MEMOIRS OF A MAGDALEN. [P. 6s. B.]
MEMOIRS OF A MAGDALEN: OR, THE HISTORY OF LOUISA MILDMAY.
Now first published from a SERIES OF ORIGINAL LETTERS.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON: Printed for W. GRIFFIN, in Catharine-Street, in the Strand. M DCC LXVII.
CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
LETTER I.
Sir Robert Harold to Charles Melmoth, Esq. Page 1.
LETTER II.
Sir Robert Harold, in Continuation to Charles Melmoth, Esq. 18
LETTER III.
Miss Louisa Mildmay to Miss Harriot Beauclerk. 30
LETTER IV.
Sir Robert Harold to Charles Melmoth, Esq. 45
LETTER V.
Miss Harriot Beauclerk to Miss Louisa Mildmay. 56
LETTER VI.
Sir Robert Harold to Charles Melmoth, Esq. 62
LETTER VII.
Mrs. Mildmay to the Right Hon. the Countess of Haversham. 78
LETTER VIII.
Sir Robert Harold to Charles Melmoth, Esq. 94
LETTER IX.
Mr. Charles Melmoth, to Sir Robert Harold. 121
LETTER X.
Lady Haversham to Sir Robert Harold. 134
LETTER XI.
Sir Robert Harold to Charles Melmoth, Esq. 151
LETTER XII.
Sir Robert Harold to Charles Melmoth, Esq. 162
CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME.
LETTER XIII.
Miss Harriot Beauclerk to Miss Louisa Mildmay. Page 1.
LETTER XIV.
Miss Mildmay to her Mother. 22
LETTER XV.
Mr. Melmoth, to Sir Robert Harold. 33
LETTER XVI.
Mr. Melmoth, in Continuation, to Sir Robert Harold. 64
LETTER XVII.
Miss Harriot Beauclerk to her Mother. 71
LETTER XVIII.
Sir Robert Harold to Charles Melmoth, Esq. 105
LETTER XIX.
Miss Louisa Mildmay to Miss Harriot Beauclerk. 116
LETTER XX.
Sir Robert Harold, to Charles Melmoth, Esq. 179
LETTER XXI.
Lady Haversham to the Countess of Blandford. 203
THE HISTORY OF LOUISA MILDMAY.
LETTER I.
Sir
ROBERT HAROLD
to
CHARLES MELMOTH,
Esq.
Dear
CHARLES,
YOU desire me to be very particular during my stay at Bath, in giving you an account of the gallantries carried on at this celebrated theatre of pleasure; as if there could be any thing in the customary round of amour sufficiently interesting to a man of sense; or, as if I had nothing in nature to do but to play the impertinent Argus upon all my acquaintance, merely to have the mighty pleasure of writing incessantly to the worshipful Charles Melmoth, Esq.—and no other inclination, but to feast that philosophic sensualist with stories of contented cuckolds and perfidious lovers, together with the long list of romantic girls, who place the warmth of their constitution to the account of destiny, and kindly curse the poor stars when their Strephons become surfeited.
Indeed, Charles, I have too much business on my own hands, to trouble myself with the affairs of other people—therefore, unless you are determined to be satisfied with such casual intrigues as I engage in myself—my correspondence will be scarcely worth reading to a fellow of your eternal curiosity.—That this, however, may not dispirit you too much, you may recollect what a propensity I have to be particular with every woman who is fool enough to admit of my familiarity;—therefore, in this precious spot, as there is likelihood enough of employment, you may now and then, probably, receive some accounts sufficiently interesting to keep you from yawning in your great chair after dinner—a custom which will at last make you share the fate of the famous Charles Johnson, who, if we may credit Mr. Pope, fell an absolute martyr to obesity.
I was interrupted in my lettter by a card from lady Haversham, desiring me to be at tea in the afternoon; and, intimating that there were some very handsome young ladies to pass the evening with her: an inducement which, she said, would secure her the pleasure of my company; for she justly enough observed, that the circumstance of her being my sister might render me otherwise indifferent about the invitation.—You know well enough, Melmoth, what pains I always take in the decoration of my outside; and you have a thousand times sworn that I am the most egregious coxcomb in the kingdom.—Perhaps I am—and yet, between ourselves, I have always found this coxcombry of infinite service, not only among the women, but among the very men, highly soever as the generality of them seemed to despise an attention to the elegance of externals: how often have I chuckled, when you and I walked together in the streets, (you in a rusty black frock, and I perhaps in a magnificent suit of embroidery) to see, notwithstanding all your contempt of dress, with what an unceasing assiduity you kept hold of my arm, and endeavoured, upon the merit of your companion's coat, to be thought a man of consequence by the vulgar—In proportion to the shabbiness of your own appearance, you thought yourself obliged to make a benefit of mine; and, how frequently have you swelled up with an air of the most conscious importance, when some shopkeeper has observed, with an audible voice, that there was no doubt, for all the rustiness of your coat, but what you were somebody, or you would never be so familiar with so well drest a gentleman—Ah Melmoth, Melmoth, you philosophers are actuated as much by vanity as the most mincing fopling in the universe—Your very contempt of appearance is the absolute result of your pride, tho' you would willingly put it down as the consequence of your sense or the effect of your humility; and I am perfectly satisfied that Diogenes in his tub was fifty times a greater coxcomb than Alexander, though the puppy ridiculously affected to look down on the conqueror of the world, and mistook for an exalted emanation of soul what was nothing but a despicable sally of impertinence.—All this, Charles, you will possibly say is very true, but at the same time I am rather apprehensive you will tell me it is very dull also.—I shall therefore consult your amusement in preference to your instruction, and for once suffer sober sentiment to make room for flimsey narrative.
Well then, about seven o'clock I dressed myself in a very elegant suit of blue velvet embroidered with silver, and went in a chair to my sister Haversham's; where I found a large company of both sexes; and, in justice to the intimation contained in her card, I must acknowledge that I never saw a group of handsomer women in my life—One in particular engaged my utmost attention, whom I soon found to be LOUISA MILDMAY, of Oxfordshire,—the celebrated toast, who, though no more than twenty-one, has made the whole county a thousand times drunk; and occasioned four duels, in which two hot-headed blockheads were actually killed, and a third so disabled, by a wound in his hip, as to be doomed for life to crutches and repentance.
As I had often heard of this young lady's beauty, and was moreover told that she affected an insensibility to the most engaging efforts of gallantry; I resolved to exert my utmost abilities in hopes of making some little impression on her bosom; as I considered that it would greatly add to my character among the women if I could possibly succeed with one, who was looked upon by both sexes with an equal mixture of envy and admiration.—Actuated by this motive, my business was to work upon her pride without exciting her resentment; and to shew that, irresistible as she had hitherto proved, there was one man who could nevertheless behold her with indifference.—I therefore behaved to her with all the politeness of the most distant civility, while I sung, chatted, and romped with little Harriot Townly; and paid, in short, a much greater degree of attention to every other woman in the room.—The women, all highly delighted with the preference which was thus given them by a well drest young fellow, with a title and a large estate, in a manner devoured me; Harriot Townly in particular hung about me the whole evening; and, had it not been for the regard which I entertain for her brother, I do not know how far I might be tempted to carry my civilities.
As I was by much the best drest, and, without any compliment to myself, by much the likeliest, fellow in the room, Louisa could not see this palpable neglect of her beauty without the most sensible mortification; accustomed to be worshiped as a kind of divinity whereever she appeared, it was a most distressing circumstance to find her inferiors in beauty treated with a preferable degree of respect; and, probably, supposing that I should have fallen an instant conquest, like a number of others, the disappointment doubled her chagrin; and I could easily perceive that she cast several glances of a mingled anger and contempt at your poor friend, as if she equally saw through my purpose and despised it.—Be this however as it may, I retired early to give the ladies an opportutunity of talking about me; and the next morning went to breakfast at lady Haversham's, on purpose to hear from my sister, what was said after my departure the preceding evening.
Being shewn up, who should I see, to my very great surprize, at the teatable, but Miss Louisa—she was alone with my sister, and seemed somewhat confused at my appearance; all this, you know, had a very good sign, and gave me an additional cause to pursue a plan of operation which already wore so probable a face of success.—I therefore bowed with the coldest air of respect, and, with an inattention not altogether the most mannerly, entered into some trifling discourse with my sister, scarcely ever opening my lips to Louisa; though she kindly encouraged me, by some occasional smiles at what I said, to make her a party in the conversation.—Guessing pretty clearly that, if I took my leave, I should have something worth listening to in the afternoon, I wished the women a good morning, and went away with telling lady Haversham, that I should possibly call in on her before I went home to dress.
As you have heard so much about Miss Mildmay, Charles, I shall now proceed to do what I ought to have done somewhat sooner; that is, to give you a description of her person, and an account of her family.—With regard to the first, she is to the full as tall as Mrs. Yates of Drury-lane theatre, and has a sensibility of countenance, which we hardly ever meet where features are surprizingly regular—Her eyes are full, black, and languishing—her hair is as black as her eyes; and, from the present mode of dressing, appears to so much advantage, that, was she possessed of no other personal attraction, it would be almost sufficient to procure her a croud of admirers—Her forehead is finely open, and inconceivably white; and the two exquisite arches which are formed by her brows, give such a dignity to her looks, that none but an impudent fellow like myself could possibly see her without an instant veneration—As to her mouth, I never saw any thing so ravishing—The resy ripeness of the lips, while it captivates the eye, receives additional beauties from the delicious poutingness of their formation; so that they rise with an equal charm both to the sight and touch; and seem no less calculated to excite emotion, than to reward it—Her teeth are remarkably even—but they have not that milky whiteness which I have observed in beauties of less eminence—They have to me, however, a colour which exceeds it—They have a certain pearliness so uncommonly clear, that you can in a manner see through them; and this I fancy is not only nearest to the genuine cast of nature, but the best designed also for duration. Miss Louisa is one of those delightfully formed women, whom a Musselman in a phrensy of devotion would suppose to be a daughter of paradise—With the nicest harmony of proportion, there is a voluptuous fleshiness through her person, which keeps the imagination continually on fire, and would kindle the bosom of an anchorite into an instant flame of sensuality. Some people, when they talk of beauties, preposterously suppose that a fine woman must be scarcely fatter than the figure of Time over the monument of general Hargrave—for my own part I am fond of some flesh and blood about the bones Charles, and would even, of the two evils, rather pay my addresses to an Egyptian mummy than to an absolute skeleton. Miss Mildmay, however, so far from suffering the least disadvantage through this plenitude of person, acquires new charms from it; it gives a majesty to her air which bespeaks your veneration; and blends all the elevation of dignity with all the tenderness of love.—Add to this, that there is a something in the very tone of her voice which indicates the woman of condition, and gives you a supposition of rank before you receive the most distant account of her family.
As to her family, it is not more antient than respectable—She reckons among her ancestors on the father's side, the great Sir Philip Sidney; and her mother is descended from a branch of the immortal Hampden, who so resolutely opposed the infamous oppressions of that rapacious tyrant Charles the First.—Her father possesses, at present, a good four thousand pounds a year; her only brother has a company in the guards, and is universally esteemed a very fine gentleman.
Notwithstanding the advantages which Miss Mildmay derives from family and fortune, her education however has rather been ornamental than useful; and she is much better calculated for her present character of a toast, than for the necessary employment of mistress to a family—She speaks French and Italian—plays on the harpsicord and the guittar; and sings with an exquisite share of taste, though she has less body to her voice, than you would imagine from the melody and fulness of her tones in common conversation.—These accomplishments, nevertheless, though they are generally as much as our young women of distinction possess now a days, are but very trifling matters when we come to enquire about a well informed mind, and a stability of principle.—The men are not, in fact, such fools, my dear Melmoth, as the ladies may imagine; we love that they should understand French and Italian; and we listen with pleasure when they either sing us a song, or favour us with a tune upon an instrument.—Yet these are all but secondary considerations:—After marriage, the ornamental parts of their education, like the beauties of their faces, very quickly lessen in our esteem—and nothing maintains its ground but sterling sense and real virtue.—A woman, therefore, who studies to be the universal passion, is rather a dangerous character for a wife—Composed, in a great measure, of affectation and levity, her principal study is to please those who are labouring to destroy her; and the only person whom she declines to oblige is the unfortunate poor devil who is continually solicitous to promote her felicity.—For these reasons, when I marry, I shall look out for a woman whose mind has been improved in some proportion with her person—If mere externals were able to captivate me, I do not know a lady in the world whom I would sooner think of than Miss Mildmay—But this rage for admiration, which I fear absorbs all her faculties, forbids me to entertain any thoughts of settling with her for life—I could by no means bear the imputation of imaginary infidelity in my wife; and Caesar himself could not be more delicate in this respect, when he said That it was not enough for his wife to be virtuous, she must be unsuspected also.
When I look back upon the unconscionable length of this letter—I wonder how I found inclination to write so much; if, however, you find inclination to read it, I shall not think my time misapplied, since I am, dear Melmoth,
Your's very faithfully, ROBERT HAROLD.
LETTER II.
Sir
ROBERT HAROLD,
in Continuation to
CHARLES MELMOTH,
Esq.
PURSUANT to the intention which I had intimated of calling in upon my sister Haversham before dinner, I took but a turn or two round the rooms, and then went back to her house, where I had the good fortune of finding her alone; a circumstance which afforded me a proper opportunity of making the necessary enquiries after Louisa. As you know my sister is a woman of great sentiment and delicacy, I was obliged to begin in a roundabout manner, and therefore carelessly observed that we had a very agreeable party the preceding evening.
Why Bob, says she I should scarcely suppose that to be your real opinion, by the hurry in which you took leave of the company—But pray what was the actual reason
(and here she looked with a peculiar significance of feature)
that robbed us so early of a man devoted to the service of the ladies—I was in hopes your complaisance to them would have detained you a little longer, if you were influenced by no regard for me—But I can guess—I know that consummate vanity of your's too well not to think you were laying out some fresh baits for the foolish women who honoured you with so peculiar a distinction—You wanted to give them an opportunity of talking about you after you were gone; and are now come to hear the whole substance of their conversation, from a sister, who can keep nothing a secret from you, notwithstanding she is acquainted with the licentious turn of your disposition, and heartily laments it.
"My dear lady Haversham," returned I,
how can you possibly treat me with so much severity?—Business of the most pressing nature forced me from you last night; and this morning, to convince you, that nothing but the result of a brotherly affection induced me to call—.
"Ah, Bob, Bob," interrupted she,
don't I know you?—Or, if I did not—the design is too palpable to elude the eye of a common penetration.—But, be that as it may, what do you think of Louisa Mildmay?
