntarily, dropping on my knees, ‘"Vouchſafe,"’ cried I, ‘"oh, Sir, vouchſafe but once to bleſs your daugh⯑ter, and her ſight ſhall never more offend you!"’

‘"Alas,"’ cried he, in a ſoftened voice, ‘"I am not worthy to bleſs thee!—I am not worthy to call thee daughter!—I am not worthy that the fair light of heaven ſhould viſit my eyes!—Oh God! that I could but call back the time ere thou waſt born,—or elſe bury its remembrance in eternal obli⯑vion!"’

[256] ‘"Would to Heaven,"’ cried I, ‘"that the ſight of me were leſs terrible to you! that, in⯑ſtead of irritating, I could ſoothe your ſorrows!—Oh Sir, how thankfully would I then prove my duty, even at the hazard of my life!"’

‘"Are you ſo kind?"’ cried he, gently; ‘"come hither, child,—riſe, Evelina;—alas, it is for me to kneel, not you!—and I would kneel,—I would crawl upon the earth,—I would kiſs the duſt,—could I, by ſuch ſubmiſſion, obtain the forgive⯑neſs of the repreſentative of the moſt injured of women!"’

‘"Oh, Sir,"’ exclaimed I, ‘"that you could but read my heart!—that you could but ſee the fi⯑lial tenderneſs and concern with which it over⯑flows! you would not then talk thus,—you would not then baniſh me your preſence, and exclude me from your affection!"’

‘"Good God,"’ cried he, ‘"is it then poſſible that you do not hate me?—Can the child of the wronged Caroline look at,—and not execrate me? Waſt thou not born to abhor, and bred to curſe me? did not thy mother bequeath thee her bleſſing, on condition that thou ſhouldſt deteſt and avoid me?"’

‘"Oh no, no, no!"’ cried I, ‘"think not ſo unkindly of her, nor ſo hardly of me."’ I then took from my pocket-book her laſt letter, and, preſſing it to my lips, with a trembling hand, and ſtill upon my knees, I held it out to him.

Haſtily ſnatching it from me, ‘"Great Hea⯑ven!"’ cried he, ‘'tis her writing!—Whence comes this?—who gave it you?—why had I it not ſoon⯑er?"’

I made no anſwer; his vehemence intimidated me, and I ventured not to move from the ſuppli⯑ant poſture in which I had put myſelf.

[257] He went from me to the window, where his eyes were for ſome time rivetted upon the directi⯑on of the letter, though his hand ſhook ſo vio⯑lently he could hardly hold it. Then, bringing it to me, ‘"Open it,"’—cried he,—‘"for I can⯑not!"’

I had, myſelf, hardly ſtrength to obey him; but, when I had, he took it back, and walked haſtily up and down the room, as if dreading to read it. At length, turning to me, ‘"Do you know,"’ cried he, ‘"its contents?"’

‘"No, Sir,’ anſwered I; ‘"it has never been unſealed."’

He then again went to the window, and began reading. Having haſtily run it over, he caſt up his eyes with a look of deſperation; the letter fell from his hand, and he exclaimed, ‘"yes! thou art ſainted!—thou art bleſſed!—and I am curſed for ever!"’ He continued ſome time fixed in this melancholy poſition; after which, caſting him⯑ſelf with violence upon the ground, ‘"Oh wretch,"’ cried he, ‘"unworthy life and light, in what dungeon canſt thou hide thy head?"’

I could reſtrain myſelf no longer; I roſe and went to him; I did not dare to ſpeak, but with pity and concern unutterable, I wept and hung over him.

Soon after, ſtarting up, he again ſeized the letter, exclaiming, ‘"Acknowledge thee, Caro⯑line!—yes, with my heart's beſt blood would I acknowledge thee!—Oh that thou couldſt witneſs the agony of my ſoul!—Ten thouſand daggers could not have wounded me like this letter!"’

Then, after again reading it, ‘"Evelina,"’ he cried, ‘"ſhe charges me to receive thee;—wilt thou, in obedience to her will, own for thy fa⯑ther the deſtroyer of thy mother?"’

[258] What a dreadful queſtion! I ſhuddered, but could not ſpeak.

‘"To clear her fame, and receive her child,"’ continued he, looking ſtedfaſtly at the letter, ‘"are the conditions upon which ſhe leaves me her forgiveneſs: her fame, I have already clear⯑ed;—and oh how willingly would I take her child to my boſom,—fold her to my heart,—call upon her to mitigate my anguiſh, and pour the balm of comfort on my wounds, were I not conſcious I deſerve not to receive it, and that all my affliction is the reſult of my own guilt!"’

It was in vain I attempted to ſpeak; hor⯑ror and grief took from me all power of utte⯑rance.

He then read aloud from the letter, ‘"Look not like thy unfortunate mother!—Sweet ſoul, with what bitterneſs of ſpirit haſt thou written!—Come hither, Evelina: Gracious Heaven!"’ looking earneſtly at me, ‘"never was likeneſs more ſtriking!—the eye,—the face,—the form,—Oh my child, my child!"’ Imagine, Sir,—for I can never deſcribe my feelings, when I ſaw him ſink upon his knees before me! ‘"Oh dear re⯑ſemblance of thy murdered mother!—Oh all that remains of the moſt-injured of women! be⯑hold thy father at thy feet!—bending thus lowly to implore you would not hate him;—Oh then, thou repreſentative of my departed wife, ſpeak to me in her name, and ſay that the remorſe which tears my ſoul, tortures me not in vain!"’

‘"Oh riſe, riſe, my beloved father,"’ cried I, attempting to aſſiſt him, ‘"I cannot bear to ſee you thus;—reverſe not the law of na⯑ture, [259] riſe yourſelf, and bleſs your kneeling daughter!"’

