THE FAIR HIBERNIAN.
VOL. II.
THE FAIR HIBERNIAN.
What Ignorance shall think, or Malice say,
To me are Trifles,—if the knowing few,
Who can see Faults, but can see Beauties too,
Applaud that Genius which themselves partake.
IN TWO VOLUMES. VOLUME THE SECOND.
LONDON: PRINTED BY JOHN CROWDER, FOR G. G. J. AND J. ROBINSON, PATER-NOSTER-ROW M,DCC,LXXXIX.
THE FAIR HIBERNIAN.
TO MRS. CHETWYND.—IRELAND.
GRANVILLE-PARK.
I HAVE just met the most vexatious disappointment I ever experienced: it puts me out of all manner of patience. I am totally exhausted already, with dissembling a chearfulness in which my heart cannot take the least share, and concealing a melancholy that almost overwhelms me. I had comforted myself with the hopes of a speedy release from this insupportable restraint. Next week was fixt for our departure; but Mrs. Domville has taken it into her head to desire lady Lucy's attendance on an approaching occasion, so that we shall probably be detained above a month.
Sure, of all the
longings
peculiar to her situation, this is one of the most unreasonable, and the most provoking. How can lady Lucy, who has never been in a similar situation, be of any service to her? But 'tis I that am unreasonable; yes, and illnatured too—What can be more soothing than the presence of such a friend, in the hours of sickness and danger?
Lady Lucy, though desirous of being with her sister, would, on my account, have declined staying; but I could not think of taking any advantage of her very obliging consideration for me. After the civilities I have received from every branch of the Domville family, I could not avoid paying them so slight—or, to speak more truly, what must have appeared to them so slight—a compliment, without an unpardonable degree of rudeness and ingratitude. I was obliged to promise, not to let my. uncle come for me, or Mr. Domville would have insisted on leaving me with you, and coming back again for lady Lucy:— distressing kindness!
All the Linfield family leave this place to-morrow; lady Linfield, I believe, because she does not love the country, which, at this season, is astonishing. Lady Lucy goes
pour remplir les fonctions de sa charge aupres de madame
Domville. The gentlemen must attend their ladies.
The duke, and lady Carysbrook—whose kindness frequently reminds me of another and dearer aunt—insist upon my residing at Granville-park while I stay in England; which I willingly consented to. Lord and lady Linfield profess—and, I have reason to think, with sincerity—that this is a point they would not have yielded to any body but my grandfather.
I like this arrangement much better than returning to London; for several reasons, which you will easily guess:—one of them, and not the weakest, is, that I shall be removed from lady Mary Webster; who was teazingly importunate with me, to tell her who Miss Ormsby's intended husband was. She said, it was but an act of justice, of common humanity, to let him know her character. Neither justice, nor humanity, dictated the resolve;—'twas malice, and revenge, for imaginary wrongs. What! ruin a young lady's reputation and happiness, on slight, very slight, suspicions! I would not be concerned in it, though ever so indirectly, for millions! Let souls like lady Mary's stoop to such actions!
If I would barely let her know his name, she solemnly protested mine should never be brought into question. She would keep her word, I doubt not; she could have no temptation to break it: but I have been taught to adhere to what I think right, from much higher motives than the fear of censure, or even than the hope of praise.
I believe I have acted properly; yet, I own to you, madam, I am far from being easy. I am tortured with solicitude for Sir Edward's happiness. I cannot suppress my fears, although I know they spring only from too creative an imagination, and, alas! too tender a heart: I should hate myself, if a want of candour to Miss Ormsby had any share in forming them. But this cruel subject!—how came I to touch on it? Begin with what I will, I insensibly fall into it. This is greatly trespassing on your indulgence, my generous friend.
Let us talk of something else.
In my last, I attempted a description of this fine place. I deferred giving you any account of its inhabitants, till I should be able to judge of them with more accuracy and certainty than I could pretend to do from first impressions; for to penetrate immediately into people's characters, belongs only to those who are blessed with a great deal of natural sagacity, joined to a thorough knowledge of the world.
I have formed an opinion of the Sedley family on a short acquaintance, which I fancy a long one would not induce me to change. I have studied them—both my uncle and you compliment me with penetration—
commençons.