"Think of her lady Haversham!—
Ay, think of her lady Haversham—Come, come, I saw, under all that gallantry which you threw away on the other ladies last night, that your design was in a great measure to pique her—Had she been wholly indifferent to you, you would have treated her with common civility—But I saw, and I saw with pleasure, that at the very first sight she made an impression, which I hope in a little time will be attended with the most salutary consequences.—The truth is, my dear Bob, I can never be happy while you remain unmarried—the continual excesses into which you are hurried by an unfortunate spirit of gallantry, fill me with a perpetual regret; you know I love you with a tenderness, perhaps, as great as ever sister felt for a brother—and am doubly sensible of all your accomplishments.—It therefore cuts me to the soul when I see a young fellow of your merit prostituting those talents in the destruction, as well as of his own happiness, as the happiness of other people—which might be rendered equally creditable to himself and advantageous to society.—On this account, I have been, for some time, looking out for a woman whose beauty might be able to secure your affection—whose merit might be able to engage your esteem; and whose family might be able to give you an encrease of consequence in your country.—These very desirable requisites I find will be all answered in a union with Louisa Mildmay—What say you then, my dear Bob—can you, for once, turn that fine sense of which I know you master, to the certain means of establishing your real happiness; or will you still persist, in opposition both to your reason and your humanity, to prosecute such courses as you cannot view without contempt, nor consider without detestation.
Upon my word lady Haversham,
replied I
you would make an admirable
—"Come, come, Bob," returned she,
don't endeavour to ridicule an argument which you are unable to answer; nor, by an untimely affectation of wit, attempt to lessen the credit of your own understanding.—Answer me therefore directly to the question—What do you think of Miss Mildmay?
I do not know how it was, Melmoth, but the good sense, and unaffected tenderness, of this amiable sister, at that moment threw me off my guard—By the exertion of an irresistable frankness, she rendered me as ingenuous as herself; and I candidly told her that I thought Louisa one of the most charming women I had ever seen; adding however, at the same time, that I fancied she possessed rather too great a consciousness of her own accomplishments to think of domesticating into the mistress of a family.
Lady Haversham to this replied, that I was entirely mistaken—that Louisa was at the bottom a woman of fine sense, and would make an admirable wife whenever she altered her condition.—"I will not indeed," says lady Haversham,
take upon me to say, that a young creature so universally admired can be entirely exempted from a little female vanity—You men are strange contradictions; you are for ever endeavouring to fill all the silly girls of your acquaintance with a thousand ridiculous notions of their own beauty; and yet the moment you see this infiduous train of flattery take fire, you despise them for their vanity, without once good naturedly recollecting that this vanity is principally occasioned by yourselves—As to Miss Mild-may, if you have no other objection, I promise you there is but little to apprehend on this account—When her affections become once directed to a particular object, her fondness for admiration will naturally cease: so that, with her regard for the man she marries, joined to the sense which she must entertain of her duty, there can be no doubt but what she will perform all the offices of a wife with the strictest propriety: at least this is my opinion of her, and I dare say you are convinced, that, unless she stood very high in my esteem, I should not be so earnest in recommending her to your tenderest consideration.
From the solicitude which my sister discovered in this affair, Charles, I was half inclined to think that the beautiful Louisa was already actually struck with my person and address; and had insinuated something to my advantage during her visit in the morning. I therefore dropt a distant hint of this nature, and, with an air half gay and half serious, enquired of lady Haversham, whether she thought there was any hope of Miss Mildmay's concurrence in case a treaty should be opened between the two families.—To this lady Haversham replied, that I must first declare myself a lover, before she could think of giving me any satisfactory answer on this head; that, was she even possessed of secrets, she would not sacrifice a lady's delicacy to any consideration; and wondered how I could think of participating in her confidence while I held her at such a distance from mine.—Upon the whole, she believed Miss Mildmay might perhaps be disengaged; and that, if I really entertained a passion for her, she did not see why I had a worse chance of succeeding than any body else.
This, Charles, is the present situation of affairs—I have since been twice in company with Louisa, and find the young baggage every moment growing on my imagination.—I don't know how it is—Matrimony has a frightful sound with it, and yet I am determined some time or other to be married—We are all however for putting the evil day as far off as possible—At what particular period my knot is to be tyed I know not; but I fancy the period is not very remote, for every time I think of Miss Mildmay I begin to be more reconciled to the reasonableness of the marriage ceremony.—By and by, perhaps, I shall call it, in my sister's language, a holy institution; and think of bespeaking some such clumsey varlet as yourself to stand godfather to one of my children.
Egad, Charles, the plot, as Bays says, begins to thicken.—Mr. Mildmay and his lady are just come to Bath, with a view of taking their daughter home in a week, so that what I do must be done speedily—Upon my soul I did not conceive how near this girl was to my heart till I was alarmed with the news of our speedy separation.—Lady Haversham's whole soul, I am sensible, is in the affair—and you need not be informed what a tenderness I bear for that amiable sister.—You see, Charles, how I want to make a merit of following my own inclination.—But adieu, my dear boy—I am preparing to attend the adorable Louisa to an assembly this evening, where I shall have her for a partner.—How all the fellows will envy my happiness, Melmoth—especially as I shall seize some favourable opportunities of whispering such a story in her ear, as will add considerably more than the nature of our entertainment to heighten the beauty of her complexion.
Your's, R. HAROLD.
LETTER III.
Miss
LOUISA MILDMAY
to Miss
HARRIOT BEAUCLERK.
THE sweet fellow, my charming friend, has at last declared himself—and in such a manner!—Well, if I was at first struck with the elegance of his figure, I am now ravished with the beauties of his conversation; and shall think myself the happiest of all human beings, if an alliance can be fortunately brought about between our families.
In my last letter I told you what a very warm interest I have with the countess of Haversham his sister; and that she had sounded him in relation to his sentiments of me, without giving him the least intimation of my having any knowledge of her design.—The obliging countess executed her commission with the utmost delicacy and address, and easily discovered that all the attention which he paid to that Miss Townly, the first night of our acquaintance, was nothing more than the customary effects of his vivacity—She also discovered that he thought me infinitely handsome; (that was his very word) but she feared he would struggle as much as possible with his inclinations, as he seemed to think it unlikely I should have still retained my heart, in the midst of such numberless admirers (her ladyship was pleased to say) as were every day soliciting the happiness of my hand, and applying for the interest of my father—However, she was good-naturedly studious to make parties to bring us together, and last night he danced with me at a ball, which was given by the French ambassador, highly to the mortification, not only of that Miss Townly, but of several other ladies, who had flattered themselves with the hope of engaging him for a partner.
During the whole course of the evening he scarcely attended to any thing but the means of obliging me.—In a thousand little circumstances he manifested both his tenderness and his delicacy; and in a thousand delightful whispers insinuated such well turned compliments, as nothing but affectation itself could possibly be offended with—Whenever he touched my hand he was seized with so exquisite a tremor as went to my very heart; and the envy which he visibly excited in the bosom of almost every other woman in the room, gave him such an additional charm, that he appeared as much an Oroondates to my fancy, as if I had been a heroine in some romance, and was but newly delivered from the dungeon of a merciless giant, in consequence of his prowess and magnanimity.
I have before told you that the first time I ever saw Sir Robert Harold, was at the playhouse here; and that the chastisement which he there publicly bestowed on two young officers, who rudely pushed a lady down, and seemed rather inclined to defend than to apologize for their brutality, was what rivetted him in my affection—Yet Harriot, were you to see the dear fellow, you would be charmed with him—In his person he is tall—but not so tall as to be inelegant in the least, nor so much inclined either to the extremes of corpulence or delicacy, as to be awkward on the one hand, or effeminate on the other; in short, the medium is so happy as to give the clearest idea imaginable of manliness and grace; and his legs are so admirably formed—Indeed, Harriot, I don't believe there is a finer made man in the universe.
As to his face there is no possibility of doing it justice in the description.—You may perhaps imagine that I am on this occasion actuated by the partiality of a giddy headed girl, who, having once confessed herself enamoured of a man, thinks it absolutely necessary, for the credit of her taste, to paint him as the invariable standard of perfection.—Indeed, Harriot, I have no necessity to be under so ridiculous an influence—Sir Robert is so much the every thing I could wish him to be, that exaggeration would be as useless as it is impossible; and only betray the excess of my weakness, without adding in the least to the credit of his attractions.—His face, however, my dear, is distinguished with a certain energy of expression, that throws out a whole soul upon every feature; and darts such an immediate meaning upon your bosom, that, had he been actually born dumb, he might have been set down as one of the first conversationists in the kingdom. Add to this, that there is an inherent stamp of condition in his air, which indicates the man of fashion, and, at first sight, no less engages your esteem than it excites your admiration—His complexion is a dark brown—but so delicate.—His eyes are of a deep black; but replete with such sweetness and fire, that, though he kills you in a manner with a glance, he throws an elysium on the wound, and lessens every suffering of your sensibility with an extacy unutterable.—Do, Harriot, laugh at my flight if you please—but remember the time is arrived, when even my sweet friend, with all her gravity, can be in over head and ears, and therefore she should allow for the hyperboles of other doating girls, by the allowances which are necessary for her own.—One word more about externals and I have done.—You know I am a passionate admirer of fine teeth—Sir Robert has a most exquisite set; and they are always so white—that nothing can equal their beauty, in my opinion, but the lips which enclose them.
You have thus, my dear Harriot, a faint sketch of Sir Robert Harold's exterior accomplishments.—As to other matters, his education is finished; his fortune is extremely large; his courage approved, and his understanding unquestionable.—He has indeed taken some extraordinary liberties among the women; but where a man possesses so many attractions, he must frequently meet with extraordinary encouragement—and if women will be fools, it is but reasonable they should be sufferers.—There is a part of his character which I know my dear Harriot will be highly taken with; and that is, though he is a great admirer of magnificence, he always makes it a rule to live considerably within his fortune, and to distribute many sums towards the advancement of his poor tenants, which the most of our modern fine gentlemen injudiciously expend in horse-racing, or in some other fashionable amusement equally inhuman and ridiculous. His benevolence, in this respect, joined to the most condescending affability, has rendered him the idol of all his inferiors in the country; and, for a circuit of twenty miles round his seat in Devonshire, there is scarcely a peasant who would not venture his life for Sir Robert Harold with the utmost chearfulness.—Before ever I saw him, Harriot, I was delighted with his character—so that it was no wonder, when I did see him, if my heart paid an honest tribute to his merit, and passionately longed for a share of his regard.—Well, but to the point—
This morning he came, about twelve, to enquire after my health and to pay the customary compliments; my papa and mamma were fortunately at a concert in the rooms, and the dear man had a whole hour at least to entertain me on a subject, which few women, you know, whether they like the lover or not, ever think disagreeable.—He was in a most charming undress, and looked so sweetly!—You may be sure, my dear, the nature of his conversation did not take, in any great degree, from the force of his personal accomplishments.
After politely repeating his acknowledgements for the honour I had done him the preceding evening, he drew his chair close to mine, and, with an address inconceivably tender, took up one of my motionless hands, pressed it with an uncommon degree of fervor to his lips, and thus went on, delicately looking down the whole time, to prevent, as much as possible, the confusion into which I must be naturally thrown by the tendency of his declaration.
I would not, my charming Miss Mildmay, have presumed thus early to make you acquainted with my sentiments, had not the shortness of your stay at Bath obliged me in some measure to break in upon the niceties of decorum; and rendered it in a manner necessary for me to seize the present opportunity of coming to an explanation, since it is more than probable I may never meet with another so favourable to my hopes:—A lady like you, madam, who have been so long and so properly the object of universal admiration, cannot be any way surprized at finding a new adorer in every new acquaintance—but I will not address you in the hackneyed forms of common-place courtship, nor offer a violence to that delicacy which is always the companion of superior merit, by entering into an unnecessary descant upon those accomplishments, to which nothing but the grossest stupidity can possibly be a moment insensible or unjust.—From the first hour, madam, I saw you, I passionately loved—and, though the disregard which you constantly manifested to the solicitation of numbers superior to myself both in merit and in fortune, made it doubly presumptuous in me to aspire at such a blessing as your hand—still, so long as you appeared wholly disengaged, I thought it would be a mark of veneration to you, as well as an act of justice to myself, to make a profession of my everlasting attachment; and to enquire whether it would be possible, for a length of time, and an undeviating assiduity, to procure me adistant glimmering of success.
My sister, whom I made the confidante of my passion, indeed advised me to an application to Mr. Mildmay—but, as a step of that nature might perhaps interfere with some wish of the beautiful Louisa's, I would on no account hazard it without her permission; young ladies very frequently see matters in a juster light than their fathers—and there are a thousand little reasons for consulting them on the business of their own hearts before a treaty is opened with their relations.—On this account, my ever adorable Miss Mildway, I throw myself entirely upon your generosity.—If you have any latent motive for wishing me to decline a farther solicitation on this subject, be candid and tell me so. The man before you, madam, would scorn to purchase the happiness even of his whole life, by the prosecution of any suit in the least incompatible with your tranquility: he may be miserable, but he never will be mean; and has too high an idea of Miss Mildmay's benignity to think she would willingly add to his anxiety by an unnecessary suspence, if it is absolutely out of her power to think of ever removing it. You are silent, too lovely Miss Mildmay—fortunate be your silence, madam: for the present I shall take my leave; and, if I have not your positive commands to the contrary, will do myself the honour of waiting upon Mr. Mildmay to-morrow morning.
Well, Harriot, and what do you think now—had not I an astonishing command of myself never once to interrupt him during so long an address?—I really think I had—but, some how, he was so respectful, and so manly; so delicately timid, yet so generously importunate; that, for the life of me, I could not say a syllable by way of reply.—A man of less breeding would have been insolent at seeing me so confused; would have rudely stared me in the face, and endeavoured to read the sentiments of my heart in the various changes of my countenance—perhaps too he would have expected one of my best curt'sies; and imagined that I ought to bid him go, in polite terms, to my father. Sir Robert Harold, my dear Harriot, is a lover of quite a different stamp—the more encouragement he meets, the more respectful he appears; and interprets your silence into a meaning so refined, as prevents the least violence from reaching your sensibility.—Pray Heaven, Harriot, I do not prove too fond of him—But, my dear girl, adieu for the present—and believe me to be, with the most unalterable attachment,
Your own LOUISA MILDMAY.
LETTER IV.
Sir
ROBERT HAROLD
to
CHARLES MELMOTH,
Esq.
WELL, Charles, I am just this instant come from the old gentleman—he and I came to an agreement in a moment; and he was so highly delighted with my proposal, that he even threw in a much greater addition to the girl's fortune than I could in conscience have expected—He has been a saving close fisted codger, he tells me, these thirty years; and has had some considerable windfalls from his wife's family; he therefore can afford to give his daughter a good forty thousand pounds, as he has no other child but his son, who will be amply provided for by the family estate, and other valuable contingencies—and thus, Charles, is your friend in the high road to matrimony; a month from this day is set apart for the celebration of the nuptials—and the old gentleman has insisted upon my passing the last fortnight of that term at his house in Oxfordshire.