‘"May Heaven bleſs thee, my child!—"’ cried he, ‘"for I dare not."’ He then roſe, and embracing me moſt affectionately, added, ‘"I ſee, I ſee that thou art all kindneſs, ſoftneſs, and tenderneſs; I need not have feared thee, thou art all the fondeſt father could wiſh, and I will try to frame my mind to leſs painful ſenſations at thy ſight. Perhaps the time may come when I may know the comfort of ſuch a daughter,—at preſent, I am only fit to be alone: dreadful as are my reflections, they ought merely to torment my⯑ſelf.—Adieu, my child;—be not angry,—I cannot ſtay with thee,—oh Evelina! thy countenance is a dagger to my heart!—juſt ſo, thy mother look⯑ed,—juſt ſo—"’

Tears and ſighs ſeemed to choak him!—and waving his hand, he would have left me,—but, clinging to him, ‘"Oh, Sir,"’ cried I, ‘"will you ſo ſoon abandon me?—am I again an orphan?—oh my dear, my long-loſt father, leave me not, I beſeech you! take pity on your child, and rob her not of the parent ſhe ſo fondly hoped would cheriſh her!"’

‘"You know not what you aſk,"’ cried he; ‘"the emotions which now rend my ſoul are more than my reaſon can endure: ſuffer me, then, to leave you,—impute it not to unkindneſs, but think of me as well as thou canſt.—Lord Orville has behaved nobly;—I believe he will make thee happy."’ Then, again embracing me, ‘"God bleſs thee, my dear child,"’ cried he, ‘"God bleſs thee, my Evelina!—endeavour to love,—at leaſt not to hate me,—and to make me an in⯑tereſt in thy filial boſom by thinking of me as thy father."’

[260] I could not ſpeak; I kiſſed his hands on my knees; and then, with yet more emotion, he again bleſſed me, and hurried out of the room,—leaving me almoſt drowned in tears.

Oh Sir, all goodneſs as you are, how much will you feel for your Evelina, during a ſcene of ſuch agitation! I pray Heaven to accept the tribute of his remorſe, and reſtore him to tranquility!

When I was ſufficiently compoſed to return to the parlour, I found Lord Orville waiting for me with the utmoſt anxiety;—and then, a new ſcene of emotion, though of a far different nature, awaited me; for I learnt, by Mr. Macartney, that this nobleſt of men had inſiſted the ſo-long-ſup⯑poſed Miſs Belmont ſhould be conſidered indeed as my ſiſter, and as the co-heireſs of my father! though not in law, in juſtice, he ſays, ſhe ought ever to be treated as the daughter of Sir John Bel⯑mont.

Oh Lord Orville!—it ſhall be the ſole ſtudy of my happy life, to expreſs, better than by words, the ſenſe I have of your exalted benevolence, and greatneſs of mind!

LETTER XXXV.
Evelina in continuation.

LETTER XXXVI.
Evelina in continuation.

THE time approaches now, when I hope we ſhall meet,—yet I cannot ſleep,—great joy is as reſtleſs as ſorrow,—and therefore I will continue my journal.

As I had never had any opportunity of ſee⯑ing Bath, a party was formed laſt night for ſhewing me that celebrated city; and this morn⯑ing, after breakfaſt, we ſet out in three pha⯑etons. Lady Louiſa and Mrs. Beaumont, with Lord Merton; Mr. Coverly with Mr. Lo⯑vel; and Mrs. Selwyn and myſelf, with Lord Orville.

[266] We had hardly proceeded half a mile, when a gentleman in a poſt-chaiſe, which came gal⯑loping after us, called out to the ſervants, ‘"Hol⯑la, my Lads,—pray is one Miſs Anville in any of them thing-embobs?"’

I immediately recollected the voice of Cap⯑tain Mirvan, and Lord Orville ſtopt the pha⯑eton. He was out of the chaiſe, and with us in a moment. ‘"So, Miſs Anville,"’ cried he, ‘"how do you do? So I hear you're Miſs Bel⯑mont now;—pray how does old Madame French do?"’

‘"Madame Duval,"’ ſaid I, ‘"is, I believe, very well."’

‘"I hope ſhe's in good caſe,"’ ſaid he, wink⯑ing ſignificantly, ‘"and won't flinch at ſeeing ſervice: ſhe has laid by long enough to refit and be made tight. And pray how does poor Monſieur Doleful do? is he as lank-jawed as ever?"’

‘"They are neither of them,"’ ſaid I, ‘"at Briſtol."’

‘"No!—But ſurely the old dowager intends coming to the wedding! 'twill be a moſt ex⯑cellent opportunity to ſhew off her beſt Lyons' ſilk. Beſides, I purpoſe to dance a new-fa⯑ſhioned jig with her. Don't you know when ſhe'll come?"’

‘"I have no reaſon, Sir, to expect her at all."’

‘"No!—'Fore George this here's the worſt news I'd wiſh to hear!—why, I've thought of nothing all the way but what trick I ſhould ſerve her!"’

‘"You have been very obliging!"’ ſaid I, laughing.

[267] ‘"O, I promiſe you,"’ cried he, ‘"our Moll would never have wheedled me into this jaunt, if I'd known ſhe was not here; for, to let you into the ſecret, I fully intended to have treated the old buck with another frolic."’

‘"Did Miſs Mirvan, then, perſuade you to this journey?"’

‘"Yes, and we've been travelling all night."’

‘"We!"’ cried I:" ‘"Is Miſs Mirvan, then, with you?"’

‘"What, Molly?—yes, ſhe's in that there chaiſe."’

‘"Good God, Sir, why did not you tell me ſooner?"’ cried I; and immediately, with Lord Orville's aſſiſtance, I jumpt out of the phaeton, and ran to the dear girl. Lord Orville opened the chaiſe-door, and I am ſure I need not tell you what unfeigned joy accompanied our meeting.

We both begged we might not be parted during the ride, and Lord Orville was ſo good as to invite Captain Mirvan into his phae⯑ton.