The duke of Granville is far from being unamiable in his private character. He is an affectionate, careful, and indulgent parent; readily forgiving slight faults, though—as my poor mother had too good reason to know—absolutely inexorable with regard to great ones. He is a warm friend, a kind master, a generous landlord, and a liberal benefactor to the poor. His excessive pride does not appear in his deportment to people that are extremely his inferiors; to them he is generally mild, and sometimes even condescending: to his equals—by equals, you may suppose I cannot exactly mean such only as boast a title, birth, and fortune, great as his own; I use that term with respect to him, to signify all those who have a decided right to keep the first company; to such—he is very polite and easy; but he is most forbiddingly haughty to persons in genteel middling life; which—
par parenthese,
and by your leave, ambition—I take to be the happiest state in the world. Inferiors of this class, his grace cannot suffer for a moment to forget their distance. At his own table only—and there they are seldom invited—he relaxes a little, and treats them with a moderate degree of complaisance. In mixed company, he preserves an air of reserved stateliness, softened, however, by good-breeding, of which he has a large share. He is certainly vindictive; but not often so to those whom he has not once loved. His public character is not only good, but great: unsuspectedly disinterested; unquestionably impartial; a firm supporter of the just prerogatives of the crown; and a zealous asserter of the liberties of the subject.
Lady Carysbrook is a sweet, worthy woman; amiable in every relation of life; adored in her own family, and respected and beloved by every body that has the happiness to know her. In a word, did I speak of her to any other person, I should say—she is like my aunt Chetwynd.
During the nine years she has been a widow, she has resided entirely with the duke.
Her eldest child, lord Carysbrook, is now on his travels; so I can say nothing more of him, than, that if he merits the fine thing his sisters say of him, he is worthy of such a mother.
Lady Alicia Sedley is turned of eighteen; middle-sized, has a very good person, and an exceedingly graceful air. Her face is not beautiful, yet wonderfully pleasing:
"The body charms, because the soul is seen."
That soul is fraught with every gentle, endearing virtue, that can adorn her sex.— She has all that touching softness, that dear complacency, that I love in Mrs. Wentworth.
Lady Fanny is two years younger: the prettiest little creature imaginable;—extremely lively, indeed even to giddiness, though she is by no means deficient in good sense. Her vivacity makes her much more shewy and entertaining in a large company, than her sister's diffidence will allow her to be; but in a family circle, or a
tete-à-tete,
lady Alicia shines most.
Robert Sedley is about thirteen, and remarkable tall and manly for that age. He is, in all respects, the finest boy I ever saw. I hope you will not think me partial in this decision, when I tell you he is my lover.— He pays me compliments, with an elegance of expression, that is really surprizing in such a child. If I stand, he flies to reach me a chair: at the tea-table, he will attend me himself, if there were ever so many servants in the room: when we walk, he gathers flowers, makes them in a
bouquet,
puts them to his lips or breast, and presents them to me with an air—
quand on parle du loup, on en voit la queue:
—Robert is at my elbow. I
must walk—so fine a day —every body in the garden—.
I bid you a hasty farewell, my dear aunt; for, though I have made the best bargain I could, I assure you, I am obliged to give the monkey two kisses, to purchase time enough to subscribe myself,
Your VALERIA O'BRYEN.
To the RIGHT HON. LADY METHUEN.— POPLAR-HILL.
HERMITAGE.
O, I AM dying, Louisa!—my brother is in a fever. For the love of Heaven, come to me.—Hold—I forgot your situation;—do not, by any means, think of coming: but tell Lord Methuen, his friend is ill—dangerously ill.
I thank you for your information and counsel; but I am not able to take the least step in the affair at present, terrified and distracted as I am with apprehensions for a life, of ten thousand times greater moment to me than my own:—my own! frivolous comparison!—life has long since lost its value to me: I regard it not as a blessing, for which I ought to be thankful—and, O, forgive me, Heaven, if this be ingratitude— but rather as a misfortune, which it is my duty to bear with resignation.
How forcibly does Edward's situation call to my remembrance, a hapless wanderer from his friends and country—from his imprudent, innocent, wretched wife!—suffering, amongst strangers, all that the united pains of mind and body could inflict. Perhaps he wanted care;—his poor Harriet was not permitted to attend him; he had no sister, no wife, no tender female friend to sooth his dying pillow!—Torturing retrospect!—unavailing sorrow! Would that I could forget the past, and look only forward—and I fear it is with too much impatience I do look forward —to that happy period, when my glad spirit will be allowed to shake off the bonds of its earthly captivity, and seek my Henry in the regions of bliss:—there, I trust, we shall meet:— alas! I cannot form an idea of a Heaven without him.
My friend, my much esteemed friend, pardon these fruitless and involuntary lamentations: 'tis peculiarly ungenerous to trouble you with them.
I again intreat you; forgive me. I never had less command over myself than at present. I feel as if some great misfortune threatened me. Gracious, and Omnipotent BEING! spare my brother to me! —O spare my brother!—and if it be thy pleasure that I should be depressed by a heavier weight of misery, condescend—in mercy condescend—to adopt some other mode of chastisement.—Presumptuous prayer!
Adieu.—I am blinded with tears.
HARRIET WENTWORTH.
To the RIGHT HON. LADY METHUEN.— POPLAR-HILL.
HERMITAGE.