When we had thus agreed about setting the lawyers immediately to work, and providing the wedding cloaths, I was introduced in form to Louisa; who, to do her justice, was scarce a remove from a divinity—Her naturally fine complexion was deepened with a most enchanting glow of consciousness; and the delicious sensibility that swam in her charming black eyes, gave her, in my opinion, an air which rendered her wholly irresistable.—She received my salute with dignity, yet with condescension; and the obliging old people, very properly judging their absence would be infinitely more agreeable than their company, withdrew in a little time, and gave me an opportunity of thanking her in the most passionate terms for making me the happiest of mankind.—She was pleased, I could plainly see, with my emotion—yet she laboured under all that distress which a delicate woman is sure to feel upon the prospect of so important a change in her condition—I therefore took my leave as soon as possible, to give her an opportunity of recovering her spirits, but not before I had previously obtained her permission to drink tea with her in the evening.
And now, Charles, that the affair is thus far adjusted, let me honestly open my whole heart to you—I scarcely care a single sixpence whether or no it be ever brought to a conclusion.—My marriage with this young lady is rather the result of my conviction than the consequence of my choice—and I find my vanity infinitely more gratified in running away with such a prize from a crowd of contending admirers, than my happiness promoted in obtaining it for myself. With all my turn for dissipation, I am nevertheless thoroughly satisfied that, till a man becomes domesticated, he never can enjoy an hour of real content.—The pleasures which arise from an unlimitted course of amour, even where a man is best received, never compensates for the trouble he is obliged to undergo in the prosecution; and he has this constant mortification to check the tide of his transport, that the woman to whom he is most strenuously attached is frequently entitled to his abhorrence, and always to his contempt—In proportion as she adds to his pleasure she must sink in his esteem; for before she can manifest a compliance to his wishes, she must burst through every restraint of decorum and delicacy, and sacrifice all regard to her own character and the honour of her family.—A woman thus lost to sentiment is below the consideration of any sensible man—therefore the sooner we get out of this uncomfortable track, the sooner we lay a probable foundation for our own happiness.—I am now eight and twenty years old, Melmoth, and it is high time for me to think of getting sons and daughters for myself, instead of wasting my time to increase the families of other people—Besides, I am weary of venturing my life every moment to gratify the licentious disposition of a pack of women, who are more despicable in my opinion, and less attached to my person, than many of the mercenary poor creatures, whom I can purchase for a couple of guineas and a trifling treat at the tavern.—All these considerations put together, induce me to think marriage a very desirable institution;—and, as I never knew what it was to be heartily in love, I think I have as fair a chance for felicity with this beautiful girl I am engaged to, as with any body else.—My reason, to say nothing of my vanity, therefore is much more concerned in the affair than my inclination. Before I was sure of her, I really felt some anxieties on her account—but now I am pretty certain both of her heart and her person, I almost begin to shudder at the approaching alliance, notwithstanding my absolute conviction of its propriety.—Such unaccountable creatures are we, Melmoth; impatiently burning for what we find it difficult to enjoy; and sickening with apprehension the moment we get the blessing in our reach.—There is no describing my present situation to you; I am the strangest compound of contradiction in the whole circuit of creation, and am one minute ready to reject what the next appears most essential both to my honour and my happiness.
Lady Haversham has just now done a very obliging thing with her usual tenderness and delicacy; she had promised to drink tea with me in the evening at Louisa's—and was to call on me in her chariot at seven for that purpose—but being prevented by the intrusion of some unexpected visitors, she sent one of her footmen to me with a little box, sealed up in a large sheet of paper, which contained a suit of diamonds to the value of five thousand pounds—they were accompanied by the following note, which I assure you gave me every whit as much satisfaction as the present itself.
MY dear brother has this day made me the happiest woman in the world.—As a mark of my gratitude, I therefore beg he will accept of this little box, and present it at a convenient time to his intended lady—The least hesitation to receive it I shall consider as a proof of his neglect; and a want of that sincere and cordial affection which he will be always sure of finding in his
Affectionate Sister, HAVERSHAM.
The jewels, Charles, are elegant to an excess—and I purpose carrying them to the amiable girl in the evening; I dare say we shall have a delicious tete a tete—for the old people, as their stay is to be so short in Bath, have a variety of engagements on their hands. What a pity it is, my dear friend, that our fancy will not always obey the dictates of our reason—Do you know now that I would give a thousand pounds to be heartily in love with Miss Mildmay; the match is really so desirable in itself, and my sister appears so strenuous for its taking place, that I am actually concerned to find myself so little influenced by inclination—Yet I don't know, upon the whole, but that those marriages are the best calculated for felicity which have the least of passion in their commencement: I have seen a multitude of people venturing their necks to come together, who, a month after their union, would venture their necks for a divorce with an equal degree of alacrity.—One thing I am assured of, Charles; which is, that, if I do not make a fond husband, I shall at least make a good natured one.—I flatter myself that hitherto I have shewn no great want either of humanity or manners; and, let me tell you, that a man of this cast is much more likely to make a woman happy, than he who sets out upon a romantic stock of rapture, and is much too exalted a lover to be satisfied merely with content. The generality of men, by expecting too much in their marriages, ridiculously sacrifice those blessings which the state is really capable of affording; instead of a rational tranquility they are buoyed up with a continual notion of tumultuary transports; and imagine, if they do not find their wives something more than goddesses, they must be something less than women. In like manner the women look for as much courtship after the union as before it: accustomed to an intoxicating round of fulsome adulation, they really believe themselves the wonders we represent them; and think it surprizing that we should relax in the least from that profound adoration with which they have all along been so respectfully distinguished. Thus both parties being led to expect too much, as I have already said, each is unhappily disappointed, and good-naturedly ascribes to the other those very uneasinesses which actually proceed from the folly of its own imagination. Hence a thousand jealousies and altercations take their birth; and hence poor matrimony undergoes a thousand censures from its want of power to make a couple of fools happier than is consistent with the lot of humanity, or the narrowness of their own understandings.—But adieu, dear Charles—it is high time to dress, and I am determined to be as much as possible with Louisa, in hopes that the numberless attractions which she possesses may make me fairly enamoured, against the celebration of our nuptials. I am, honest Melmoth,
Your own ROBERT HAROLD.
LETTER V.
M
ss
HARRIOT BEAUCLERK
to Miss
LOUISA MILDMAY.
IF possible, my charming friend, I shall be down with you in Oxfordshire by the day which I hope will make you the happiest of women; and I wish with all my soul I could get my mama's permission to go down sooner, as I do not at all approve of trusting you so much in company with a man of whom you are so passionately fond, till the ceremony takes place. You tell me that you and he sit up for hours together, and enjoy the most exquisite tete a tetes after the family are in bed—Take care, my dearest Louisa, take care; these tete a tetes are very dangerous things to a woman of your circumstances; and an insidious lover might, in some unguarded moment, reap such an advantage from them, as should make my sweet friend an absolute dependant on his mercy, both for happiness and reputation.
Do not imagine, my dear girl, that I am here insinuating any improper doubts of your discretion; I know you have as much prudence as any young woman in England—but, believe me, Louisa, I should tremble for any young woman in England whom I saw in your circumstances. Your lover is a man endued with every art of persuasion and every advantage of person—he is in a few days to be your husband; and, from the nature of his connexion, as well as from the excess of your tenderness, must possess the most unlimited share of your confidence. If, therefore, in some unhappy moment, he should be uncommonly importunate for an anticipation of his happiness, my beautiful friend might find it difficult to withstand his solicitations; the tenderness of her heart might possibly prevail over the force of her understanding; and, to establish a momentary repose in his bosom, she might, perhaps, with a madness of generosity, destroy the everlasting tranquility of her own.
Of all the stages in a woman's life, none is so dangerous as the period between her acknowledgement of a passion for a man, and the day set apart for her nuptials. Her mind, during that interval, is susceptible of impressions unusually tender; and the happy lover is admitted to a number of familiarities, which are in themselves the strongest temptations. Without any premeditated design, he is frequently inflamed by the unreserved softness which his mistress assumes in the unsuspecting confidence of her heart; and, unable, perhaps, to resist the impetuosity of his wishes, he endeavours to make the most of his opportunity. Secure of pardon, even if he gives the most palpable offence, he proceeds with boldness to the accomplishment of his purpose; and too many have been the unhappy young women who found themselves undone, before they entertained even a distant fear of destruction.
It is no uncommon circumstance among the men, my dearest Louisa, to try how far there is a possibility of carrying their power over a believing woman; and, greatly as they seem to be obliged by the sacrifice which we make them, I do not imagine there was ever a case in which one of them liked us the better for so convincing a proof of our affection—whereas, on the contrary, we have numberless instances where that very proof has excited their disgust, and induced them to cast us off
Like a detested Sin,
as poor Monimia says, to the irreparable injury both of our peace and our characters. Even where our permitting a lover to anticipate the rights of a husband no way interrupts the treaty of marriage, still it lessens us so much in his opinion, that he ever after suspects our fidelity, and imagines that what proceeded entirely from a passionate regard for himself, was the actual result either of levity or constitution. This single supposition is of itself sufficient to imbitter all the sweets of the hymenaeal union; to blast all the roses round the pillows of love, and to plant perpetual thorns in their stead.
Excuse me, my dearest Louisa, for my anxiety on this occasion—By my uneasiness judge of my friendship, and be assured you are no less tender than happiness or honour to the bosom of your
HARRIOT BEAUCLERK.
LETTER VI.
Sir
ROBERT HAROLD
to
CHARLES MELMOTH,
Esq.
FINAL destruction seize on all the world!
—Perhaps, Melmoth, there is not a fellow this moment existing so compleatly miserable as I—I have succeeded, fatally succeeded, with this amiable wretch, and both of us must bid adieu to happiness for ever.
In my last letter I told you how this beautiful woman had entirely conquered all my indifference by the ineffable sweetness of her manner; and that I now longed for the day of our marriage with as much impatience as if I had from the first been passionately smitten. The little separation from her after her departure from Bath, gave an inconceiveable spur to my inclination; and the bewitching air of softness with which she received me on my going down to her father's, so compleatly did the business, that I wondered at my own stupidity in being so long insensible of her perfections.
The good old people, notwithstanding they seemed highly delighted with my company, nevertheless, through an injudicious degree of tenderness both to me and their daughter, took every opportunity of leaving us together; naturally enough supposing that we should be best pleased to be left to the uninterrupted enjoyment of each other's conversation; after supper, particularly, they withdrew to their own apartment so early, that Louisa and I had at least three or four hours to the good before we could reasonably think of retiring. I need not tell you, Melmoth, that when two young people are left together for any length of time, that some familiarities will pass, though even both are actuated by the best inclinations. Would it not, for instance, have been surprizing if, circumstanced as I was with Louisa, I had sat with her for two or three hours, without ever ravishing a kiss, presuming to sink upon her neck, or attempt to clasp her in my arms, when she even condescendingly acknowledged how tenderly she loved me? Would it not also have been equally surprizing had she repulsed those little effusions of transport at the very instant that they were excited by her own confession, and, in a manner, authorized by the consideration of the union which was so shortly to take place? A contrary behaviour would have been as unnatural as it was impossible; and virtue neither expected nor required more than the restriction of our transports within some sensible bounds.
But alas, Melmoth, who can strike a line to the passions, or pretend to tell the impetuous tide of youth,
go no farther than this
—For my own part, as I shall answer it before God, I never in my life was more divested of sinister designs—I considered Louisa in quite a different light from any of those women with whom I had formerly trifled; and set her down as a lady, whose reputation was immediately connected with my own—I saw her, besides, the only daughter of an honourable family, which it would be unpardonable to disgrace; and the friendship which my sister entertained for her, was a circumstance of itself sufficient to have prevented me even from once thinking about the possibility of attaining her upon any terms that were not strictly honourable.
You have often, my dear Melmoth, called me the most sentimental libertine you ever knew; and once, in a conversation with my sister Haversham, assured her, notwithstanding all my follies, that I was above laying any unmanly schemes for the seduction of innocence; in this you did me nothing more than justice—You yourself know that, in one half of my amours, the advances were so palpable on the wrong side, that there was no creditable method of getting off, even had I been the most sanctified puritan in the kingdom.—You will, therefore, naturally credit my account, and believe that I am infinitely above any disingenuous attempts either to palliate or disguise my part in this unfortunate transaction.
I had been now a full week down at Louisa's, and company from various places was impatiently expected to attend at the approaching solemnity; when, last night, she and I sitting, as usual, to enjoy all the delicious nonsense, which generally makes up the principal part of love conversations, we happened accidentally to mention a suit of night cloaths which she had just received from London, and which, she said, became her excessively; as I expressed a desire to see them on her, she retired immediately to her room, and, in about a quarter of an hour, came down so irresistably ravishing, that I was no longer my own master. Imagine to yourself, Melmoth, with all your boasted apathy of disposition, a woman, such as I have repeatedly described Miss Mildmay, dressed in a flowing robe of white sattin, with her fine black hair hanging carelessly down her neck; and every thing in the most voluptuous disorder—Imagine this, I say, and tell me honestly whether you could have beheld her without emotion?—If you could, you must either be something more or less than human—For my part I was mere flesh and blood—I snatched her to my bosom with a phrenzy of the most passionate admiration, and almost stifled her with kisses—The extatic tenderness with which she received my embrace entirely destroyed my recollection; and a cursed sopha lying most conveniently ready to assist the purposes of my rashness, I proceeded from liberty to liberty till she was actually undone.
The guilty triumph thus compleated, we were both in an instant perfectly sensible of our indiscretion—Louisa stalked to her chair with a mingled air of the most fixed astonishment and distress, and preserved a profound silence for some minutes, till, at last, unable to endure the conflict in her bosom any longer, she hid her face in a handkerchief, and gave loose to a violent flood of tears. For my own part, Melmoth, I was equally tortured by shame and regret—for the first time in my life, I felt such a mortification at succeeding with a fine woman, that I could not for the soul of me say a syllable of comfort to her. The miseries which I easily foresaw must arise from this unfortunate lapse, crouded at once upon my imagination; so that that conquest which, at another time, perhaps, would have been the highest gratification to my vanity, now served only to wound my sensibility, and to fill me with the most poignant distress.
The wretched Louisa still continuing fixed with her elbows on her knees, her head supported by her two hands, and her face covered with her handkerchief; I walked over to her chair in a state of united anguish and irresolution—bleeding for what I saw her suffer, yet fearing to offer her the smallest consolation—However, instinctively dropping upon one knee, I begged she would be composed, and assured her that what had happened rather enhanced than lessened my affection; and that, as I was her husband in every thing but the ceremony, there was no offence whatsoever committed against virtue—Form, I observed, was alone what we had violated; and, as the secret was entirely confined to ourselves, there was little occasion either for confusion or regret.