I think I was hardly ever more rejoiced than at this ſo ſeaſonable viſit from my dear Maria; who had no ſooner heard the ſituation of my affairs, than, with the aſſiſtance of Lady Howard and her kind mother, ſhe beſought her father with ſuch earneſtneſs to conſent to the journey, that he had not been able to withſtand their united en⯑treaties; though ſhe owned that, had he not ex⯑pected to have met with Madame Duval, ſhe be⯑lieves he would not ſo readily have yielded. They arrived at Mrs. Beaumont's but a few minutes af⯑ter we were out of ſight, and overtook us without much difficulty.

[268] I ſay nothing of our converſation, becauſe you may ſo well ſuppoſe both the ſubjects we choſe, and our manner of diſcuſſing them.

We all ſtopped at a great hotel, where we were obliged to enquire for a room, as Lady Louiſa, fatigued to death, deſired to take ſomething before we began our rambles.

As ſoon as the party was aſſembled, the Cap⯑tain, abruptly ſaluting me, ſaid, ‘"So, Miſs Bel⯑mont, I wiſh you joy; ſo I hear you've quarrelled with your new name already?"’

‘"Me!—no, indeed, Sir."’

‘"Then pleaſe for to tell me the reaſon you're in ſuch a hurry to change it."’

‘"Miſs Belmont!"’ cried Mr. Lovel, looking round him with the utmoſt aſtoniſhment, ‘"I beg pardon,—but, if it is not impertinent,—I muſt beg leave to ſay, I always underſtood that Lady's name was Anville."’

‘"'Fore George,"’ cried the Captain, ‘"it runs in my head, I've ſeen you ſomewhere before! and now I think on't, pray a'n't you the perſon I ſaw at the play one night, and who did n't know, all the time, whether it was a tragedy or a come⯑dy, or a concert of fidlers?"’

‘"I believe, Sir,"’ ſaid Mr. Lovel, ſtammering, ‘"I had once,—I think—the pleaſure of ſeeing you laſt ſpring."’

‘"Ay, and if I live an hundred ſprings,"’ an⯑ſwered he, ‘"I ſhall never forget it; by Jingo, it has ſerved me for a moſt excellent good joke ever ſince. Well, however, I'm glad to ſee you ſtill in the land of the living,"’ ſhaking him roughly by the hand; ‘"pray, if a body may be ſo bold, how much a night may you give at preſent to keep the undertakers aloof?"’

[269] ‘"Me, Sir!"’ ſaid Mr. Lovel, very much diſ⯑compoſed; ‘"I proteſt I never thought myſelf in ſuch imminent danger as to—really, Sir, I don't underſtand you."’

‘"O, you don't!—why then I'll make free for to explain myſelf. Gentlemen and Ladies, I'll tell you what; do you know this here gentleman, ſimple as he ſits there, pays five ſhillings a night to let his friends know he's alive!’

‘"And very cheap too,"’ ſaid Mrs. Selwyn, ‘"if we conſider the value of the intelli⯑gence."’

Lady Louiſa, being now refreſhed, we proceed⯑ed upon our expedition.

The charming city of Bath anſwered all my ex⯑pectations. The Creſcent, the proſpect from it, and the elegant ſymmetry of the Circus, delighted me. The Parades, I own, rather diſappointed me; one of them is ſcarce preferable to ſome of the beſt paved ſtreets in London, and the other, though it affords a beautiful proſpect, a charming view of Prior Park and of the Avon, yet wanted ſomething in itſelf of more ſtriking elegance than a mere broad pavement, to ſatisfy the ideas I had formed of it.

At the pump-room, I was amazed at the pub⯑lic exhibition of the ladies in the bath: it is true, their heads are covered with bonnets, but the very idea of being ſeen, in ſuch a ſituation, by whoever pleaſes to look, is indelicate.

‘"'Fore George,"’ ſaid the Captain, look⯑ing into the bath, ‘"this would be a moſt ex⯑cellent place for old Madame French to dance a fandango in! By Jingo, I would n't wiſh for better ſport than to ſwing her round this here pond!"’

[270] ‘"She would be very much obliged to you,"’ ſaid Lord Orville, ‘"for ſo extraordinary a mark of your favour."’

‘"Why, to let you know,"’ anſwered the Cap⯑tain, ‘"ſhe hit my fancy mightily; I never took ſo much to an old tabby before."’

‘"Really, now,"’ cried Mr. Lovel, looking alſo into the bath, ‘"I muſt confeſs it is, to me, very incomprehenſible why the ladies chuſe that frightful unbecoming dreſs to bathe in! I have of⯑ten pondered very ſeriouſly upon the ſubject, but could never hit upon the reaſon."’

‘"Well, I declare,"’ ſaid Lady Louiſa, ‘"I ſhould like of all things to ſet ſomething new a going; I always hated bathing, becauſe one can get no pretty dreſs for it; now do, there's a good creature, try to help me to ſomething."’

‘"Who? me!—O dear Ma'am,"’ ſaid he, ſimpering, ‘"I can't pretend to aſſiſt a perſon of your Ladyſhip's taſte; beſides, I have not the leaſt head for faſhions,—I really don't think I ever invented three in my life!—but I never had the leaſt turn for dreſs,—never any notion of fancy or elegance."’

‘"O fie, Mr. Lovel! how can you talk ſo?—don't we all know that you lead the ton in the beau monde?—I declare, I think you dreſs better than any body."’

‘"O dear Ma'am, you confuſe me to the laſt degree! I dreſs well!—I proteſt I don't think I'm ever fit to be ſeen!—I'm often ſhocked to death to think what a figure I go. If your Ladyſhip will believe me, I was full half an hour this morning thinking what I ſhould put on!"’

‘"Odds my life,"’ cried the Captain, ‘"I wiſh I'd been near you! I warrant I'd have quickened [271] your motions a little! Half an hour thinking what you'd put on? and who the deuce, do you think, cares the ſnuff of a candle whether you've any thing on or not?"’

‘"O pray, Captain,"’ cried Mrs. Selwyn, ‘"don't be angry with the gentleman for think⯑ing, whatever be the cauſe, for, I aſſure you, he makes no common practice of offending in that way."’