I HAVE been about half an hour here; and, late as it is, dispatch Stephen, to let you know our dear Marchmont is not worse: but, alas! I dare not so far flatter myself, or you, as to say he is better. Something must be done: if the cause is not removed, how shall the effects cease?
Allons, donc, un coup de desespoir.
—I shall go to Jephsonlodge to-morrow: if the girl has a spark of generosity, I shall blow it to a flame. Or, perhaps, it would be better to address myself to the father; or to lady Conway—Heaven direct me! I know not what to do. I wish the perturbation of my spirits had allowed me to consult with you before I left Poplar-hill. Such is the excess of Mrs. Wentworth's affliction, I don't know how to speak to her about any thing.—But I am keeping the man, and saying nothing to the purpose.
Let our prayers for our much loved friend ascend together to the throne of mercy.—O, may they be heard!
Your's, most tenderly, METHUEN.
To the RIGHT HON. LADY METHUEN.— POPLAR-HILL.
HERMITAGE.
I AM inexpressibly alarmed:—Sir Edward's fever is increased. I cannot help thinking he is in great danger; though doctor Howard says he will do well. I have a high opinion of this gentleman's skill in his profession; but, alas! he knows not Sir Edward's case: his mind is still more feverish than his body.
The unfavourable symptoms that have appeared this morning, I, with severe compunction, impute to my own imprudence last night. Having, with extreme difficulty, prevailed on Mrs. Wentworth—whose delicate constitution unfits her for the office of a nurse—to retire to rest, I took my place by my dear friend's bed. He lay very quiet: I endeavoured to suppress a cough for fear of disturbing him; he perceived it, and spoke to me.
I thought you had been asleep,
said I.
"Asleep! my dear Methuen," said he, calmly;
I expect my next sleep to be my last. Make every person leave the room; I wish to speak with you.
I ordered away his valet de chambre and nurse-tender; and begging him not to exert his voice, or talk on any subject that might discompose him, desired to know what he would say to me.
Why should you give me this caution? —Of what consequence would it be, were I to shorten my life by a few worthless hours?
For God's sake, my dear Edward, do not give way to this despondency: your life is not in any danger.
"I am sorry," answered he,
you should think it necessary to talk to me in this manner. I do not fear death: it is an object of terror only to the vicious, or the weak; or, at least, to the happy. I trust you will not class me with either of the two first mentioned; and you cannot assign me a place amongst the last.— Death is pleasing to me, when I consider it as the only means by which I can avoid fulfilling my fatal engagement. Do not think me ungenerous in allowing myself to talk thus. Miss Ormsby deserves a better husband;—but, ah! I have no heart to give her. The too lovely Valeria! —for her only would I live; and 'tis for her I die. Yes, Methuen, I am persuaded I am on my death-bed; and while I have strength and reason sufficient, I would wish to settle my affairs.
His words, his manner, pierced my inmost soul. I threw myself on my knees; I would have spoken, but could not command utterance. He pressed one of my hands in his—
My dear Augustus! my tender, faithful friend! I did not expect less affection from you; but I looked for more firmness. I see I afflict you:— two or three words more, and I have done. I want to have my will drawn, as speedily as possible. Mrs. Wentworth is richer than she wishes to be; Monsieur de Villemar will make ample provision for Miss Marchmont:—I therefore think myself at liberty to dispose of my fortune; and am determined to give myself the satisfaction of leaving the Marchmont estate to Miss O'Bryen. I have considered the matter maturely, and do not think it can any way hurt her character to accept it. My other little estate, and my house in London, I must present to your Arthur. Hold, Methuen,
seeing my lips move,
this is a very trifling testimony of my friendship; and I am going to exact an important one of your's, and your lady's—Take care of my poor sister. I leave her under your protection. Console her: let her not feel that she has lost a brother.—I dare not think on what she will suffer. Dear, unfortunate Harriet!
—His eyes filled with tears; he raised them to Heaven:—
Merciful God! support and comfort her!
We were seasonably interrupted by doctor Howard. He felt his patient's pulse, and reprimanded me, in a whisper, for my indiscretion.
I retired to a corner of the room, and gave vent to my
insuppressible
sorrow. Sir Edward's valet came over to me:— "M-m-my lord," said he, stammering, "is my dear master—". He was not able to finish his question. I squeezed the honest fellow's hand, and shook my head. He burst into tears, and turned away from me. If such is the grief of his servant, what can, what ought I to feel? His sister too—I am convinced she could not survive him a week.
But a ray of hope, my Louisa, breaks through the thick gloom that surrounds me. —If Miss Ormsby is not the meanest and basest of her sex, my visit to her must have the desired effect. I have just ordered my chaise; and will step in and see my friend once more before I go.
Farewell, my dearest love. I shall write to you again when I return.
METHUEN.
To the RIGHT HON. LADY METHUEN.— POPLAR-HILL.
HERMITAGE.
O, LOUISA, this man is bent on his own destruction—solicitous for ruin!