We are all of us, my dear Melmoth, ready enough to believe what we wish may be true; and poor Louisa, though she could not be convinced by the force of my reasonings, nevertheless attempted to be chearful; she wiped her charming eyes therefore, and seemed delighted at the respectful attitude in which she beheld me, for I still continued on my knee, and endeavoured, by all the little tendernesses in my power, to raise her into credit with herself—I talked familiarly about the wedding day, called her my wife in the most melting accent I could possibly assume; and, at intervals, took the liberty of chiding her anxiety as an equal doubt of my honour and my love—At last, I succeeded pretty well in re-assuring her: she ventured to look up with an air of some confidence, condescended to play with my fingers, and even once went so far as to honour my hand with her lips—I need scarcely inform you what the consequence was—The tide of passion was in an instant swelled up to the customary height—and every impulse of recollection was again swept away upon the couch.
Such, Melmoth, is the present situation of affairs between Louisa and your unfortunate friend; what to do I know not—You are not to be told how romantically delicate I am in my notions about women.—It is with me a fixed principle, that the same woman who suffers even the man she doats upon to distraction, to take advantage of an unguarded moment, will have her unguarded moments with other people—Passion will, in all probability, often supply the want of inclination; and the same warmth of constitution which originally betrayed her into an indiscretion with him, is but too likely to make her guilty of indiscretions with every body else. How frequently, Charles, in the keeness of appetite, have I, where more agreeable dishes were not immediately at hand, fallen greedily upon such fare as actually turned my stomach when I came to consider it? Women, like ourselves, are only flesh and blood—desires are as natural to them as to us, and who can take upon him to say, when the favourite object of their wishes is at any distance, but what necessity may immediately metamorphose a piece of coarse beef into an absolute ortolan?
This, you will possibly observe, is bringing a general charge against the sex, and supposing that there is no such thing as virtue existing in any individual of the whole—An opinion of such a nature is what I am neither base enough nor weak enough to adopt—Coxbomb as I may be in some respects, and greatly as my vanity has been flattered by success among the ladies, still I was never one of those fellows who thought the sex universally depraved—On the contrary, I dare say there are thousands who are capable of resisting the deepest subtleties of the most plausible design—But where we have ourselves experienced the frailty of a woman, it is natural enough to form an idea upon what we know; and reasonable enough to judge, from her behaviour in one or two circumstances, what her conduct is likely to be in all.
After a declaration of this kind, you may probably imagine that I do not intend marrying Miss Mildmay, notwithstanding the treaty has been carried so far between the two families; you are, however, much mistaken. Greatly as this unhappy affair has sunk her in my opinion, I shall nevertheless pay a rigid attention to the sanctity of my word—But though I shall behave with justice, I shall also act with candour.—I shall inform her how utterly impossible it will be for her ever to recover my confidence after what has past; and if she is weak enough to accept my hand while I make a positive avowal of my contempt, why, she must abide by the consequence.
This morning she came down to breakfast with an encreased degree of beauty, if it is possible for such beauty to admit of an encrease—The delightful consciousness that flushed upon her cheek, enlighted her complexion into an absolute blaze of perfection; while the speaking sensibility of a down-cast eye threw such a modesty over her features, as rendered her the finest picture which fancy could conceive of the softest innocence and love. Her father, charmed with her appearance, turned round to me, and, in a very low whisper, said,
Ah Harold, you see the sweetness and delicacy of my poor girl—the day is now so near she cannot look at you with any degree of resolution.
Unhappy old man! little does he imagine what a loose all that wonderful sweetness and delicacy can give to the dictates of an unhallowed imagination—Little does he think how she burned in my arms last night, and poured out her whole soul in the most passionate storm of a voluptuous inclination. But, alas, Melmoth, why do I harrow up my recollection with that cursed night—it has given me an eternal aversion to the only woman I can ever look upon with tenderness; and fastened all the scorpions of an invincible hatred to the bosom of an extravagant love. You can scarcely imagine, my dear Melmoth, what I felt at her approach—My indignation was no less excited than my transport, and I could not help saying to myself,
how astonishingly is that creature calculated to deceive! This moment, when I know her stained and polluted, what an angel-like air she assumes; as if utterly unconscious of a blot, and no less unsullied in her mind, than faultless in her person.
In reality, Melmoth, the more innocent she seems now, the more I have hereafter to apprehend; since the same air of purity which at present varnishes over the crime I am sensible of—may, in future, serve to conceal a thousand, which may be necessary for my knowledge, though destructive to my felicity—A few hours, however, will determine my fate with regard to Miss Mildmay: this is Monday; and Saturday next the wedding is to be celebrated; none of the company are yet arrived, so that the sooner matters are brought to an eclaircissement the better. Dear Melmoth, pity my situation, and believe me, with the utmost affection,
R. HAROLD.
LETTER VII.
Mrs.
MILDMAY
to the Right Hon. the Countess of
HAVERSHAM.
O LADY Haversham, what shall I do, or where shall I go—your inhuman brother has broke my heart—and my unfortunate child, that was once the darling of my age, is now cast out from the arms of her father, and exposed as well to the detestation as the contempt of all her family. If I can any way support my spirits to go through with the shocking story you shall be acquainted with all—you have fine sense, lady Haversham; you have great humanity—and can allow for the distraction of an unhappy mother, torn in a moment from the enjoyment of all her hopes, and doomed to languish out the little remainder of her days in equal wretchedness and disgrace.
Here my poor Mr. Mildmay and I were felicitating each other at the prospect of an approaching union between our family and your's; and waiting with impatience for the day which was to secure our child in the protection of a worthy husband—Nothing but your presence, the presence of our son, and the company of a few particular friends, was wanting to complete our happiness—O that we could have prevailed upon you to accompany your cruel brother down! The irreparable injury which has murdered all our tranquility, had then never happened; and we should now be exulting in felicity, instead of sinking beneath a load of unutterable shame and distress.
I was sitting in my own parlour this morning, reading my favourite Sherlock upon Death, when Sally, my daughter's maid, screamed out from the top of the stairs, that her mistress was dying. Terrified at this information, as you may naturally imagine, I hastened to her assistance, and found the unfortunate girl in a very strong hysteric, stretched upon the floor, and Sally in vain attempting to raise her up. By this time, two or three of the other women servants, joined us, and we lifted her between us into an arm chair; where, with a great deal of difficulty, she was brought a little to herself—She scarcely recovered, however, when she fell into another fit; and continued in a course of successive faintings for several hours—so that I thought it prudent to send a chariot, and six of our best horses, for doctor Webley. About five o'clock in the evening she became pretty well composed, and the excessive fatigue she had undergone threw her into a profound sleep; in which she lay till very near twelve—During the principal part of this melancholy scene, my poor Mr. Mildmay and I were not five minutes absent from the room. Her father, you know, doated on her, if possible, with a degree of tenderness more piercingly sensible than myself—he hung over her continually, in an agony of speechless distraction; tore the white hair from his temples, or turned up his eyes towards Heaven, as if he meant to expostulate with the Divine Being, for visiting his daughter with such an affliction, at a time when he looked for nothing but the most perfect content. His distress you may easily conclude was a considerable aggravation of what I felt for my wretched child; and, though I endeavoured to console him, every effort which I made for that purpose, rendered me doubly in need of consolation myself. All this time I was totally ignorant of what occasioned the unhappy girl's distress; and I tortured my imagination incessantly, with endeavouring to think upon some probable cause—But judge, lady Haversham, of my distraction, when the poor deluded creature, struck with the anguish into which she saw us plunged, seized the first opportunity that her perfect recovery to reason supplied, of informing me that she was totally unworthy of the least regard; that she had fatally sacrificed the honour of her family; that Sir Robert Harold was irrecoverably lost; and that death was the only thing which could possibly put a period to her afflictions. In short, the keeness of her sensibility would not allow her to keep any thing concealed; she let me into the whole story of her guilty intercourse with your brother—and the agonies into which the horrid discovery naturally threw me, sweeping away every trace of her recollection, she made no scruple, in the fullness of her soul, to mention the cause of my agitation to her father; upbraiding herself at the same time as the worst of parricides, who had not only shortened my days, but murdered my reputation.
You know my, dear lady Haversham, how rigidly refined my poor Mr. Mildmay is in every thing which concerns the female delicacy of his family. You know he can scarcely allow for the most casual infirmities of human nature in a woman; though he preposterously thinks the other sex is entitled to the most unlimited indulgence—All his pity, therefore, for his miserable daughter, was instantly turned into an extravagant rage—he spurned the wretched girl as she lay at his feet, lamenting her fatal indiscretion, in language that would pierce a heart of adamant, and imploring his forgiveness with all the forcible rhetoric of streaming eyes, a bursting bosom, and a prostrate supplication. In vain did I kneel with my child, (for, O lady Haversham, notwithstanding the greatness of her crime, I cannot drive the mother from my heart,) and conjure him, by whatever I thought most affecting, to pity her; the more earnest we were in our solicitation, the more inexorable he became in his resentment, till at last, worked up to a phrensy of indignation, he poured out a most barbarous execration on her, and commanded me, in a tone which I never presumed to dispute, to see the infamous strumpet (that was his cruel word) turned out of the house in less than an hour, as I either valued his repose, or my own tranquility. My own tranquility, lady Haversham—Alas, I shall never know a moment's happiness more!—My peace of mind is eternally destroyed; and, so long as I retain the sense of feeling, I must be tremblingly alive to the united wounds both of misfortune and disgrace.
Mr. Mildmay, after pronouncing this sentence on his lost unhappy daughter, flew out of the room, though it was past twelve o'clock at night, though the season was remarkably severe, and though a most violent storm of wind and rain was at that very moment abroad—Nothing could induce him to delay the execution of his commands till morning—Utterly deaf to my remonstrances, he insisted upon exposing her to all the fury of the elements; and it was with the utmost difficulty that I prevailed upon him, at last, to let the chariot take her to farmer Wilson's, at the end of the avenue; in fact, as well as all parental feeling, he seemed to put off all common humanity; and to rejoice at the horror of the night in which she was to be driven out, though, but half an hour before, he would have shuddered,
—Lest the winds of Heaven
Should visit her face too roughly—
O lady Haversham, how happy are you in a want of children—You have a thousand times lamented in my hearing that you never had a child—Yet, was it possible for you to imagine but the smallest part of my distress, you would own the kindness of Providence was never more manifested than in the refusal of what you think a blessing, and what I experience to be the greatest of all misfortunes.—But to go on:
The severity which Mr. Mildmay thus relentlessly exercised on his miserable child, in a great measure, subdued the resentment which I myself should otherwise have entertained against her; I could not therefore resist the most ample indulgence of maternal tenderness, when the moment of separation came on; I pressed her to my heart with as much cordiality as if she had never offended, and entirely forgot the nature of her fault, in the apprehension of never seeing her again. The poor girl was quite unable to support herself against what she called an excess of goodness—she fell repeatedly on her knees to kiss my hands; drenched them with her tears; and departed, leaning on the arm of her Sally, with a desire that I would forget there ever had been such a creature as herself; and a request that I would transfer all the affection which she had so shamefully disgraced, to the advancement of her brother's happiness, and the restoration of her father's tranquility.
During the short time allowed us to take leave, we agreed that she should go to her cousin Darnel's in London; as Mrs. Darnel is a very grave woman, and has some obligations to our family, which must render her additionally solicitous about Louisa's accommodation.—There, if her unhappy lapse should be attended with any consequences, she will be sure of tenderness and secrecy. I have packed up all her cloaths and her little ornaments; and, in one of her trunks, shall send up, unknown to her father, a bank note of five hundred pounds. This will maintain her till I find whether there is a possibility of prevailing on Mr. Mildmay to overlook her fault—If, as I much apprehend, a reconcilation with him will be extremely difficult, I must make her what remittances I can, as he will never think those entitled to any instances of his bounty whom he makes the objects of his resentment.
Such, my dear lady Haversham, is the present situation of your unfortunate friend. Your cruel, your inhuman brother, may, perhaps, triumph in the desolation which he has occasioned; and, like the generality of low minded-libertines, imagine that, in proportion as she has aggravated the distresses of a family that sincerely loved and esteemed him, he has made a fresh acquisition to the importance of his character.—You, I know, will heartily sympathize in our afflictions—You are his sister, but not the abettor of his crimes—and therefore, I am persuaded, every thing in your power will be done, to procure us the most effectual redress.
The only redress which we can now have, is an instant renewal of the late treaty; which your brother so cruelly disturbed. About two hours before I first heard of Louisa's illness, it seems he rode away from this upon a pretended visit to the earl of A—; but, as he has never been heard of since, I suppose he is in London by this time, entertaining his dissolute companions with the destruction of poor Louisa Mildmay. O, lady Haversham, don't you wonder that, in such a distraction of mind, I am able to write with the least method or propriety? The power of recollection, however, is a faculty which is no way enviable in the wretched; and those who have unhappily lost their peace of mind, ought, in my opinion, to wish for an immediate loss of understanding.
Notwithstanding my indignation at your brother's barbarity, lady Haversham, I am nevertheless ready to overlook every thing which has happened, if he comes down again and re-establishes, as far as he yet can, the repose of our family—Louisa I am sure must doat with the most extravagant fondness on him, or she never could have made such a sacrifice—her forgiveness, therefore, especially if I interest myself in the affair, is not very difficult to be obtained; and, perhaps, Mr. Mildmay, when he sees that there is no other course to follow, may be brought to abate a little of his resentment. My reason for being thus anxious for an accommodation of this unhappy affair, is a fear, lest, when my son comes to hear of it, he may take some desperate revenge, which will involve us in new calamities—You know he is brave to a fault, and piques himself excessively on the dignity of his profession, and the reputation of his family. Should he, therefore, think of calling your brother to an account, I may possibly be robbed of both my children, and may have the murder of my daughter's honour inconceivably aggravated by the timeless death of my son.
The same consideration, lady Haversham, which renders me anxious for the preservation of a son, must naturally influence your conduct for the safety of a brother, even admitting that a person of your ladyship's well known benevolence should, upon so affecting an occasion, be cold to the dictates of justice, or the feelings of humanity. You will consequently, exert your utmost power with your brother to renew the treaty lately carried on, and try all your interest with Mr. Mildmay in favour of Louisa. Who knows, my dear lady Haversham, but Providence may yet have some hours of peace in store for an unhappy mother; and enable her to look once more with chearfulness upon her family. This letter have dispatched by a special messenger, as I wanted to send you the jewels, which your brother a few days ago presented to Louisa; and which, at parting, the poor girl left with me for that purpose. Your ladyship's good sense will immediately see the propriety of returning them; and, I dare say, do me the justice to think that I consider the encessity which has occasioned that return, as the greatest misfortune that ever yet befel your ladyship's
Sincerely devoted, But unspeakably afflicted, HORATIA MILDMAY.