‘"Really, Ma'am, you are prodigiouſly kind!"’ ſaid Mr. Lovel, angrily.

‘"Pray, now,"’ ſaid the Captain, ‘"did you ever get a ducking in that there place your⯑ſelf?"’

‘"A ducking, Sir!"’ repeated Mr. Lovel; ‘"I proteſt I think that's rather an odd term!—but if you mean a bathing, it is an honour I have had many times."’

‘"And pray, if a body may be ſo bold, what do you do with that frizle-frize top of your own? Why, I'll lay you what you will, there is fat and greaſe enough on your crown, to buoy you up, if you were to go in head down⯑wards."’

‘"And I don't know,"’ cried Mrs. Selwyn, ‘"but that might be the eaſieſt way, for I'm ſure it would be the lighteſt."’

‘"For the matter of that there,"’ ſaid the Captain, ‘"you muſt make him a ſoldier, be⯑fore you can tell which is the lighteſt, head or heels. Howſomever, I'd lay ten pounds to a ſhilling, I could whiſk him ſo dexterouſly over into the pool, that he ſhould light plump upon his foretop, and turn round like a tetotum."’

‘"Done!"’ cried Lord Merton: ‘"I take your odds!"’

[272] ‘"Will you?"’ returned he; ‘"why then, 'fore George, I'd do it, as ſoon as ſay Jack Ro⯑binſon."’

‘"He, he!"’ faintly laughed Mr. Lovel, as he moved abruptly from the window, ‘"'pon ho⯑nour, this is pleaſant enough; but I don't ſee what right any body has to lay wagers about one, without one's conſent."’

‘"There, Lovel, you are out;"’ cried Mr. Coverly; ‘"any man may lay what wager about you he pleaſes; your conſent is nothing to the purpoſe: he may lay that your noſe is a ſky-blue, if he pleaſes."’

‘"Ay,"’ ſaid Mrs. Selwyn, ‘"or that your mind is more adorned than your perſon;—or any ab⯑ſurdity whatſoever."’

‘"I proteſt,"’ ſaid Mr. Lovel, angrily, ‘"I think it's a very diſagreeable privilege, and I muſt beg that nobody may take ſuch a liberty with me."’

‘"Like enough you may,"’ cried the Cap⯑tain; ‘"but what's that to the purpoſe? ſup⯑poſe I've a mind to lay that you've never a tooth in your head?—pray how will you hinder me?"’

‘"You'll allow me, at leaſt, Sir, to take the liberty of aſking how you'll prove it?"’

‘"How!—why, by knocking them all down your throat."’

‘"Knocking them all down my throat, Sir!"’ repeated Mr. Lovel, with a look of horror, ‘"I proteſt I never heard any thing ſo ſhocking in my life; and I muſt beg leave to obſerve, that no wager, in my opinion, could juſtify ſuch a bar⯑barous action."’

Here Lord Orville interfered, and hurried us to our carriages.

[273] We returned in the ſame order we came.—Mrs. Beaumont invited all the party to dinner, and has been ſo obliging as to beg Miſs Mirvan may continue at her houſe during her ſtay. The Captain will lodge at the Wells.

The firſt half-hour after our return, was de⯑voted to hearing Mr. Lovel's apologies for dining in his riding-dreſs.

Mrs. Beaumont then, addreſſing herſelf to Miſs Mirvan and me, enquired how we liked Bath?

‘"I hope,"’ ſaid Mr. Lovel, ‘"the Ladies do not call this ſeeing Bath."’

‘"No!—what ſhould ail 'em?"’ cried the Cap⯑tain; ‘"do you ſuppoſe they put their eyes in their pockets?"’

‘"No, Sir; but I fancy you will find no per⯑ſon,—that is, no perſon of any condition,—call going about a few places in a morning—ſeeing Bath."’

‘"Mayhap, then,"’ ſaid the literal Captain, ‘"you think we ſhould ſee it better by going about at midnight?'’

‘"No, Sir, no,"’ ſaid Mr. Lovel, with a ſu⯑percilious ſmile, ‘"I perceive you don't under⯑ſtand me,—we ſhould never call it ſeeing Bath, without going at the right ſeaſon."’

‘"Why, what a plague, then,"’ demanded he, ‘"can you only ſee at one ſeaſon of the year?"’

Mr. Lovel again ſmiled; but ſeemed ſuperior to making any anſwer.

‘"The Bath amuſements,"’ ſaid Lord Orville, ‘"have a ſameneſs in them, which, after a ſhort time, renders them rather inſipid: but the greateſt objection that can be made to the place, is the encouragement it gives to gameſters."’

[274] ‘"Why I hope, my Lord, you would not think of aboliſhing gaming,"’ cried Lord Merton; ‘"'tis the very zeſt of life? Devil take me if I could live without it!"’

‘"I am ſorry for it,"’ ſaid Lord Orville, grave⯑ly, and looking at Lady Louiſa.

‘"Your Lordſhip is no judge of this ſubject,"’ continued the other:—‘"but if once we could get you to a gaming-table, you'd never be happy away from it."’

‘"I hope, my Lord,"’ cried Lady Louiſa, ‘"that nobody here ever occaſions your quitting it."’

‘"Your Ladyſhip,"’ ſaid Lord Merton, recol⯑lecting himſelf, ‘"has power to make me quit any thing."’

‘"Except herſelf,"’ ſaid Mr. Coverley. ‘"Egad, my Lord, I think I've helpt you out there."’

‘"You men of wit, Jack,"’ anſwered his Lord⯑ſhip, ‘"are always ready;—for my part, I don't pretend to any talents that way."’

‘"Really, my Lord?"’ aſked the ſarcaſtic Mrs. Selwyn; ‘"well, that is wonderful, conſidering ſucceſs would be ſo much in your power."’

‘"Pray, Madam,"’ ſaid Mr. Lovel to Lady Louiſa, ‘"has your Ladyſhip heard the news?"’

‘"News!—what news?"’

‘"Why, the report circulating at the Wells concerning a certain perſon?"’