As soon as I had sent off my messenger to you, I went to his chamber; and having staid there for some time, wished the doctor good morning as I was going out. Edward unfortunately over-heard me, and almost throwing himself out of bed, eagerly cried, "Where are you going, my lord?" Unprepared to answer this sudden question, I only replied, that I should be back in a few hours. He made a motion with his hand to me to draw nearer to him. I obeyed. "Dear Methuen," said he, grasping my hand, and speaking in a low voice,
I know that nothing could tempt you to leave me in this extremity, but the hope of being of service to me. Tell me, were you not this moment going to some of the Ormsby family, or to Miss O'Bryen?—Your silence convinces me you were. But I intreat you—pardon me if I say, I command you—to do no such thing. Do you imagine I could meanly barter my honour for my life?— You ought to have known me better. You shall not stir from this spot, till you have sworn to me to relinquish a project, which nothing but the excess of your friendship to me could excuse your forming.
—'Twas in vain for me to contend.
And now, dear Louisa, how shall I support myself? Unable to assist my friend— almost hopeless of his recovery—and should he recover, it will be only to be miserable for the rest of his days. This is too heavy a tax upon my happiness;—great as it is, it will not bear it.
He has mentioned his will to me this morning again. I have sent for the lawyer. Heaven knows I am very ill able to give the necessary directions.
I am mistaken in my opinion of Miss O'Bryen, if this rich legacy will afford her any satisfaction. And, I am sure, I would much rather my son should never have an estate, than obtain one in this manner. I express myself imperfectly: I would give— pardon me if I hurt your maternal tenderness—but, by the powers that made me! I would give the sweet boy's life itself, to save my friend!
Philip's name need not be mentioned in the will, as he has lived but a short time with Sir Edward; but I swear, by the faithful tears I saw him shed, he shall never be obliged to serve another master.
—
Let us talk no more of sorrow, of wills, or death:—I have happy, surprizing news for you. Just now a servant brought a letter for Sir Edward, which he insisted upon delivering into his own hand; but being repeatedly assured he could have no access to him, consented to leave it with Mrs. Wentworth. As I thought the letter must be of importance, and probably required an immediate answer, I persuaded her to open it; a liberty, which certainly nothing but her brother's condition could warrant.— Read the following, and by your own astonishment judge of our's.
TO SIR EDWARD MARCHMONT, BART.— HERMITAGE.
DOVER-STREET.
Although I am a total stranger to you, sir, I feel myself interested in your welfare, by a kind of fellowship in distress; and am glad it is in my power to save you from a connection, which could yield you nothing but infamy and woe. —Miss Ormsby is a mean, artful, and wicked woman, who basely betrays your confidence and love, and meditates the deepest wound upon your honour. But her own letter will characterize her better than I can do. Should a blind passion induce you to question its authenticity, I am ready to inform you by what means it came into my possession.
I am, with great respect, &c. MARY WEBSTER.
In this letter was inclosed one from Miss Ormsby to lady Conway, of which I send you a transcript.
What a specious jilt is that vile Ormsby! —what a finished hypocrite! She has thoroughly attained what is the very masterpiece of cunning—the art of hiding itself. My surprize at her discovered baseness, can only be equalled by my indignation. To what a creature was Marchmont about to unite himself! And was it to gratify a low-minded ambition, and to be a convenient cloak to a most infamously criminal amour, that my invaluable friend would have sacrificed a tender and violent passion, for as deserving and lovely a woman as lives? I cannot think of it with patience. I reflect on his danger and deliverance, with the same mixed sensation of uneasy joy and half-extinguished fear, with which a man looks back on a precipice, from the brink of which he has just escaped.
I think these letters should be instantly —though very cautiously—communicated to Sir Edward, I fear the emotions they may excite may hurt him. I will consult with doctor Howard; I will tell him every thing: no regard is due to the character of that creature. How I execrate her! Thank God! thank God! my friend has escaped her. Honour now permits—commands him to break with her. Yet should this discovery come too late!—My joy would be extravagant, did not this dreadful apprehension temper it. But I trust, that Supreme Justice will not suffer him to die a martyr to the nobleness of his own sentiments. Louisa, he will live!—he will be happy!—my heart is filled with trembling gladness.
With what contemptuous pity do I read the latter part of Miss Ormsby's letter! It is very expressive of the secret tortures that must ever wait on the most prosperous wickedness. What despicable lines are these!—
Heigh-ho!—how melancholy the stillness of the night makes one! The family are all asleep. I hate silence. I wish I slept in one of the street rooms.
—Poor wretch! Louisa, my sensible, my chaste, my all-adorable Louisa! could
you
have had a notion of clamorous voices and rattling carriage wheels, being preferred to silence and contemplation?