LETTER VIII.
Sir
ROBERT HAROLD
to
CHARLES MELMOTH,
Esq.
YOU are no doubt impatient, my dear Charles, from the nature of my last letter, to hear in what manner I conducted my explanatory interview with Miss Mildmay—You cannot, however, be more impatient to hear than I am to tell it; yet, somehow, I feel a latent kind of repugnance to enter upon the subject, as if I was sensible of having acted with a manifest impropriety—This latent uneasiness you have often called the working of honest conscience, and told me that I might be sure I had done some unjustifiable action whenever I found it busy with my tranquility. I am half afraid, Melmoth, that you are right—This Miss Mildmay hangs unaccountably upon my heart—and, was I master of the universe, I would give it, either never to have seen her, or to throw an everlasting oblivion upon one cursed transaction.
After breakfast on Monday morning, Mr. Mildmay withdrew to his study, and Mrs. Mildmay retired to her reading parlour: Louisa and I were left alone; and neither of us, for a full half hour, spoke a single syllable, each expecting the other would begin the conversation—My silence, as it was indeed my business to speak first, cutting the poor girl to the heart, she burst into a flood of tears, and, with some difficulty, told me, that she plainly saw how much she was lessened in my esteem; and that she was sure, after what had happened, it would be much better to think of breaking off the intended connexion than to carry it on where there was so small an expectation of happiness—To this I replied, with an air of tenderness, visibly affected however, that she did the highest injustice to my love; that I beheld her with more passionate admiration than ever, and that nothing could be more idle than to teize herself with the indulgence of a fear that had so little foundation in probability: I concluded this cold compliment, with a bow upon her hand, that indicated very little or no emotion, though it contained a great deal of respect; and, turning to the window with an air of the most mortifying unconcern, observed that we could scarcely hope for any of our expected company while the weather continued so uncommonly boisterous.
Louisa was a woman of too much soul to stand against the attack of a palpable indifference, however speciously glossed over with a smooth civility; and, indeed, I intended my indifference should be seen pretty plainly, as I had no other method of bringing matters to an ecclarcissement with any tolerable degree of propriety—In proportion therefore, as she saw me calm and undisturbed, she very naturally took the alarm; and considered all the useless professions of my good breeding, as so many indirect declarations of my disrespect. To a fellow of your knowledge, Melmoth, I need not observe how extremely we are provoked by a polite serenity, where our hearts are deeply interested in the issue of a debate—Good breeding, where we want to excite the strongest emotions, is the most aggravating insult which we can possibly meet; because it equally disappoints our views, and denies us an opportunity of finding fault; conscious that it would effectually answer my purpose, I continued it till I had wound up Louisa to the highest pitch of passion; and
madamed
her with so profound a degree of veneration, as gave me a speedy occasion of carrying my design into execution.
"Very well, Sir Robert (says she as I stood playing with a chinese figure on the chimney-piece
so
placid and
so
undisturbed)
You see this affair in a very easy light, but suffer me to assure you, before things are carried to the last extremity, that if you are actuated by any insolent motives of pity for me, and not influenced entirely by a regard for your own happiness; far as matters have unfortunately gone between us, I am determined to stop where we are—You may perhaps, render me wretched, but it never shall be in your power to make me contemptible.
The mingled air of dignity and distress with which the beautiful girl pronounced this declaration, went to my very heart—yet that damned, unhappy, facility with which she yielded to my wishes, still employ the principal share of my thoughts. I was determined to act agreeable to the resolution which I had previously made, and therefore replied,
that though nothing but the honour of her hand could possibly secure my felicity, nevertheless, since she seemed so desirous to break off the treaty subsisting between us, I was ready to make any concession that might be agreeable to her inclinations, however repugnant such a concession might be to my own.
The cool sarcastic humility of this reply, added greatly to her indignation, but no way got the better of her recollection.—
Sir Robert (says she) it is no difficult matter to perceive the whole extent of your design—the fatal testimony which I have given you of my fondness, has lessened me in your esteem; and of course rendered you disinclined to the union which was to subsist between our families: you want, by a cruel serenity, a stabbing politeless of behaviour to force me into such a refusal of your addresses, as may give a colour to your contempt. There is no necessity however, Sir Robert, for running to so poor, so unmanly an artifice—If you are in the least desirous of avoiding a match with a wretch, whose partiality for yourself has alone rendered her culpable, be generous and tell her so—She is not yet so utterly lost to sentiment, as to sollicit for your compassion, since it seems she is to be no longer entitled to your love.
Dear madam, replied I, moderate a little of this unnecessary warmth. What cause, what ground have I given you for these unaccountable suppositions?
"Sir Robert," interrupted she,
it is not altogether so easy to blind the eagle-eyed inspection of a vehement love—What cause, what ground have you given me for these unaccountable suppositions?—The most ample cause, the most indubitable ground.—When I came down this morning, did not your eye industriously avoid mine?—and all the time of breakfast did not you officiously force your conversation on my father to avoid saying a syllable to me?—When we were left alone, instead of entertaining me as you used to do—did not you sit a whole hour without ever opening your lips? and when in the fulness of my heart I took notice of this indifference, did not you then come out with your
dear madams, your profound venerations, and your everlasting esteems?
Nay, at this moment, when you see my poor bosom bursting with the most poignant distress at your behaviour; have you not the same unimpassioned countenance, the same air of unconcern, and the same cutting distance of civility, which first of all gave birth to my suspicions, as if you triumphed in your power, and were desirous of seeing how far the abuse of it was able to plunge me in distress?
"Upon my word Miss Mildmay," replied I,
you put a very strange interpretation upon looks—and I am infinitely sorry that any unfortunate disposition of my features should give you the smallest uneasiness—I did not, however, imagine that the use of a becoming respect could be construed into an offence—
"Respect!—Respect!" exclaimed she, with a wildness of look and elevation of tone, that really startled me.
Respect!—God give me patience—Inhuman Harold—and do you think that a woman doating like me to distraction, can ever put up with a cold unanimated respect where she has a right to demand the warmest returns of a passionate love!—Respect, after what has passed between you and I, is the grossest of all insults—and if you have nothing else to offer me—I scorn both you and your respect—and here in the presence of the living God, I solemnly swear never to be your's; but will rather undergo any load of infamy and misfortune, than give my hand to a man, who, after having blasted my peace of mind for ever, under the specious appearance of the most vehement passion, shall in a few hours let me see I am so much lessened in his estimation as to talk of treating me with politeness and respect!—Go Sir Robert Harold
continued she in a gentler accent, but with a faltering tone,
go leave me—instantly—I here give you back all your vows and protestations—and shall only say that you have eternally destroyed the happiness of a poor girl, who would die for the preservation of your's.
—here the storm found way, for unable any longer to suppress her emotion, she threw herself into a great chair, and gave way to a violent flood of tears.
All this time, Melmoth, if you do me justice, you must be sensible that my distress fell little short of Miss Mildmays—You know I have not naturally an obdurate heart, however reason and reflection may on particular occasions oblige me to resist its emotions—Judge therefore what I must have felt, to see the woman of my soul tortured in a manner, to madness, with the coldness of my behaviour; yet to see also an absolute occasion for continuing that coldness; nay an absolute occasion of giving her up for ever—A thousand times was I ready to throw myself at her feet, and solicit a reconciliation.—My love, joined to my humanity, pleaded the propriety of such a proceeding in terms the most forcible; but my reason and my pride stept constantly in to my assistance, and convinced me that the anguish of a separation at that time, was infinitely preferable to a whole life of despicable jealousy, and aching discontent—As well for the poor girl's sake as my own, I saw the indispensable necessity of persevering in my plan; and, as the dignity of her sentiments had made a parting considerably more easy than I could expect, I exerted all my fortitude to oppose the remonstrances of my love; being fully convinced that to lose the present opportunity would only render a breach more difficult another time, if any other time could even supply me with so fair an occasion to break off.
Miss Mildmay had no sooner thrown herself into the chair, than good manners necessarily obliged me to console her as well as I was able, I mean consistently with my design; I went therefore, to the side of the chair, and taking hold of her hand, I raised it coldly to my lips, and again begged she would moderate a passion, which was wholly founded on mistake.—
This excess of sensibility my dear Miss Mildmay observed I) is an equal injustice to my sentiments and your own understanding. —The exception which you have so unfortunately taken to my behaviour this morning, is rather the result of an extraordinary delicacy on your part, than the consequence of any impropriety on mine—You say I am desirous of discontinuing my addresses, and that you are conscious of being lessened in my esteem—How cruel, how inequitable a supposition, when I am here impatiently waiting for the happy day which is to unite us for ever; and ready this instant, if you really doubt my sincerity to anticipate the wishes of the two families by a marriage that shall silence your fears, till I am publicly honoured with your hand in the presence of all our relations—Tell me, is there any greater proof which I can possibly give you, either of my love or my esteem: if there is, be kind enough to name it; for be assured I only want to know your inclinations, that I may fly to indulge them.
Though there was nothing extremely passionate in this address, Melmoth, nevertheless, had I delivered it with any energy of tone or significance of gesture, it might perhaps, have removed Louisa's anxiety at once, and all might have been immediately accommodated between us; but as I spoke it with inconceiveable phlegm, and kept my eye continually wandering round the room; it was impossible for her, without a manifest deviation from her natural dignity to accept it as an apology; whether she really saw into my true motive or not, I shall not attempt to determine; but raising up her head, and regarding me for some time with a look of the most earnest attention, she assumed a steady articulate tone of voice, and delivered herself to the following purport.
The more Sir Robert that I consider the nature of your behaviour, the more I am convinced how utterly improper it is for you and I ever to think of uniting.—The recent unhappy transaction has destroyed me entirely in your good opinion, and indeed no wonder, for it has entirely destroyed me in my own. I see that as a man of fashionable honour, you are ready to fulfil your engagements with me; but by the manner in which you testify this readiness, I also see that you secretly wish I should discharge you from that obligation—You want to provoke me into such an exertion of my pride, as must force me to reject you; and only desire to save appearances by drawing that refusal from me which must otherwise absolutely proceed from yourself—It would however, be much more generous if you candidly acknowledged the real motives of your behaviour; and since you have fortitude enough to bear up against the pain of a separation, I could wish you had spirit enough to avow the design; this method of making me answerable for the consequences of your own infidelity, is no less unmanly than it is unjust; but it is below me to upbraid you—for any claim which I shall make upon your inclinations—be satisfied, that if you are willing to be free, you are so.
As she paused in this place, I was about to make a reply—but she stopped me in the beginning of my speech, and said,
Sir Robert, professions are idle things when contradicted by the incontestible evidence of facts.—You have made me miserable, and you have made me worthless; do not therefore by the display of an affected tenderness seek to load me with an additional portion, either of wretchedness or disgrace—I am not altogether the simpleton you take me for; your motives I saw through from the moment you spoke upon this subject—and though you have shewn but little consideration for me, during the course of our debate, I shall nevertheless spare you a world of confusion and anxiety—In short, Sir, without puting you to the trouble of any farther arts to break off the treaty between us—I again assure you in the most solemn manner, that it never shall take place—And, unhappy as I shall freely own this resolution must for some time make me, I nevertheless think it not a little fortunate that I discovered your sentiments before the intended ceremony (by preventing the possibility a of separation,) had fastened me to a more lasting, as well as to a more aggravated distress.
Here Melmoth, was the end of our altercation. Louisa, on finishing this speech rose hastily from her chair, and darting up to her room, as I suppose, left me to chew the cud of my own reflections, which to speak honestly my dear Charles, was none of the most agreeable—However, though I was secretly pleased that she had by a very generous effort of soul spared me the mortification of being more than passive in the course of this transaction; you cannot think how it affected both my pride and my tenderness, to see her so apparently easy upon such a trying occasion—I imagined it would cost her something more to give me up for ever; and to the disgrace of my humanity I must own, that it would have no way displeased me had she shewn a little stronger sensibility in our separation.
Being thus left alone, I rang for Edwards, and ordering him to get the chaise ready in an instant, I set out from Mr. Mildmay's, without taking leave of a single soul, leaving only one of the footmen to bring the portmanteau after me, and ordering Ned to distribute, agreeable to the inhospitable customs of this country, twenty guineas among the servants.
The interval from quitting Mr. Mildmay's till my arrival at Reading, was one of the most disagreeable passages in my whole life—Shame and remorse harrowed up my bosom alternately; and, when I reflected upon what Louisa was likely to suffer, I was tortured to distraction. The pitiful figure I made, thus stealing away from a house, in which, but the day before, I was absolutely idolized, gave me the severest mortification; and, in short, the universal distress which I knew must result from my behaviour, operated so strongly upon my humanity, that I was a thousand times ready to turn back, with a resolution of sacrificing my own peace of mind to preserve the quiet of my ever amiable sister; the beautiful Louisa; and her respectable family. But when I considered what had passed; when I considered what might probably happen; every thing fell before the arguments of my pride, and I continued invincibly attached to my first determination.
O Melmoth, did these women but know how we worship them for refusing to gratify our wishes—did they but know how me doat upon the indignation of a fine eye, when fired into a blaze of conscious virtue, and striking an instant confusion upon the presumptuous addresses of a designing lover; how few of them would listen to an improper solicitation?—But, ridiculously confident of their own fortitude; or preposterously imagining that those concessions are most like to secure an admirer, which are most apt to excite his contempt, they constantly betray their own cause, and oblige him in a manner to despise and desert them. But a truce with reflections.
When I came to my inn at Reading, the first thing I did was to write a short letter to Mr. Mildmay, thanking him for the many civilities which he had shewn me; and informing him that it was with inexpressible regret I quitted his house, at a time when I fondly flattered myself with the hope of speedily becoming so near a part of his family; but that, as I had reasons to believe a union with me, would be no way conducive to the happiness of his amiable daughter, I had determined to make a sacrifice of my own felicity, rather than be the least impediment to her's; and concluded with the customary round of common-place compliments, that tingle very prettily on the ear, though they seldom interest either the heart or the understanding. This letter I dispatched by Edwards, for two reasons; because, in the first place, a special messenger carried an air of greater respect, than if I had sent it by the post; and because, in the second, I knew Edwards would give a sharp look out, and bring me a pretty exact account of every thing which had happened since my departure.
And now, Melmoth, what say you to the part which I have acted in this affair? Don't you think my dexterity in getting off a masterpiece; and my fortitude in resisting the importunate remonstrances of my own heart, an exertion of philosophy, which is at least equal to any thing in all antiquity? To be serious, however, though I think you will in the main approve both of my prudence and my resolution, I am nevertheless fearful of hearing your sentiments. As to lady Haversham, I know she will for some time be in the pouts, and fancy that I have behaved with the greatest impropriety; but as there is no likelihood of her ever becoming acquainted with the real cause of my proceeding; and as I am conscious her brother is the person on earth who holds the highest place in her affections, I am satisfied the storm must in a little time blow over, and that a few days will reinstate me perfectly in her esteem.