‘"O Lord, no; pray tell me what it is!"’

‘"O no, Ma'am, I beg your La'ſhip will ex⯑cuſe me; 'tis a profound ſecret, and I would not have mentioned it, if I had not thought you knew it."’

‘"Lord, now, how can you be ſo monſtrous?—I declare, now, you're a provoking creature! [275] But come, I know you'll tell me;—won't you now?"’

‘"Your La'ſhip knows I am but too happy to obey you; but, 'pon honour, I can't ſpeak a word, if you won't all promiſe me the moſt inviola⯑ble ſecrecy."’

‘"I wiſh you'd wait for that from me,"’ ſaid the Captain, ‘"and I'll give you my word you'd be dumb for one while. Secrecy, quoth a!—Fore George, I wonder you a'n't aſhamed to men⯑tion ſuch a word, when you talk of telling it to a woman. Though, for the matter of that, I'd as lieve blab it to the whole ſex at once, as to go for to tell it to ſuch a thing as you."’

‘"Such a thing as me, Sir!"’ ſaid Mr. Lovel, letting fall his knife and fork, and looking very important: ‘"I really have not the honour to underſtand your expreſſion."’

‘"It's all one for that,"’ ſaid the Captain; ‘"you may have it explained whenever you like it."’

‘"'Pon honour, Sir,"’ returned Mr. Lovel, ‘"I muſt take the liberty to tell you, that I ſhould be extremely offended, but that I ſuppoſe it to be ſome ſea-phraſe, and therefore I'll let it paſs with⯑out further notice."’

Lord Orville then, to change the diſcourſe, aſked Miſs Mirvan if ſhe ſhould ſpend the enſuing winter in London?"

‘"No, to be ſure,"’ ſaid the Captain, ‘"what ſhould ſhe for? ſhe ſaw all that was to be ſeen before."’

‘"Is London, then,"’ ſaid Mr. Lovel ſmiling, at Lady Louiſa, ‘"only to be regarded as a ſight?"’

‘"Why pray, Mr. Wiſeacre, how are you pleaſed for to regard it yourſelf?—Anſwer me to that?"’

[276] ‘"O Sir, my opinion I fancy you would hardly find intelligible. I don't underſtand ſea-phraſes enough to define it to your comprehenſion. Does n't your La'ſhip think the taſk would be rather difficult?"’

‘"O Lard, yes,"’ cried Lady Louiſa, ‘"I de⯑clare I'd as ſoon teach my parrot to talk Welch."’

‘"Ha! ha! ha! admirable!—Pon honour, your La'ſhip's quite in luck to day;—but that, indeed, your La'ſhip is every day. Though, to be ſure, it is but candid to acknowledge, that the gentlemen of the ocean have a ſet of ideas, as well as a dialect, ſo oppoſite to ours, that it is by no means ſurpriſing they ſhould regard London as a mere ſhow, that may be ſeen by being looked at. Ha! ha! ha!’

‘"Ha! ha!’ echoed Lady Louiſa: ‘Well, I de⯑clare you are the drolleſt creature!"’

‘"He! he! 'pon honour I can't help laughing at the conceit of ſeeing London in a few weeks!"’

‘"And what a plague ſhould hinder you?"’ cri⯑ed the Captain; ‘"do you want to ſpend a day in every ſtreet?"’

Here again Lady Louiſa and Mr. Lovel inter⯑changed ſmiles.

‘"Why, I warrant you, if I had the ſhewing of it, I'd haul you from St. James's to Wapping the very firſt morning."’

The ſmiles were now, with added contempt, repeated; which the Captain obſerving, looked very fiercely at Mr. Lovel, and ſaid, ‘"Hark'ee, my ſpark, none of your grinning!—'tis a lingo I don't underſtand; and if you give me any more of it, I ſhall go near to lend you a box o' the ear."’

‘"I proteſt, Sir,"’ ſaid Mr. Lovel, turning ex⯑tremely pale, ‘"I think it's taking a very particular [277] liberty with a perſon, to talk to one in ſuch a ſtyle as this!"’

‘"It's like you may,"’ returned the Captain; ‘"but give a good gulp and I warrant you'll ſwal⯑low it."’ Then, calling for a glaſs of ale, with a very provoking and ſignificant nod, he drank to his eaſy digeſtion.

Mr. Lovel made no anſwer, but looked ex⯑tremely ſullen: and ſoon after, we left the gen⯑tlemen to themſelves.

I had then two letters delivered to me; one from Lady Howard and Mrs. Mirvan, which con⯑tained the kindeſt congratulations; and the other from Madame Duval,—but not a word from you,—to my no ſmall ſurpriſe and concern.

Madame Duval ſeems greatly rejoiced at my late intelligence: a violent cold, ſhe ſays, pre⯑vented her coming to Briſtol. The Branghtons, ſhe tells me, are all well; Miſs Polly is ſoon to be married to Mr. Brown, but Mr. Smith has changed his lodgings, ‘"which,"’ ſhe adds, ‘"has made the houſe extremely dull. However, that's not the worſe news; pardie, I wiſh it was! but I've been uſed like nobody,—for Monſieur Du Bois has had the baſeneſs to go back to France with⯑out me."’ In concluſion, ſhe aſſures me, as you prognoſticated ſhe would, that I ſhall be ſole heireſs of all ſhe is worth, when Lady Orville.

At tea-time, we were joined by all the gentle⯑men but Captain Mirvan, who went to the Ho⯑tel where he was to ſleep, and made his daughter accompany him, to ſeparate her trumpery, as he called it, from his cloaths.

As ſoon as they were gone, Mr. Lovel, who ſtill appeared extremely ſulky, ſaid, ‘"I proteſt, I never ſaw ſuch a vulgar, abuſive fellow in my life, as that Captain: 'pon honour, I believe he [278] came here for no purpoſe in the world but to pick a quarrel; however, for my part, I vow I won't humour him."’

‘"I declare,"’ cried Lady Louiſa, ‘"he put me in a monſtrous fright,—I never heard any body talk ſo ſhocking in my life!"’