How effectually do people destroy their own peace of mind, when, by a vicious conduct, they subject themselves to the low necessity of deceiving others! thereby doing much more harm to themselves, than ever the deceit can do to any body else. Miss Ormsby, though she thinks her crimes beyond the possibility of discovery, and her schemes beyond the reach of disappointment, dreads—she knows not what; starts at her own shadow, and finds nameless terrors in the gloom and silence of the night. Had Sir Edward become the dupe of her artifices, and discovered too late that he had lost both happiness and honour, though to preserve the latter he nobly resigned the former; yet, conscious integrity would still have supported his honest soul! and a thousand bright reflections would have broken the impending cloud of woe.
If all be not right within, how vainly do we endeavour to enjoy what we call pleasure!—how poorly do we shrink from the lightest touch of mental pain!
"Almighty
Virtue! 'tis
to thee we owe
"Our zest for pleasure, and our balm for woe."
Our felicity depends almost entirely on the rectitude of our own hearts. Then, while we are daily complaining of the miseries of life, what do we, but tacitly reproach ourselves? The sting of misfortune, indeed, is sharp; but if it be not poisoned by the hand of vice, the wound it gives may easily be healed. Let a man put on the "armour of righteousness," and the arrows of misfortune will drop at his feet: but if he will go forth to battle, naked and defenceless, he must bear the punishment justly due to his rashness and obstinacy.
My beloved, you will excuse me, if my reflections have wandered from my subject: for their seriousness, I do not apologize; I know you would not think yourself obliged to me if I did.
My courier is ready; and I hasten to conclude, that I may not with-hold this interesting intelligence from you a moment. Hope with me, that this very fortunate incident will produce all the good effects it seems to promise.
Your's, for ever, METHUEN.
To the RIGHT HON. LADY METHUEN.— POPLAR-HILL.
HERMITAGE.
DOCTOR Howard and I held a consultation yesterday evening;—(perhaps, my dear, you did not before know that I was one of the faculty)—he thought it expedient that my medicine should be administered immediately. Wanting, however, the consummate skill of the physician, and the happy self-confidence of the empiric, I deliberated in anxious fearfulness. Often did I hold out to my patient the cup of joy; and as often drew back my hand, and withheld the hazardous recipe. I watched by him for several hours, in the most uneasy state of mind possible to be imagined. About twelve o'clock he awoke, a good deal refreshed, from a sleep of near three hours; the first he has had since his illness. He pulled back the curtain—
My dear Augustus, why will you sacrifice your health to me in this manner?
For God's sake, go to bed. Where is my sister?— Sure she is not up too?"
I answered "No"; which, by the by, was false.
The doctor looked at me with meaning, and took Philip out of the room.
I drew my chair close to the bed; and feeling his pulse—"You are better, my dear Marchmont."
"Are you turned physician?" said he, with a faint smile.
Yes; and, with God's help, will do more for you than doctor Howard has been able to do.
I observe you use the quack's prudent proviso—
with God's help.
"Don't put the quack upon me, sir;" —rearing up my head as proudly as if it had been adorned by the huge faculty wig; —
I'd have you to know, I pretend to be a physician of more eminence than Howard himself: he applies his remedies only to the
body,
—I heal the
mind.
He looked at me wistfully:
Sure, my lord, you have not—But 'tis impossible, after the solemn promise you made me.
I will not clear myself from this half accusation, as I think you must have too favourable an opinion of me, to suppose me capable of breaking my word. But could no hand except mine, think you, loose your heavy chains?
He replied, with a look of calm despair,
Yes; the hand of death:—and that, I hope—
.
Hush! for mercy's sake! As I hope to be merry for the rest of my days, you have almost broken my heart already.
How strangely you talk! Where is the sensibility, the tenderness, that distinguishes my friend?
Totally exhausted: and now I'm resolved to be gay, and you shall be so too. Why, man, I've news for you will set you on your legs in three days time.
"I cannot conceive," said he, sighing,
that you should have any thing to tell me, capable of reconciling me to life.
Would not happiness reconcile you to it?
Happiness! Alas! 'tis flown for ever.
You are mistaken; it flew away, indeed, but you have overtaken it; and, I doubt not, will shortly be able to clip its wings.
If you have really any agreeable intelligence for me, I intreat you tell it, without all this gaiety; which, excuse me if I say, is a little ill-timed.
By no means so. Ought the messenger of joy to wear the livery of sorrow? I have two letters here
;—taking them from my pocket—
I wish I dare read them to you:—but you will be all emotion; raise your fever; and Howard will come in just now, and shake his big wig at me.
"What letters are they?"
You shall know presently: but first let me ask you,—have you fortitude enough to bear the loss of your mistress?
"My Valeria?" cried he, with extreme eagerness.
Not your Valeria; but Miss Ormsby: you have lost her for ever.
"Is the poor girl dead?" demanded he, much surprized.
"No. She is dead to you, though."