Poor Louisa, was her peace of mind a little established, I could with the more chearfulness submit to my part of the anxiety; but some how her distress is continually present to my imagination, and my own feelings are perpetually aggravated by the recollection of her sufferings. Women, however, though their sensibility may be more piercingly exquisite than ours, are nevertheless much readier to conquer the remembrance of misfortune: they feel more deeply indeed at first; but from the osier-like pliability of their minds, the moment the first hurry of the tempest is sustained, they gradually rise to their former situation; the anguish inperceptibly softens from affliction into melancholy, from melancholy into languor, and from languor into tranquility: whereas, the masculine mind, like the oak in the fable, is shattered in the severity of a conflict, when it might easily have recovered the most violent shock by a happy facility in bending. This remark, Charles, is not the consequence of an idle speculation. In the course of my own experience, I have frequently found it existing in reality: when I first commenced life, I have been the most uneasy fellow in the world at the conclusion of an amour, lest the distraction in which I saw the unfortunate fair one absorbed, should force her into some desperate extremity; yet how have I stared with astonishment, when, in the short circle of a few hours, the self same miserable nymph, who was prostrate at my feet, and tearing her hair with all the phrensy of an extravagant passion, has appeared in the side-box, or the drawing-room, with as perfect a composure upon her features, as if her tender bosom had never undergone the smallest agitation? On this account, therefore, I flatter myself, that Miss Mildmay's uneasiness will very speedily wear off, especially as her secret will rest in a manner with herself, and as she herself also has the credit of the rejection.
I shall by this day's post write to lady Haversham. That woman, Charles, has a soul that strikes against the stars; and excites, in the midst of all the brother's familiarity, a something that commands my highest admiration. Notwithstanding all your peculiarities, you are one of her greatest favourites; call upon her therefore immediately on the receipt of this, and let me as immediately know what she says of my breach with Miss Mildmay. I shall stay at this place till I receive your answer; where I shall go next must be a matter of farther consideration; though
where,
would be a matter of no consequence, as I am heartily weary of myself, were it not that I am, in spite of all my indifference to the world, your ever faithful
R. HAROLD.
LETTER IX.
Mr.
CHARLES MELMOTH,
to Sir
ROBERT HAROLD.
I Do not know how it is, Harold, but, notwithstanding my general disregard of women, you have interested me strangely in favour of Miss Mildmay; and this unaccountable delicacy of your's in breaking off with a lady, merely because she has given you the most convincing proof of her affection, is what, in my opinion, savours considerably more of romance than of real understanding. To embrace a certain misery for fear of a misfortune which is never likely to happen, may perhaps, make you the hero of a very pretty novel; but must, in actual life, expose you to the unremiting ridicule of every body who is trusted with your secret: however, as the die is irrecoverably cast, and as I do not see that the generous girl could be prevailed upon to have you, were you even to sneak back to her father's house in as pitiful a manner as you left it, I shall throw away as few of my reflections as possible, upon a fellow who acts in manifest repugnance to the sentiments both of his reason and his honour; and is willing to become a rascal in the eyes of the wise and the worthy, for fear the ignorant or the profligate should set him down as a fool.
Agreeable to the desire of your letter, I had no sooner looked over the contents than I set out to your sister's; but, instead of being immediately ushered up stairs, according to custom, the servant told me that his lady had been excessively ill the whole day, and given orders against the admittance of any visitors: "however, Sir," says the honest man,
as it is you, I'll call Mrs. Harper, her ladyship's woman, who will probably give you a more satisfactory answer
Harper accordingly came down to me; and, with a look of mingled grief and impatience, asked me if you were come to town? I replied in the negative, and enquired, if I might not speak a word or two with her lady.
Yes to be sure, Sir, answered she, though I do not believe she would see any other person in the kingdom.
On this she led me up stairs, and there I found your sister with a letter before her, which she afterwards informed me came from Mrs. Mildmay. It was easy to see that lady Haversham had been weeping much, her eyes were prodigiously swelled; and there was an uncommon paleness over her whole face, which sufficiently indicated both indisposition and distress.
You know how little she stands upon ceremony with me—she pointed therefore to a chair near her own, and waving with her hand to Harper, as a signal to withdraw, she burst into a violent flood of tears. As I had but too much reason to guess the cause of her perturbation, and was sensible that talking in her present circumstances would only add to her affliction, I waited without ever opening my lips till she had somewhat recovered herself, and was a little able to enter upon a conversation.
After her tears had procured her some relief, she turned to me with an air of unspeakable dejection, and cry'd,
O! Mr. Melmoth, this barbarous brother will break my heart; he has planted daggers here (putting her hand upon her bosom)—but you know the whole affair I suppose, as I am sensible that, of all his friends, you possess the highest place in his confidence.
I bowed, and was silent.
"What think you, Sir," says she
of this new exploit? Can you say any thing to defend him now? Would to God that you could! Yet, O! Mr. Melmoth, an attempt to extenuate his guilt would no less disgrace your good sense, than injure your humanity! But tell me, Sir, has he sent you an account of particulars, has he made you acquainted with every thing?
I again bowed, and was silent.
"And well, Mr. Melmoth," says she,
what can we do to save his life; to save the honour of the dear unhappy girl, and to restore the peace of a worthy, innocent family?
I replied, that you were still at Reading, and would remain there for a day or two; that I was convinced nobody had so great an influence over you as her ladyship; and advised her to exert that influence in such a manner as she should judge most conducive to those salutary purposes.
"Ay, but, Sir," interrupted lady Haversham,
do you know that poor Miss Mildmay is turned out of doors; that she is now a wanderer, an outcast from her father's house; and that her disgrace must inevitably become public before any letter or message can possibly reach him? Her unhappy mother sends me a bleeding account of particulars. I suppose, after your cruel friend had quitted the house, Miss Mildmay, between her consciousness on account of the past, and her despair on account of the future, revealed the whole matter to the venerable lady. Here, Mr. Melmoth; we keep no secrets from you; here is Mrs. Mildmay's letter; and, if you can read it with dry eyes, you have either more philosophy or less feeling than I could wish any person, whom I really regard, to possess.
I took the letter, and shall not scruple to acknowledge that I cried very heartily at several of the passages. The elevation of sentiment, which the young lady shews in never once attempting to upbraid you, though she had such an undoubted occasion for reproach, gives me a very favourable idea of her character; and the generosity of her self-accusation, is such an argument in support of her candour, as must, I think, entirely remove those unmanly apprehensions upon which you grounded your rejection.
Though I am by many years the oldest man, you know the sex infinitely better than I, and know also better than I what is essential to the promotion of your own happiness; yet, in the present case, my dear Harold, I think you excessively in fault. Through the whole of Miss Mildmay's behaviour, there has been much tenderness, but no levity; and her error was an excess of love, not a vehemence of constitution: had it been the latter, like the generality of women, she would have kept her secret to herself; or meanly crouched under your indignities, in such a manner as had prevented the likelihood of a separation; but still alive to the sharpest nicety of sentiment, she neither could stoop to put up with an insult to retain you; nor, when a separation took place, attempt to conceal, by any duplicity of conduct, the fatal occasion of her loss. In whatsoever light I view her conduct, I see a woman of exalted principle, though I find that woman unhappily in love, and in love with a fellow too, who, instead of making any allowances on account of her passion, makes use of that very passion as an argument for involving her in equal distress and disgrace.
I have here, at lady Haversham's request, enclosed Mrs. Mildmay's letter; as your sister is, in consequence of this unhappy affair, so very much indisposed, that she doubts her own ability to write to day; she has charged me, however, in her name, to tell you, that, with all her tenderness for you, if you give up Miss Mildmay, you must give up her also: she considers herself as a partner in the injury, which that unfortunate young lady has sustained; and is, besides apprehensive of those consequences which naturally result from the dishonour of a considerable family—You understand me—Colonel Mildmay and you, must inevitably have a meeting; and though I know you as successful in in your weapons, and am sensible you have as much courage, as any man in England, it must nevertheless be a disagreeable circumstance to a man of your sensibility, to expose Mr. Mildmay's house to fresh misfortunes; when the injury which you have already done it, exceeds the power of reparation.
Before matters, therefore, come to extremities, I could wish, for your own sake, for your sister's sake, for my sake, for every body's sake, you would instantly come up to London, and endeavour at a reconciliation with Miss Mildmay: a woman who loves you to distraction, can scarcely refuse you a pardon for any offence, especially as the grant of that pardon will be an essential means of promoting her own happiness, and preserving the honour of her family. You see, by her mother's letter, where she is to be; and, if you have either a passion for her, an affection for your sister, a friendship for me, or a regard for yourself, you will immediately comply with so reasonable a request.
Were we to weigh the force of your present objection to Miss Mildmay in a proper scale, it would appear so astonishingly trifling, that you yourself must wonder how you ever gave it any consideration. You are only
fearful
of being miserable, you say, if you marry Miss Mildmay; yet you prefer the real misery of giving her up, and involving the best of sister's, and a whole innocent family, in the utmost distress, rather than run the
chance
of an imaginary misfortune: is this a proceeding consistent with that good sense, which, in spite of all your faults, I must allow you; putting even every motive of generosity, friendship, and humanity entirely out of the question? Indeed, Sir Robert, the answer is greatly to your disadvantage; and, was I less acquainted with the extent of your abilities, I should be apt to form such opinions as would do no great credit to your understanding.
I had almost forgot to inform you, that Mrs. Mildmay has sent up the jewels which you presented to her amiable daughter, when there was such a likelihood of a happy union between the two families—your sister actually sobbed when she mentioned them; and, in my hearing, ordered Harper to lock them up in some place where she might never have an opportunity of seeing them.
This letter, my dear Harold, is very long and very dull; but the anxiety in which I labour on your account, and the long train of evils which I foresee, should you foolishly neglect the advice which I have here given you, totally incapacitates me from attending either to method or connection; but what have I to do with method or connection in letters of friendship? Those who write only from the head, regard the beauty of composition; while those who speak from the heart, are utterly unmindful of ornament. Believe me therefore to be
Your very faithful C. MELMOTH.
LETTER X.
Lady
HAVERSHAM
to Sir
ROBERT HAROLD.
I DO not know in what form to begin a letter, where I heartily despise the the person to whom I write; nor how to think of calling any body by the tender name of brother, whom reason and justice oblige me to detest as a man; yet the powerful voice of nature subdues both my contempt and my indignation, and leads me on to try what can possibly be done to preserve his life and his character, before a publication of his infamy exposes him to inevitable danger and disgrace.
Do not imagine, Sir, that, by insinuating an apprehension about your personal safety, I want to intimidate you into the practice of honour or humanity. I know too well, from the many broils in which you have been already engaged on account of your profligacy, that a man of violence receives additional courage from the appearance of danger; and frequently thinks himself obliged to silence every dictate both of reason and justice, lest his bravery should suffer the smallest imputation; such a man I know you to be; and am satisfied that, in the present case, you will sooner think of justifying the infamy of your conduct, than dream of reparation; yet, Bob, by all the tenderness of our near relation, I conjure you to hear me this once with attention, as it is probably the last time I shall ever trouble you with my censures, or insult you with my advice.
And tell we really, is it thus I am to be repaid for all my solicitude about your happiness? Is the family I most valued, to be dishonoured—the young lady whom I most loved, to be destroyed—and my own peace of mind to be eternally sacrificed, because I have, with an anxiety which few sisters ever felt to such a degree, been attentive to the minutest circumstance that could either improve your fortune, or encrease your felicity? Is the sister, for whom you profess so cordial an affection, the chief person marked out for the exercise of your cruelty; and the friends who were dearest to her in the world, the principal people whom you could think of loading with the most aggravating dishonour, and the most piercing distress? O! Bob—could I have thought this of you!—Wild as I judged you in general, I believed you a man of sentiment at bottom, and could by no means suppose that, in the unsuspecting hour of confidence, when the reputation of a considerable house, and my tranquility, were at stake, that you would prove the worst of all assassins, and stab them both to the heart. The day after to-morrow, Bob, I had set apart as the most fortunate of my life; but, alas! I am now to mark it only with my tears, and to lament it as the primary source of all my present afflictions.
Your friend, Mr. Melmoth, has just left me; and, though I believ'd I should not be able to write in the aggravated distress of a real indisposition, and an unexpected calamity; nevertheless my heart is too full to be silent; and, when I consider not only what has happened but what is likely to result from this melancholy affair, I am fearful of losing a single moment till I try whether there may be not yet a possibility of bringing an accommodation about, and preventing the present misfortune from producing any additional cause of distress.
Mr. Melmoth, who loves you with the most friendly affection, has shewn me what you wrote to him in consequence of this unhappy affair; and I find, that, notwithstanding the infamy of your conduct on one side of the question, you are yet candid enough on the other, to aim at no palliations. I am pleased to see you generous, though I bleed to find you guilty; and am still in hopes that this latent ember of principle may be fanned into something that will yet light us on to happiness.
In the whole course of your narrative you have but one objection to Miss Mildmay, and that is even grounded upon a supposition no less ungenerous than unjust. You men, however, have very contracted notions on these occasions; and generally give up that very vanity, where a lady has shewn any fatal proofs of her regard, which first of all leads you to think of gaining her affections. As long as she keeps you at a distance you think yourselves the only objects whom she can ever honour with her approbation; but if, in the ungarded fulness of heart, she should unfortunately lose sight of her circumspection, and sacrifice her honour through an extravagant tenderness, that moment you sink in your own opinion; that moment you construe what is the consequence of an unbounded partiality for yourselves, into a levity of sentiment, and imagine every body else must be indulged with an equal degree of familiarity.
You, brother, who have so fine a person, and so finished an address, would think it strange if any body was to tell you, with a grave face, that you were utterly unable to engage a lady's affections; yet why may not you suppose that it was the influence which you had over Miss Mildmay's heart, that drew her into this unhappy mistake—Had she been actuated by any illiberal levity of sentiment, do you imagine that she would have continued, through the most trying stages of a young woman's life, from sixteen up to twenty-one, without making any lapse injurious to her reputation? Do you suppose that, surrounded with admirers, and every day solicited by some of the finest young fellows in the kingdom, she would not have fallen a victim to a vehemence of constitution? Undoubtedly she would; but constitution had nothing at all to do in her character. You know I have been intimate in her family from her infancy, though you became acquainted with her so lately; and my residence, during lord Haversham's life, upon the very spot with her, gave me numberless opportunities of knowing her thoroughly—In all this time, there never was a young lady who behaved with a nicer rectitude of conduct, that had so many admirers; and you may be sure, if I had not the best opinion in the world, both of her head and her heart, I should not have been so desirous of having her for a sister.