‘"I think,"’ ſaid Mrs. Selwyn, with great ſo⯑lemnity, ‘"he threatened to box your ears, Mr. Lovel,—did not he?"’

‘"Really, Ma'am,"’ ſaid Mr. Lovel, colour⯑ing, ‘"if one was to mind every thing thoſe low kind of people ſay,—one ſhould never be at reſt for one impertinence or other,—ſo I think the beſt way is to be above taking any notice of them."’

‘"What,"’ ſaid Mrs. Selwyn, with the ſame gravity, ‘"and ſo receive the blow in ſilence!"’

During this diſcourſe, I ſaw the Captain's chaiſe drive up to the gate, and ran down ſtairs to meet Maria. She was alone, and told me, that her father, who, ſhe was ſure, had ſome ſcheme in agitation againſt Mr. Lovel, had ſent her on before him. We continued in the garden till his return, and were joined by Lord Orville, who begged me not to inſiſt on a patience ſo unnatu⯑ral, as ſubmitting to be excluded our ſociety. And let me, my dear Sir, with a grateful heart, let me own, I never before paſſed half an hour in ſuch perfect felicity.

I believe we were all ſorry when we ſaw the Captain return; yet his inward ſatisfaction, from however different a cauſe, did not ſeem inferior to what ours had been. He chucked Maria un⯑der the chin, rubbed his hands, and was ſcarce able to contain the fullneſs of his glee. We all attended him to the drawing-room, where, hav⯑ing compoſed his countenance, without any pre⯑vious [279] attention to Mrs. Beaumont, he marched up to Mr. Lovel, and abruptly ſaid, ‘"Pray have you ever a brother in theſe here parts?"’

‘"Me, Sir?—no, thank Heaven, I'm free from all incumbrances of that ſort."’

‘"Well,"’ cried the Captain, ‘"I met a perſon juſt now, ſo like you, I could have ſworn he had been your twin-brother."’

‘"It would have been a moſt ſingular pleaſure to me,"’ ſaid Mr. Lovel, ‘"if I alſo could have ſeen him; for, really, I have not the leaſt notion what ſort of a perſon I am, and I have a prodigi⯑ous curioſity to know."’

Juſt then, the Captain's ſervant opening the door, ſaid, ‘"A little gentleman below deſires to ſee one Mr. Lovel."’

‘"Beg him to walk up ſtairs,"’ ſaid Mrs. Beau⯑mont. ‘"But pray what is the reaſon William is out of the way?"’

The man ſhut the door without any anſwer.

‘"I can't imagine who it is,"’ ſaid Mr. Lovel; ‘"I recollect no little Gentleman of my acquaint⯑ance now at Briſtol,—except, indeed, the Mar⯑quis of Carlton,—but I don't much fancy it can be him. Let me ſee, who elſe is there ſo very little?"—’

A confuſed noiſe among the ſervants now drew all eyes towards the door; the impatient Captain haſtened to open it, and then, clapping his hands, called out, ‘"'Fore George, 'tis the ſame per⯑ſon I took for your relation!"’

And then, to the utter aſtoniſhment of every body but himſelf, he hauled into the room a monkey! full dreſſed, and extravagantly à-la-mode!

The diſmay of the company was almoſt gene⯑ral. Poor Mr. Lovel ſeemed thunderſtruck with [280] indignation and ſurpriſe; Lady Louiſa began a ſcream, which for ſome time was inceſſant; Miſs Mirvan and I jumped involuntarily upon the ſeats of our chairs; Mrs. Beaumont herſelf followed our example; Lord Orville placed himſelf before me as a guard; and Mrs. Selwyn, Lord Merton, and Mr. Coverley, burſt into a loud, immode⯑rate, ungovernable fit of laughter, in which they were joined by the Captain, till, unable to ſup⯑port himſelf, he rolled on the floor.

The firſt voice which made its way thro' this general noiſe, was that of Lady Louiſa, which her fright and ſcreaming rendered extremely ſhrill. ‘"Take it away!"’ cried ſhe, ‘"take the mon⯑ſter away,—I ſhall faint, I ſhall faint if you don't!"’

Mr. Lovel, irritated beyond endurance, an⯑grily demanded of the Captain what he meant?"

‘"Mean?"’ cried the Captain, as ſoon as he was able to ſpeak, ‘"why only to ſhew you in your proper colours."’ Then riſing, and pointing to the monkey, ‘"Why now, Ladies and Gen⯑tlemen, I'll be judged by you!—Did you ever ſee any thing more like? Odds my life, if it was n't for this here tail, you would n't know one from t'other."’

‘"Sir,"’ cried Mr. Lovel, ſtamping, ‘"I ſhall take a time to make you feel my wrath."’

‘"Come, now,"’ continued the regardleſs Cap⯑tain, ‘"juſt for the fun's ſake, doff your coat and waiſtcoat, and ſwop with Monſieur Grinagain here, and I'll warrant you'll not know yourſelf which is which."’

‘"Not know myſelf from a monkey?—I aſſure you, Sir, I'm not to be uſed in this manner, and I won't bear it,—curſe me if I will!"’

[281] ‘"Why heyday,"’ cried the Captain, ‘"what, is Maſter in a paſſion?—well, don't be angry,—come, he ſhan't hurt you;—here, ſhake a paw with him,—why he'll do you no harm, man!—come, kiſs and friends!"—’

‘"Who I?"’ cried Mr. Lovel, almoſt mad with vexation, ‘"as I'm a living creature, I would not touch him for a thouſand worlds!"’

‘"Send him a challenge,"’ cried Mr. Coverley, ‘"and I'll be your ſecond."’

‘"Ay, do,"’ ſaid the Captain, ‘"and I'll be ſecond to my friend Monſieur Clapperclaw here. Come, to it at once!—tooth and nail!"’

‘"God forbid!"’ cried Mr. Lovel, retreating, ‘"I would ſooner truſt my perſon with a mad bull!"’