"Then," said he, hastily,
I hope somebody has run away with her.
"Very lover-like, upon my word!" observed I, laughing.
Dear Methuen, do not trifle with my impatience.
I read the letters to him; first telling him their contents, that I might not surprize him. The generosity that peculiarly marks his character, appeared in its sull lustre:—he called Miss Ormsby's letter to her sister, a forgery; until he had compared it with her hand-writing, which put the matter out of doubt. He framed excuses for her: said, that Webster was undoubtedly some artful, low-minded fellow, who by the force of personal allurements, and perhaps by too frequent opportunities of conversing with her, might have stolen into her heart when she was young and inexperienced; and whilst immature reason yet wanted strength to hold the reins of passion, had taken a base advantage of her weakness and love. He added, that large allowances were to be made for her renewing her connexions with her lover, though married:— her reputation being absolutely in his power, her love for him violent, and a second breach of chastity much more difficult to withstand than the first; the consciousness of worth was extinct, and modesty and pride, the two great safeguards of female honour, weakened; with regard to him, perhaps wholly subdued. Notwithstanding these effusions of humanity, he was overjoyed, enraptured, at his unexpected deliverance; though too severe to himself, and too indulgent to others, he blamed himself for being so. "What a wretch I am," cried he,
to rejoice at an incident so full of horror! I might say, with the devil in Milton—
Evil, be thou my good.
I forbore to answer him, lest the length of our conversation should fatigue him too much. He lay silent and quiet a good while; but the agitation of his mind was easily discernible in his speaking countenance: at length, giving a spring, as by the impulse of sudden passion, he tossed the bed cloaths off his shoulders, and catching fast hold of both my hands,—
O Methuen, if my Valeria—.
He wanted breath to proceed. I intreated him to be composed; and endeavoured to make him sensible, that his recovery depended entirely on himself.
Although I was obliged to leave his thoughts at full liberty on this subject, I was determined to fetter his tongue; and ringing the bell, soon brought in the attentive Philip; and a little after him, the doctor.
Sir Edward peremptorily insisted on my taking some rest; giving, at the same time, a like command to his valet; but the affectionate creature protesting—I believe with much less truth than good nature— that he had been in bed great part of the day, he was permitted to stay; and I reluctantly withdrew: but I could not think of sleep till I had given you this recital.
Bon soir, ma chere Louise: ou, pour mieuxdire, bon jour,
for it is three o'clock.
Heaven be praised! he is somewhat better this morning. The doctor says his disorder has taken a favourable turn. It is observed, that physicians generally make the worst of their patient's distemper, in order to give the greater opinion of their skill in curing it:—this good-natured son of Galen,
au contraire,
has been all along endeavouring to persuade us, that Sir Edward was in a less dangerous way than he really was. I believe Mrs. Wentworth would have been, by this time, as ill as her brother, if Howard had not kept up her spirits, by the most confident assurances of his recovery. However, he now agrees with me, in thinking the most unhappy consequences might have ensued from the vexation of his mind.
My sanguine hopes of him,
said he,
arose from my ignorance of the original cause of his illness. I should have thought it strange, if four and twenty, and a sound constitution, could not have overcome such a fever: but as he has so lively an imagination, and was absolutely
determined to die,
there is no saying what might have happened, But now, my lord,
added he, with a benevolent smile,
that I may reasonably presume I have his imagination on my side, and that he is wise enough to be
determined-to live,
my life for his, he will be able to visit his mistress before this day three weeks.
I shall always think myself obliged to this good man, for the constant attendance he has paid here: to which, I am convinced, he was prompted more by a sincere esteem for his patient, than by any view to interest.
Marchmont wanted to consult with his sister and me, on the most proper way of breaking off the treaty with Mr. Ormsby, without injuring the young lady. We both advised him not to perplex himself with the affair at present: the family has already been informed of his severe indisposition:— nothing more need be done till he is well.
He then begged Mrs. Wentworth, or me, to write a line of acknowledgment to lady Mary Webster; carefully avoiding therein to make unnecessary reflections on Miss Ormsby. I said, if he pleased, I would go to lady Mary; as I was very curious to know how she got Miss Ormsby's letter. My proposal was readily assented to; accordingly I go to London this evening; sleep at my own house there to-night; wait on her ladyship in the morning; and return to Hermitage to dinner.
Ever your faithful METHUEN.
To the RIGHT HON. LADY METHUEN.— POPLAR-HILL.
LONDON.
I HAVE discharged my commission
à merveilles! Ecoutez.
I passed the evening with my worthy friend, dean Domville. We were quite
en famille;
no company but lady Lucy Domville and myself. I enquired of her ladyship for the Hibernian beauty. She smiled at the epithet. "I wish," said she,
lady Enmore heard you; it would delight her. When Miss O'Bryen went to France, they at first called her, by way of distinction,
La belle Angloise;
but lady Enmore, with a kind of national pride, insisted upon its being changed into—
Irlandoise.