So far, in reality, was Miss Mildmay from an indiscreet girl, that I place no inconsiderable share of her ruin down to the account of her virtue. When she grew old enough to be distinguished by the addresses of the men, she always made me her confidant; and often, upon my asking her what objection she could have to such or such a person, she would reply,
My dear lady Haversham, the men are well enough to be sure, and so are their estates; but I don't find any thing peculiarly striking in their characters.
As it was impossible but what, in the course of our intimacy, I should frequently talk of you, and dwell, with all the partiality of a sister, upon such of your actions as I thought worthy of approbation; Louisa would listen with a fixed attention; would declare you were a charming fellow; and wish that her papa could be prevailed upon to trust her up with me to town, or that the wildness of your disposition would permit you to make a visit to the country—She longed, she said, to see you, and begged I would contrive to bring you together; but I don't know how it was, though I tried several times, some accident or other still happened to defeat my intentions. Matters went on in this manner for some time, till the very generous part which you acted by farmer Jenkins, who had been thrown into goal for a considerable sum by his landlord, on account of resenting an unbecoming liberty with his daughter. As I was really charmed with the action myself, I told it to every body, and first of all I believe to Louisa; when she heard that you were totally uninterested in the affair, that Jenkins was an honest worthy poor man; that he had a large family, and was cruelly oppressed; when she heard that you not only paid all his debts, but even portioned out his daughter, and all this without being ever seen by any individual of the poor fellow's family; Louisa could not withstand her emotion—She breathed short; shifted from one side of her seat to the other; and, at last, exclaiming that there was no possibility of bearing any more, she burst into a flood of tears. Thus totally uninfluenced by passion or prejudice, and entirely actuated by real principle and genuine benignity, her very goodness of heart became a material source of her misfortunes; and laid the original foundation of all her present dishonour and distress. The contracted eye of a narrow-minded libertinism cannot, however, distinguish between those indiscretions which result from an excess of tenderness, and an excess of levity; attentive to one little object it always sees a woman's actions on the least favourable side; and, conscious of its own unworthiness, supposes that nothing but an equal unworthiness can ever honour it so far as to commit a capital mistake.
But, of all the paltry contrivances which were ever designed to break off a match, surely your mode of parting with Miss Mildmay was the most ridiculously contemptible—And so you thought it perfectly sufficient to
say
you were ready to marry her, at the same time that by the insolence and cruelty of your artificial humility and concern, you forced her to the absolute necessity of rejecting you. As a man of honour you thought it requisite to declare a willingness to fulfil your former engagements; yet what honourable compunction did you feel, when, in the basest opposition to your professions, you worked the unhappy young lady up to the cuting alternative, either of refusing you, or of meriting to be refused herself? What signifies the plausibility of the most solemn profession, when our actions give the lye to our words; or what signifies the deepest air of tenderness and veneration, if we secretly carry a dagger to stab the object of all this tenderness and veneration to the heart? In fact, our hypocrisy, so far from alleviating the guilt, serves only to encrease its infamy; and indicates nothing more than our fear, or our shame, to perpetrate those crimes from which we are are neither detered by the voice of honour nor the sense of humanity: but what has a modern fine gentleman to do with honour or humanity! the mere outsides of either are sufficient for his purpose; and, so he observes a formal, frigid sort of deference for his word, he becomes equally dead to the suggestions of his reason and the feelings of his heart.
Yet if I am astonished at the pitiful contrivance by which you obtained your
honourable
discharge from Louisa, what must I think of that barbarous mortification which you express at finding she could bear the loss of a worthless libertine, with such an exalted share of fortitude? And so your pride was wounded because the unhappy young lady did not discover a greater share of wretchedness, and manifest a much keener sensibility of distress?—O! Bob, Bob, how unmanly, how inhuman is this declaration! But why am I surprized at partial unmanlinesses, or particular inhumanities, where the whole conduct has been uniformly destitute of manhood and humanity. Your behaviour, Sir, is entirely of a piece; and my contempt is as much excited by your pride as my detestation is raised by your barbarity.
I suppose, Sir, it would have yielded a most delicious feast to your vanity, had Miss Mildmay fallen at your feet; and, in an agony of despair, implored you to change your cruel resolution. I suppose you would have felt the most exquisite gratification to see the unhappy young lady deluged in her own tears, and tearing her fine face in all the extravagance of united grief and distraction—Thank God, you were disappointed—Thank God, there is one woman who can spurn a worthless lover from her presence, even while she acknowledges his possession of her heart. What you may think of the behaviour I know not, but, for my own part, her conduct since her first indiscretion has actually raised her in my opinion; and the generous sensibility which she has shewn in consequence of her error, gives her a preference to millions who have never erred at all.
Pride, insensibility, and want of solicitation, have given a negative degree of excellence to, and preserved the purity of numbers, who were neither protected by principle nor reason; but a woman, who, on the eve of marriage with a man she passionately loves; a woman, whose heart, by the consideration of the approaching union, and the exchange of a thousand tender vows that naturally antecede the ceremony, is melted into the softest degree of confidence, and thrown totally off its guard; such a woman, I say, if, in the unsuspecting moment of her soul, she even forgets the more rigid, though necessary, punctilioes of behaviour, has infinite extenuations to offer in her defence: but if, upon her recovery of recollection, she is capable of acting with dignity and sentiment, the goodness of her mind I think sufficiently removes the imputation of levity, and renders her greatly superior to those who boast of their own fortitude, without experiencing the force of the same temptation.
Thus, my dear Bob, have I opened my whole heart to you on this subject; and, now the only answer which I either desire or expect to this letter is, your immediate presence in town, to try every possible means of a reconciliation with Miss Mildmay—Don't be afraid of looking mean when you are about the performance of a good action; a blush upon such an occasion will become you mightily; and even in proportion to the greatness of your confusion I shall be apt to estimate both the benevolence of your heart, and the depth of your understanding: should you, however, still continue attached to your ridiculous delicacy, and, through a romantic principle of pride give up a woman who is in actual possession of your heart, you must also give up a sister who loves you as sister, perhaps, never loved brother before; for, though I candidly own it will give me the greatest of all distresses to discontinue such a correspondence as should subsist betweeen two people so united by blood, and so cemented by friendship; yet I positively repeat, that, unless you shew yourself a man of principle on this important occasion, you will never more hear a syllable from your greatly afflicted, yet still affectionate Sister,
THEO. HAVERSHAM.
LETTER XI.
Sir
ROBERT HAROLD
to
CHARLES MELMOTH,
Esq.
Dear
CHARLES,
YOU can scarcely conceive the anxiety I have laboured under since my last letter: every moment that I was absent from Louisa, I thought would have enabled me to banish her from my memory with more readiness and certainty; but, I don't know how it is, she presses with an incessant violence to my recollection, and gains every moment an additional share of power in proportion as I flattered myself her power would have diminished. What an unaccountable fellow am I, Charles, that I never know my own mind for four and twenty hours together! Before I was sure of Miss Mildmay, I was impatient to become master of her affections: when I had obtained these affections, I instantly sunk into a state of indifference and apathy; and for some time, dreaded the day of marriage as a condemned criminal would dread the day of execucution. Well, having at last worked myself up into a real passion for her, the intervention of an unexpected circumstance; induced me to give her up and, now that I have given her up, I find I shall be as eager as ever to regain her. The only way I see, after all, is fairly to marry her; for then, let me change my mind never so often, my person you know will be bound in such a manner as to keep me from the commission of fresh absurdities.
I have just this moment received your letter, and my sister Haversham's. By these I find you are endeavouring to imitate, as far as you are capable of imitating, any thing worthy, the character of Belford in Richardson's Clarissa Harlow—Nay, to render this imitation the more striking, you treat me as if I were just such another contemptible blockhead as Lovelace, who did not imagine there was a modest woman existing. Now, you know very well, Melmoth, that I am rather vain in affectation than in reality; and, tho' I sometimes talk away about my person, and my address, you must acknowledge that, unlike Richardson's hero, I never insinuate that either is irresistable. In short, you know that, even in my wildest connection with the sex, I still retained some degree of principle; and have frequently, from motives of humanity, avoided an intercourse which he would have solicited with the utmost assidulty. Between him and I the comparison is still more remote, for he was continually endeavouring to undermine a virtue which he had no reason whatsoever to suspect; whereas I never entertained a thought injurious to Miss Mildmay, but succeeded with her entirely from a trivial accident.—This is not all; the arts which Lovelace made use of to trepan Clarissa, were to the last degree infamous and unmanly; his carrying her to Sinclair's, a common brothel, and his introduction of the two strumpets to her in the character of ladies of quality, are more flagrant instances of turpitude than if he had actually administered a sleeping draught, or forced her, the moment he got her from her father's. In the latter cases, youth and passion might afford his crime some shadow of palliation; whereas, in the former, his schemes are so tedious and refined, that they become utterly repugnant to the fire of youth, and the fury of passion; and indicate either the most palpable villiany of heart, or the most palpable want of inclination. His reason too for delaying to marry the woman he loves is a pleasant one; he fears she is actually virtuous. O! Charles, how opposite is the motive of my conduct; but hush, recollection! down busy devil, down—I have waked a scorpion in that retrospect, which stings me to distraction.
Your letter, Charles, is, as you justly call it, a very dull one; however, you are a happy fellow to make even your stupidity a means of shewing your understanding. My sister Haversham, without the advantage of your extensive erudition, writes fifty times more to the purpose, though I dare say you think her infinitely your inferior, both as to elegance of stile and energy of argument. Don't, however, be offended at the justice I do her in this place, for you are a mighty favourite with her ladyship; and, I dare say, may, in time, aspire at a match with her—Abigail Harper.
Notwithstanding these attempts to be merry, I am fearful my endeavours at a joke will be to the full as unfortunate as your endeavours at letter-writing. I shall not, like you, however, make the ridiculous parade of an apology: the business of this scrawl is to beg you will instantly go to lady Haversham's, and inform her I am every thing she could wish me—that I shall set off to-morrow morning for London, and be with her by breakfast. In the mean time, if she would contrive to see Louisa, who must be in town by this, it would oblige me highly, as I know an interview between them would pave the readiest way to a reconciliation. Perhaps, Miss Mildmay, when she finds my sister so strenuous, and sees how ready I am myself to heal this unlucky breach, may give herself some airs, and think of treating me with indifference—If she should, by Heaven—Yet, surely, I have deserved not only her indifference, but her scorn; have I not cruelly exposed her to the ridicule of the whole world, and the resentment of her whole family!—Have I not equally endangered her reputation and her life, destroyed her fortune, and blasted her felicity!—Yes, Melmoth, I have deserved not only her scorn but her absolute detetestation. I am astonished, when I review the state of the case, how I could be weak enough to prefer a number of the most affecting evils, to the precarious hazard at worst of a single misfortune. Mrs. Mildmay's letter cost me many tears; and I could not read lady Haversham's without an equal mixture of shame and distress; that worthiest, noblest of women, Charles, is entitled to every return both of my gratitude and affection; had it not been for her indefatigable industry, even in opposition to the manifest call of her interest, and the dictates of her love, my father you know, would have disinherited me. Her marriage with lord Haversham, a man three times older than herself, was the price of my pardon; and yet, at the same time that Theodosia yielded to this match for my preservation, I knew her whole soul was devoted to my old friend Sir Edward Wilmington. Poor Sir Edward fell in the glorious affair of Minden; and, though I never hinted the circumstance to you before, yet he sacrificed himself on that memorable day, by running into unnecessary dangers merely through his incapacity to survive the loss of my sister—And does not this sister, Melmoth, deserve every thing at my hands?—Go instantly to her, when you read this, and tell her, that, for the remainder of my days, I shall be entirely guided by her directions; tell her, that, without the continuation of her friendship, I never can be happy; and, that next to the forgiveness of the Deity himself, her's is the most essential requisite to my felicity. I blush, Melmoth, to be outdone in generosity; but this exalted woman always threw me at a distance; and, from my infancy up, continually excited both my envy and my admiration. You see, that, in all this readiness of acquiescence, Charles, I never once insinuate the pleasure it will necessarily give myself to make up matters with Louisa; nevertheless, my heart is transported at the thought, and I even love my friends the better for thus taking part against my pride, in favour of my inclination.
The hints which you insinuate relative to consequences, Charles, in case I do not accommodate with the Mildmay family, would give me but little uneasiness, was I ever so pitiful a paltroon, and ever so much disinclined to the match. Colonel Mildmay is a young fellow of spirit, but he is also a man of understanding; he must therefore see how preposterous it would be to think of revenging the quarrel of a sister, who, notwithstanding my behaviour, would, I dare say, be much better pleased at his fall than mine; I have been more than once challenged by the brothers of young ladies, Charles; and I always found the dear girls thought the fellows extremely impertinent who presumed to call me to an account. There are few sisters, Melmoth, like lady Haversham; on the contrary, most women would much sooner wish to see a brother stretched dead upon the field of combat, than to hear that an infamous rascal, who had destroyed both their peace and their reputation, had met with the smallest accident. For my own part, dearly as I love lady Haversham, was it possible for her to be ruined and deserted, I should never think of calling the villain to an account—After the last intimacy, a woman always espouses the cause of her lover, and a brother has of course little occasion to interfere, when, at the very moment he is hazarding his life in the cause of a sister, she is secretly praying for the success of his antagonist. Colonel Mildmay knows the world, and will never dream of exposing his life in a quarrel where there is no probability even of meeting with thanks. Be easy therefore, dear Charles, on this head, and believe me to be your's unalterably.
ROBERT HAROLD.
LETTER XII.
Sir
ROBERT HAROLD
to
CHARLES MELMOTH,
Esq.
BRISTOL.
Dear
CHARLES,
YOU will undoubtedly be surprized, (after reading the firm resolution which I made in my last, of going instantly to London, and accommodating the unhappy affair with Miss Mildmay,) to hear that, instead of following that resolution, I am this moment preparing to quit the kingdom; and shall, in all probability, never more see Louisa's face, nor set a foot in England. O! Charles, to what a fate am I reserved; one misfortune treads fast upon the heels of another; and the worthy, though misguided, colonel Mildmay, is perhaps, by this time, dead through a rash indignation at the fate of his sister.
I was just stepping into my chaise at the Crown in Reading, when a gentleman in a post-chariot and six, who was driving at a furious rate, accidentally seeing me, ordered his people to stop; and coming out of the carriage slapped me familiary upon the shoulder, and expressed no little astonishment at seeing me in Reading; saying, he thought I had been considerably better employed than in driving round the country. The meeting was an unluckily one, Charles, for the gentleman was no other than colonel Mildmay; he was going down to his father's to be present at my marriage with Louisa, and now desired me to step into his carriage, as it would be much more agreeable to ride together than to travel in separate vehicles.