‘"I don't like the looks of him myſelf,"’ ſaid Lord Merton, ‘"for he grins moſt horribly."’

‘"Oh I'm frightened out of my ſenſes!"’ cried Lady Louiſa, ‘"take him away, or I ſhall die!"’

‘"Captain,"’ ſaid Lord Orville, ‘"the ladies are alarmed, and I muſt beg you would ſend the monkey away."’

‘"Why, where can be the mighty harm of one monkey more than another?"’ anſwered the Cap⯑tain; ‘howſomever, if it's agreeable to the ladies, ſuppoſe we turn them out together?"’

‘"What do you mean by that, Sir?"’ cried Mr. Lovel, lifting up his cane.

‘"What do you mean?"’ cried the Captain, fiercely: ‘be ſo good as to down with your cane."’

Poor Mr. Lovel, too much intimidated to ſtand his ground, yet too much enraged to ſubmit, turn⯑ed haſtily round, and, forgetful of conſequences, vented his paſſion by giving a furious blow to the monkey.

The creature, darting forwards, ſprung inſtant⯑ly upon him, and olinging round his neck, faſten⯑ed his teeth to one of his ears.

[282] I was really ſorry for the poor man, who, though an egregious fop, had committed no of⯑fence that merited ſuch chaſtiſement.

It was impoſſible, now, to diſtinguiſh whoſe ſcreams were loudeſt, thoſe of Mr. Lovel or the terrified Lady Louiſa, who, I believe, thought her own turn was approaching: but the unrelent⯑ing Captain roared with joy.

Not ſo Lord Orville: ever humane, generous, and benevolent, he quitted his charge, whom he ſaw was wholly out of danger, and ſeizing the monkey by the collar, made him looſen the ear, and then, with a ſudden ſwing, flung him out of the room, and ſhut the door.

Mr. Lovel was now a dreadful object; his face was beſmeared with tears, the blood from his ear ran trickling down his cloaths, and he ſunk upon the floor, crying out, ‘"Oh I ſhall die, I ſhall die!—Oh I'm bit to death!"’

‘"Captain Mirvan,"’ ſaid Mrs. Beaumont, with no little indignation, ‘"I muſt own I don't perceive the wit of this action; and I am ſorry to have ſuch cruelty practiſed in my houſe."’

‘"Why, Lord, Ma'am,"’ ſaid the Captain, when his rapture abated ſufficiently for ſpeech, ‘"how could I tell they'd fall out ſo?—by Jingo, I brought him to be a meſſmate for t'other."’

‘"Egad,"’ ſaid Mr. Coverley, ‘"I would not have been ſerved ſo for a thouſand pounds!"’

‘"Why then there's the odds on't,"’ ſaid the Cap⯑tain, ‘"for you ſee he is ſerved ſo for nothing. But come,"’ (turning to Mr. Lovel,) ‘"be of good heart, all may end well yet, and you and Monſieur Longtail be as good friends as ever."’

‘"I'm ſurpriſed, Mrs. Beaumont,"’ cried Mr. Lovel, ſtarting up, ‘"that you can ſuffer a per⯑ſon under your roof to be treated ſo inhumanly."’

‘"What argufies ſo many words?"’ ſaid the [283] unfeeling Captain, ‘"it is but a ſlit of the ear; it only looks as if you had been in the pillory."’

‘"Very true,"’ added Mrs. Selwyn, ‘and who knows but it may acquire you the credit of being an anti-miniſterial writer?"’

‘"I proteſt,"’ cried Mr. Lovel, looking ruefully at his dreſs, ‘"my new riding-ſuit's all over blood!"’

‘"Ha, ha, ha!"’ cried the captain, ‘"ſee what comes of ſtudying for an hour what you ſhall put on."’

Mr. Lovel then walked to the glaſs, and look⯑ing at the place, exclaimed, ‘"Oh Heaven, what a monſtrous wound! my ear will never be fit to be ſeen again!"’

‘"Why then,"’ ſaid the Captain, ‘"you muſt hide it;—'tis but wearing a wig."’

‘"A wig!"’ repeated the affrighted Mr. Lovel, ‘"I wear a wig?—no, not if you would give me a thouſand pounds an hour!"’

‘"I declare,"’ ſaid Lady Louiſa, ‘"I never heard ſuch a ſhocking propoſal in my life!"’

"Lord Orville then, ſeeing no proſpect that the altercation would ceaſe, propoſed to the Cap⯑tain to walk. He aſſented; and having given Mr. Lovel a nod of exultation, accompanied his Lordſhip down ſtairs.

‘"'Pon honour,"’ ſaid Mr. Lovel, the moment the door was ſhut, ‘"that fellow is the greateſt brute in nature! he ought not to be admitted into a civilized ſociety."’

‘"Lovel,"’ ſaid Mr. Coverley, affecting to whiſper, ‘"you muſt certainly pink him: you muſt not put up with ſuch an affront."’

‘"Sir,"’ ſaid Mr. Lovel, ‘"with any common perſon, I ſhould not deliberate an inſtant; but, re⯑ally, with a fellow who has done nothing but fight all his life, 'pon honour, Sir, I can't think of it!"’

‘"Lovel,"’ ſaid Lord Merton, in the ſame voice, ‘"you muſt call him to account."’

[284] ‘"Every man,"’ ſaid he, pettiſhly, ‘"is the beſt judge of his own affairs, and I don't aſk the ho⯑nour of any perſon's advice."’

‘"Egad, Lovel,"’ ſaid Mr. Coverley, ‘"you're in for it!—you can't poſſibly be off!"’

‘"Sir,"’ cried he, very impatiently, ‘"upon any proper occaſion, I ſhould be as ready to ſhew my courage as any body;—but as to fighting for ſuch a trifle as this,—I proteſt I ſhould bluſh to think of it!"’

‘"A trifle!"’ cried Mrs. Selwyn; ‘"good Hea⯑ven! and have you made this aſtoniſhing riot about a trifle?"’