I asked what stay Miss O'Bryen made in England.
"I really cannot exactly say, my lord," she replied;
she and I go together: my stay depends on my sister,
looking archly at Mrs. Domville;
and my fair friend has now gotten a nursery of her own.
"I heard she was at Granville-park," said I.
I hope none of that family is indisposed?
"They are very well," she answered;
but her countrywoman and mine, lady Mary Webster, is extremely ill. She requested I would write to Miss O'Bryen to come to her; which I did yesterday evening. I had a note from her this morning. She tells me the duke of Granville will not suffer her to leave him; but the whole family will come to town this evening, on purpose to give her an opportunity of attending lady Mary.
I was agreeably surprized to find lady Lucy knew this lady, and threw out some questions concerning her as indirectly as I could; though, I dare say, notwithstanding my caution, she thought me very impertinently curious. The information I drew from her, is, in substance, as follows:— Lady Mary Webster is daughter to the late earl Enmore, whose title became extinct at his death. He left every thing to his wife, except her own fortune of ten thousand pounds, which was settled on lady Mary.— Lady Enmore took her daughter and Miss O'Bryen to France with her last summer. A little time after the latter came over here, lady Mary left France—entirely against her mother's approbation and consent—with Mr. Webster; a man destitute of birth, fortune, or character: "who must have married her" said lady Lucy, "only with interested views; as her manners and conversation are not engaging, and her person ugly, even to deformity. Her mother has not yet received her into favour; and I suppose never will. I fancy," added she, "lady Enmore will make Miss O'Bryen her heir, for she is excessively fond of her. I wish heartily that she may; though, I am sure, Valeria herself does not wish it."
Lady Mary is much obliged to your ladyship,
said I.
"O, my lord," putting up her lip,
if you knew what a disagreeable creature it is!
"And so," said the dean,
because the one is handsome, and the other ugly—.
"It is not that, brother," interrupted she;
but if you were as well acquainted with the nobleness of my friend's mind as I am, I am certain you would join with me in wishing her as much distinguished by fortune, as she is by birth, understanding, beauty, and accomplishments.
We all joined in her just panegyric: the dean did so in the following words:
I esteem Miss O'Bryen as much as I admire her; and yet, if I were a single man, I should be very sorry to be her lover.
"Why so?" demanded Mrs. Domville.
I don't think she has any thing of the insolence of a beauty.
"Still," he replied,
I could not bear the consciousness of inferiority; the fear of being thought presumptuous; the despair of gaining her; and the mortification of seeing her surrounded by more deserving lovers.
"However," said lady Lucy,
your anxieties would be of short duration: Valeria is too generous to trifle in these cases. But you would have a bad chance of succeeding, I can tell you: to my knowledge, she has refused great matches. Indeed, it cannot be expected that
we
beauties" — affecting to look grave — should be as easily won as other women. The language of admiration when seldom heard, and only from one or two particular persons, affects the heart wonderfully: but those, to whom every mouth has addressed it, from their very cradles, become at length totally insensible to it.
This conversation naturally threw me into reflections on my friend's affairs, and excited a fear that Miss O'Bryen might not countenance his addresses. This very disagreeable apprehension threw a gloom over my mind, and probably over my behaviour, though my friends were too polite to let me see they took notice of it. When I left the dean's, and got into my own solitary house, and still more solitary bed, my thoughts reverted to this subject: after considering the matter a good while, I determined to call on the young beauty in the morning. Be she as obdurate as she may, thought I, surely she will not be able to refuse the finest fellow in England, who is actually and literally dying for her. The more I ruminated on my project, the more I approved it: I could say more in his favour, than he could well do himself. I could represent his connection with the unworthy Ormsby, more to his advantage than he could allow himself to do:—
au pis aller,
my interposition could do no hurt; if it did not forward his suit, at least it could not retard it, or be any way detrimental to him.
Accordingly, I went to the duke of Granville's this morning, and desired to know if I might have the honour to see Miss O'Bryen. I was shewn into a parlour, and sent up my name, She came down immediately—out of breath—evidently trembling—quite discomposed—
Je n'en augur ai pas mal.
I determined to conquer her heart—don't be alarmed, Louisa; only to conquer it for Marchmont—
par un coup de main.
I approached her with a dejected air:—
'Tis on a very melancholy occasion, dear Miss O'Bryen, that I give you this trouble.
The blush that confusion had spread over her face on her entrance, vanished; she became quite pale. I led her to a seat; and cruelly resolved to pursue my advantage.
You will pardon me, madam, if I enter abruptly into the occasion of my visit?
She bowed her head. "Sir Edward Marchmont," resumed I,
loves you to distraction: he did so from the first moment he beheld you. An engagement, into which he had been very artfully drawn, obliged him to conceal his passion; the restraint has thrown him into a violent fever;—he is dying!