You may be sure, that, if the unexpected appearance of the colonel disconcerted me at first, my confusion was no way abated by the proposal of accompanying him to his father's; I was excessively aukward, and made some stammering sort of a reply, which I fancy rendered me cursedly contemptible. The colonel perceiving me so much embarrassed, demanded, with a faltering tone, and a look of the utmost apprehension, if all was right, and if I still continued on a proper footing with Louisa. This question was a home one, Melmoth; and to evade it would have been the lowest degree of timidity; I therefore hinted, that a little acccident had intervened, which must necessarily occasion a short procrastination of our nuptials, but that I had no doubt of every thing's being settled to the mutual satisfaction of both families.
This reply threw the colonel into the greatest consternation; his brows were in an instant stretched a full inch above their natural situation; his eyes were fixed into a stare of unutterable astonishment; his mouth insensibly widened to a horror of distention; and his complexion, which the moment before was remarkably glowing, now assumed a white of the most deadly kind imaginable; at last, with an accent scarce audible, while a tear imperceptibly stole down his cheek, he desired me to step into the inn with him, and insinuated that he expected to be made acquainted with the particulars: I accordingly ascented to his proposal; and a private room being ordered, we went up stairs together, and for some moments sat in a state of silent anxiety, each expecting that the other would open first, while each nevertheless dreaded to enter upon a conversation.
The colonel, however, finding that I was no way likely to begin the discourse, and naturally recollecting that, as he had been the proposer of the intended explanation, it became him to break silence, he exclaimed with an interrogatory repetition,
And so, Sir Robert, an affair has happened, which must inevitably delay your marriage with Louisa?
—
Yes, colonel, and I sincerely lament the occasion of that delay, as I flattered myself with a hope of being the happiest man in the world a little earlier.
As you are kind enough to lament the occasion of this delay,
replied the colonel,
you can have no objection to make me acquainted with it—Shall I therefore beg, Sir Robert, to know the real motive of procrastinating matters? From the very great expedition used in the former part of this negotiation, a delay was what I little looked for, and must confess that it not only surprizes but affects me—Louisa, Sir Robert, is very near my heart, and our's is a family which must not be insulted with impunity.
You may naturally imagine, Charles, that this menacing speech, together with the air which accompanied it, was not at all calculated to work upon a temper like mine; I therefore surveyed the colonel with a look of cold indifference, and answered, that Louisa was to the full as close to my heart as she could possibly be to his; and as for resenting any insult which might be offered to the honour of his family, that was a circumstance which must raise him in every body's consideration.
From the visible coldness of my reply, the colonel, I saw, endeavoured to rein in his temper, as well as he was able, till he had more substantial grounds for indicating a resentment.
Sir Robert,
says he,
excuse my warmth—I love my sister, and I feel for my family—gratify my impatience therefore in one word, and, like the man of honour I believe you to be, like the brother I hope to find you, tell me that neither has been injured by your means and I shall be the happiest man in the universe.
Here, Melmoth, was a lunge which required all my ingenuity to parry; yet, when I considered that Louisa herself had published every thing between us, and when I saw the colonel must necessarily hear the whole story in the most aggravating light in a few hours, I thought it would look like the rankest cowardice to prevaricate, however it might wound my sensibility in the tenderest part to make mention of any thing to the disadvantage of Louisa. Putting therefore the best face I possibly could upon the matter, I candidly told the colonel, that the excess of my passion for his sister had actually led me into an indiscretion which occasioned some uneasiness; that Louisa had, in consequence, been sent up to London, and that I was then on my journey after her, to fall at her feet, and to solicit a reconciliation.—I added, that I flattered myself he would exert his interest in my favour, since there was no undoing what was done; and since that was the only means of restoring his sister's tranquility, and securing the honour of his family.
There is no possibility, Melmoth, of painting the astonishment in which this relation threw the colonel; the surprize which he before manifested was nothing to that which now took the entire possession of his countenance—At length, his wonder giving way to his indignation, a kind of fury seemed to flash from his eyes, and he fiercely leaned across the table, repeating, in a menacing accent,
And so, Sir, you have actually ruined Louisa Mildmay!
I don't know how it is, Melmoth, but there is something in the nature of guilt which takes away our fortitude, and reduces us to a state of the most contemptible timidity. You know I have as much courage as the generality of young fellows, and you know also what unhappy instances I have given of my knowledge in the weapons; yet, by all that's good, I could scarcely sustain the the terror of Mildmay's eye on this occasion—conscious how much right he had to be offended. Conscious of my own guilt, and lady Haversham's letter still ringing in my years, I shrunk in a manner into myself, and seemed fearful of encountering the shock of his indignation. I sat dumb—irresolute—confounded—my vacant eye held rivetted to the floor, and such a visible agitation in my whole person as would have given the colonel but a poor idea of my spirit, had he not been already pretty well acquainted with my character. The colonel, however, soon gave me all my customary courage, by exclaiming that I was a villain, a cowardly, contemptible villain, who had basely made use of the most infamous arts to seduce the inexperienced innocence of a beautiful young lady, and to blast the reputation of a family, with which I was utterly unworthy to be connected. The colonel was proceeding in this manner, and giving an unbounded loose to a storm of incoherent fury, when I interrupted him,—"Colonel," says I,
this is language with which I have been totally unacquainted; and it is language which would possibly cost you very dear, was I not sensible you have some cause to be offended with me; and, was I not desirous of shewing every regard which I am now able to manifest, both for the honour of your family and the peace of your beautiful sister.—I grant my behaviour has been culpable, greatly culpable, and it is with infinite concern I reflect on the anxiety which my misbehaviour has already produced—What more can I either say or do? An altercation between you and I is much more likely to encrease the general unhappiness of our friends than to remove it. You know, that, should it even be my lot to fall in this altercation, neither your house nor your sister can be benefitted by that circumstance; whereas, on the contrary, should you be unsuccessful, both must naturally experience an addition of the most exquisite distress.—Do me the justice, colonel Mildmay, to believe, that this expostulation is not the result of timidity—I have already injured your house, and it must be the most pressing necessity indeed which can oblige me to run even the hazard of aggravating my fault.—Do not, therefore, by indulging an injudicious warmth, either prevent me from the possibility of making a reparation, or expose your family to the hazard of new misfortunes. Happiness is yet within our reach, and it must be very much your fault if it is snatched from our hands.
This long harangue, Charles, I pronounced with an uncommon degree of temper; but I could easily see that it had little effect upon colonel Mildmay; full of that ridiculous sort of honour which is above listening to reason, he endeavoured to break in upon me several times; and, when I had done, instead of moderating his passion, he rather seemed to give it an additional force; swearing that, though a cool hypocritical speech might silence the resentment of his sister, he was not to be duped from his purpose by the most specious plausibilities; but would vindicate the honour of his family, and proceed instantly to the necessary means of redress.
"And pray, colonel," says I,
how do you purpose to obtain this redress?
"Purpose," returned he shortly,
as a man of honour—Be pleased to stay for me but two minutes and you shall be more fully satisfied.
So saying, he ran down stairs to his chariot, which was all the time waiting at the door, and took out a case of pistols, (for I could see every thing distinctly through the window.) These he concealed under a surtout, which he had on; and coming up with a lightning-like expedition, to the room in which he left me, entered and bolted the door. Having done thus, he marched up directly to me, and swore, with a determined energy of execration, that, unless I instantly accepted of one, and stood upon my defence, he would, without any farther ceremony, shoot me through the head. All this time, Charles, I kept my temper with a stoicism that that was really astonishing—"Colonel," says I, as he pronounced the last menace,
consider that you have a man before you who is not easily intimidated; but who, as he wishes to repair, instead of aggravating injuries, is willing to overlook the insults which you have offered him, and to embrace you as a brother and a friend.—For your sister's sake, Sir, consider.
—"Damnation seize my sister," interrupted he, wildly,
it is not her honour which I want to vindicate, but my own—She is an infamous strumpet, and you are a cowardly, hypocritical scoundrel—take the pistol, Sir,—this moment take it and defend yourself; for, by all that's holy, if you hesitate another instant, I will anticipate the justice of the gibbet, and rid the world of as great a villain as ever dishonoured it.
This language, Charles, was no longer to be borne; the scandalous epithet with which he had branded poor Louisa, and the brutality of insolence with which he treated all my concessions, entirely destroyed my fortitude; so that now forgetting every consideration, I snatched the pistol out of his hand, and retiring to a space, which he himself had pointed out, I fired, and wounded him so dangerously in the groin, that he instantly fell upon the floor, discharging his pistol; however, as he fell, the contents of which just drew a little blood from my ear, but did me no farther injury, unless burning a curl of the side hair may be termed an injury to a fellow so fond of dressing as your humble servant.
I ran to the colonel the moment I saw him down, and offered him every assistance in my power; but he was now in a manner frantic; the anguish of his wound, and the mortification of finding I had come off so easily, threw him into an extravagant passion, and he raved at me, his sister, and his own unexecuting hand, with all the fury of an implacable resentment, and a disappointed revenge; disclaiming every consolation which I was capable of offering, and swearing he would still pursue me to the utmost confines of the world till he had sacrificed me to the manes of his murdered reputation. Finding him in this temper, and knowing that the sooner I provided for my own safety the better, as I found from the nature of his wound that his situation was dangerous, I marched down stairs to my chaise with my handkerchief to my ear, and drove immediately off towards Bristol, giving previous directions, however, to the people of the house, who had not yet been alarmed, to take the most speedy and effectual care of the colonel.
My first care on my arrival at Bristol, was to send Edwards in quest of some vessel immediately ready to sail, and in less than an hour he came back with intelligence that the captain of a ship bound to Rotterdam, was preparing to set off the next tide. As it was a matter of indifference to me which way I pursued my rout, I ordered him to agree with the Dutchman, and sat down to give you an account of this unfortunate accident before I left the kingdom. You cannot imagine, Charles, how miserable it has made me—No less in disappointing the eagerness of my wishes to be reconciled to Louisa, than in loading the two families with additional distress; neither lady Haversham, nor Miss Mildmay will ever believe but what I have been entirely to blame in this curst rencounter; and should the colonel even recover, the danger into which I have thrown his life, must necessarily impede an accommodation with his sister—Then he is so implacable in his resentments, and his father is so carried away by the ridiculous notions of family reputation, that I much question whether he would not believe himself rather bound in honour to treat me with the grossest indignities, than to think of listening to any overtures which I may make towards a reconciliation. How cautiously my dear Melmoth, should young fellows of any principle be in their conduct to women of character; since a single indiscretion can be productive of such numberless misfortunes. Here have I with as little villainy of intention as ever influenced the bosom of giddy headed youth; with little more in fact to charge myself than a mere want of circumspection, destroyed the reputation of a woman whom I passionately love; converted the smiling expectations of her whole family into anguish and disgrace; robbed her brother, perhaps, of his life; and sacrificed not only my own peace of mind for ever, but covered all my friends with confusion and distress. How some people, Melmoth, can preserve their tranquility with such a scene before them is to me astonishing. A man not utterly divested of feeling, must look with horror on himself where he has been the cause of such a complicated wretchedness. For my own part, thoughtless as I have been in many connections with the sex, the consequences which have resulted from this affair with Miss Mildmay, makes me detest what I formerly esteemed the principal source of felicity; and convinces me that a man of gallantry is no less a contemptible than a dangerous character. O! Charles, could my whole fortune recover that chearful serenity of mind which I possessed but a week ago, how readily would I think of making the purchase; but happiness is totally incompatible with guilt, and it is but just that he who is instrumental in the misery of others should experience the sharpest stings of misery himself.
Before I conclude this letter, I must, however, mention some things to you relative to Miss Mildmay. By her mother's letter I understand, that she is to be supplied with money only as the good old lady can conveniently spare it, till time can so work upon the obstinate temper of her father, as to obtain some regular allowance for her establishment; all she has in the world is five hundred pounds; this is but a small sum for a lady of her fashion to live upon a whole year, tho' I suppose, she will not in her present circumstances choose to be very public; however, that she may suffer as little as possible upon my account, contrive through lady Haversham's means some method of making the dear girl receive a thousand pounds a year to support a carriage, and to purchase all the other conveniences which she has been used to in her father's house: I need not tell you, that the task I now impose is a difficult one, and that the execution of it will demand the utmost delicacy and address; Louisa is all soul; yet nobody knows how to give things a better manner than my sister, and if there is a possibility of managing the matter I am sensible she will be able to effect it. It is unnecessary to say that I must on no account appear in the affair. If Miss Mildmay could be cheated into an opinion, that the allowance is made privately by her father, who is unwilling to shew how much he still loves her; or if—But damn it, I am all the time forgetting that her family would wonder by what method she was enabled to keep an equipage; and, perhaps, from an opinion that it was by some sinister means—you understand me—become less inclined to forgive her—this way therefore will never do—Yet stay—I have it.
Suppose my sister was secretly to make Mrs. Darnel the allowance I have been talking of for Louisa's ease; I have some little knowledge of Mrs. Darnel, and I fancy her circumstances are none of the best—Under an affectation of great gravity I am sure she conceals an insuperable pride, and seems to dispise that glitter from principle, which she is unable to enjoy from the narrowness of her fortune; lady Haversham may therefore set up a chariot for Mrs. Darnel; Louisa you know by residing with her will have it at command; and Mrs. Darnel shall have it rendered worth her while to present her amiable cousin with a sufficient sum of money as opportunities occur, for all her other contingencies. Mrs. Darnel I see has obligations to the Mildmay family; but whatever she loses by her politeness on this occasion, shall be doubled to her by an annuity, or how she pleases; she may talk of a ticket in the lottery, you know, or make any other common excuse for the alteration of appearances.
And yet Melmoth, I am some how sorry Louisa is to be at Mrs. Darnel's, she is a woman of whom I entertain no very great opinion. I have been three or four times in her company at accidental visits, and always found her so humble, and so fawning; so religious and so sentimental; that I am fearful my poor Louisa will have but a disagreeable companion. An excess of humility to those who are our superiors in fortune is always a sign of a mean mind; the heart is unworthy of respect, which never seems inclined to assert its natural equality; and I would much sooner commence a friendship with those who are perpetually contradicting me, than with those who have a smile for every thing I say, and never take the liberty to contradict me at all.
The master of the vessel has this moment called to take me on board—Till I hear from you I shall take up my residence at the great marshal Turene's in Rotterdam—I have used the house once already, and found the people very careful of my letters. Pray write immediately, and let your pacquet be a large one; enquire minutely into the colonel's situation, and tell me what is said by lady Haversham, and Louisa. O! Charles, adversity is your only forcible moralist; the pangs which I now suffer in consequence of my folly give me a higher veneration for virtue than the works of our most celebrated philosophers; and I find more wisdom is to be obtained from a moment's experience than from a whole eternity of idle speculation—But when reflection comes too late of what service is it to moralize! God bless you therefore my dear Melmoth, and believe me to be with an everlasting attachment
Your Friend ROBERT HAROLD.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.