‘"Ma'am,"’ anſwered the poor wretch, in great confuſion, ‘"I did not know at firſt but that my cheek might have been bit:—but as 'tis no worſe, why it does not a great deal ſignify. Mrs. Beau⯑mont, I have the honour to wiſh you a good even⯑ing; I'm ſure my carriage muſt be waiting."’ And then, very abruptly, he left the room.

What a commotion has this miſchief-loving Captain raiſed! Were I to remain here long, even the ſociety of my dear Maria could ſcarce com⯑penſate for the diſturbances he excites.

When he returned, and heard of his quiet exit, his triumph was intolerable. ‘"I think, I think,"’ cried he, ‘"I have peppered him well! I'll war⯑rant he won't give an hour to-morrow morning to ſettling what he ſhall put on; why his coat,"’ turn⯑ing to me, ‘"would be a moſt excellent match for old Madame Furbelow's beſt Lyons' ſilk. 'Fore George, I'd deſire no better ſport, than to have that there old cat here, to go her ſnacks!"’

All the company then, Lord Orville, Miſs Mir⯑van, and myſelf excepted, played at cards, and we—oh how much better did we paſs our time!"

While we were engaged in a moſt delightful converſation, a ſervant brought me a letter, which [285] he told me had, by ſome accident, been miſlaid. Judge my feelings, when I ſaw, my deareſt Sir, your revered hand-writing! My emotions ſoon betrayed to Lord Orville whom the letter was from: the importance of the contents he well knew, and aſſuring me I ſhould not be ſeen by the card-players, he beſought me to open it with⯑out delay.

Open it, indeed, I did;—but read it I could not,—the willing, yet aweful conſent you have granted,—the tenderneſs of your expreſſions,—the certainty that no obſtacle remained to my eter⯑nal union with the loved owner of my heart, gave me ſenſations too various, and though joyful, too little placid for obſervation. Finding myſelf un⯑able to proceed, and blinded by the tears of gra⯑titude and delight which ſtarted into my eyes, I gave over the attempt of reading, till I retired to my own room: and, having no voice to an⯑ſwer the enquiries of Lord Orville, I put the let⯑ter into his hands, and left it to ſpeak both for me and itſelf.

Lord Orville was himſelf affected by your kindneſs; he kiſſed the letter as he returned it, and, preſſing my hand affectionately to his heart, ‘"You are now,"’ (ſaid he, in a low voice) ‘"all my own! Oh my Evelina, how will my ſoul find room for its happineſs?—it ſeems already burſt⯑ing!"’ I could make no reply; indeed I hardly ſpoke another word the reſt of the evening; ſo lit⯑tle talkative is the fullneſs of contentment.

O my deareſt Sir, the thankfulneſs of my heart I muſt pour-forth at our meeting, when, at your feet, my happineſs receives its confir⯑mation from your bleſſing, and when my noble⯑minded, my beloved Lord Orville, preſents to you the highly-honoured and thrice-happy Evelina.

A few lines I will endeavour to write on Thurſ⯑day, [286] which ſhall be ſent off expreſs, to give you, ſhould nothing intervene, yet more certain aſſu⯑rance of our meeting.

Now then, therefore, for the firſt—and probab⯑ly the laſt time I ſhall ever own the name, permit me to ſign myſelf,

Lady Louiſa, at her own particular deſire, will be preſent at the ceremony, as well as Miſs Mirvan and Mrs. Selwyn: Mr. Macartney will the ſame morning, unite himſelf with my foſter-ſiſter, and my father himſelf will give us both away.

LETTER XXXVII.
Mr. Villars to Evelina.

EVERY wiſh of my ſoul is now fulfilled—for the felicity of my Evelina is equal to her worthineſs!

Yes, my child, thy happineſs is engraved, in golden characters, upon the tablets of my heart! and their impreſſion is indelible; for, ſhould the rude and deep-ſearching hand of Misfortune at⯑tempt to pluck them from their repoſitory, the fleeting fabric of life would give way, and in tear⯑ing from my vitals the nouriſhment by which they are ſupported, ſhe would but graſp at a ſhadow inſenſible to her touch.

[287] Give thee my conſent?—Oh thou joy, comfort, and pride of my life, how cold is that word to expreſs the fervency of my approbation! yes, I do indeed give thee my conſent, and ſo thank⯑fully, that, with the humbleſt gratitude to Pro⯑vidence, I would ſeal it with the remnant of my days.

Haſten, then, my love, to bleſs me with thy preſence, and to receive the bleſſings with which my fond heart overflows!—And, oh my Evelina, hear and aſſiſt in one only, humble, but ardent prayer which yet animates my devotions: that the height of bliſs to which thou art riſing may not render thee giddy, but that the purity of thy mind may form the brighteſt ſplendor of thy proſ⯑perity!—and that the weak and aged frame of thy almoſt idolizing parent, nearly worn out by time, paſt afflictions, and infirmities, may yet be able to ſuſtain a meeting with all its better part holds dear: and then, that all the wounds which the former ſeverity of fortune inflicted, may be healed and purified by the ultimate conſolation of pour⯑ing forth my dying words in bleſſings on my child!—cloſing theſe joy-ſtreaming eyes in her pre⯑ſence, and breathing my laſt faint ſighs in her loved arms!

Grieve not, oh child of my care, grieve not at the inevitable moment; but may thy own end be equally propitious! Oh may'ſt thou when full of days, and full of honour, ſink down as gently to reſt,—be loved as kindly, watched as tenderly as thy happy father! And may'ſt thou, when thy glaſs is run, be ſweetly but not bitterly mourned, by ſome remaining darling of thy affections,—ſome yet ſurviving Evelina!

LETTER XXXVIII.
Evelina to the Rev. Mr. Villars.

ALL is over, my deareſt Sir, and the fate of your Evelina is decided! This morning, with fearful joy, and trembling gratitude, ſhe united herſelf for ever with the object of her deareſt, her eternal affection!

I have time for no more; the chaiſe now waits which is to conduct me to dear Berry Hill, and to the arms of the beſt of men.