—She fainted. I caught her in my arms, and pulled the bell with violence. A servant came in, and seeing her condition, ran up stairs, without waiting for any orders. In a moment the room was filled; the duke, lady Carysbrook, her two daughters, and a number of servants of both sexes, flew to her assistance. I carried her to a window;—Granville snatched her from me, and supported her himself. He gazed on her with tenderness and concern; and glancing on me a regard of mingled scorn, anger, and curiosity—
Who the devil are you, sir?—What is the matter with her?—What have you done to her?
I made no answer to these uncivil and peremptory interrogatories; but employed myself in throwing up the sash, and internally cursing my well-meant stratagem.
Lady Carysbrook administered drops, cold water, &c. with a countenance full of anxiety.
Lady Alicia Sedley wept; and held one of her cousin's snowy hands pressed in both her own, of scarce inferior whiteness.
Lady Fanny seemed frightened out of her wits; ran up and down the room; jostled the servants; spilt a bason of water, and broke a bottle of hartshorn.
At last, the lovely cause of all this bustle, opened her fine eyes; fixed them languishingly on me, and held out her hand. I kissed it with ardour; I loved her for her sensibility; I loved her still more, because my friend was the object of that sensibility. The duke looked at me again:—
Bless me!
exclaimed he,
Pray, are you not lord Methuen?
I bowed my answer. "I am afraid, my lord," said he,
I have treated you with indignity: I besech you to excuse me: I really did not recollect your face; and my granddaughter's fit, surprized and frightened me so much, I was not master of my temper.
I assured him there was no occasion for apologies; and begged, that when the young lady was sufficiently recovered, I might be permitted to speak a few words to her, on a subject that was not likely to discompose her: if he pleased, it should be in presence of one of the ladies.
He nodded a doubtful assent; and ordered the servants to retire.
The first use she made of her returning senses, was to thank his grace, with the utmost sweetness, for his attention to her. He kissed her; placed her on a chair, and sat down by her, his arm inclosing her elegant waist. He whispered to her: I suppose to ask, if she chose to converse with me; for I heard her answer,
Yes, my lord, if it be agreeable to you.
He then requested I would be kind enough to spend the day with him: lady Carysbrook seconded the invitation. I thanked them, but said it was out of my power, as I was indispensibly obliged to leave town immediately, to attend the sick room of a dear friend.
After a few compliments on both sides, he wished me a good morning; and desiring the young ladies to take care of their cousin, took lady Carysbrook out with him.
Lady Alicia took her grandfather's seat; I placed myself on the other side of Miss O'Bryen; and was preparing to tell her Edward's true situation, when she turned to me with a deep sigh,
What can I do, my lord?—What would you have me do? Your friend is engaged. But tell him,
said she, laying her trembling hand on my arm,
tell him, though I cannot be his, he shall never have the mortification of seeing me another's.
Her vermillion lips grew pale, and quivered as she spoke: a flood of tears prevented her fainting again: she leaned on the gentle Alicia's bosom.—Admire, Louisa, her extraordinary, her delicate and disinterested offer!—Don't you love this girl?— "Charming woman!" cried I, with transport.
Justly, most justly, does lady Lucy Domville call you generous and noble-minded. Permit me thus,
and I put one knee to the ground,
to express Edward's obligations to you.
Lady Fanny started up, and caught hold of me,—
Rise, for pity's sake: I have a mortal aversion to all tragedy scenes.
I arose, secretly despising her levity; but the tears that sparkled in her pretty eyes, half recovered my good opinion. She drew a chair, and sitting down beside me, with a familiar and not unpleasing air, —
Now explain this matter to me, my lord. I understand no more of it than this:—a gentleman, you call Edward, loves Valeria, and is engaged; she promises, because she cannot marry him, not to marry any body else. It is very unjust, in my opinion, both of you and the gentleman; and, excuse me,
—shaking the powder out of her hair—
very like the dog in the manger, to exact such a sacrifice from her; and very romantic in her to make it. To live single!
—shaking her head again—"to die an old maid!—".
"Fie, Fanny!" said her sister;
is this a subject for raillery?
With a view to spare Miss O'Bryen, I addressed myself to lady Fanny.
It would make me so unhappy, madam,
said I,
that you should think my conduct censurable, that I must beg your attention while I fully explain the whole affair:— I presume you have seen Sir Edward Marchmont?
Yes, in public; but I am not acquainted with him. He is delightfully handsome; and I have heard him very advantageously spoken of. One might have compassion enough to marry him; but not to take a vow of celibacy for his sake.
"Nor would he," I answered,
desire any woman to make him such a
sacrifice,
as you just now properly called it.
But proceed, my lord; you were going to tell me something.
Before Miss O'Bryen came to England, Sir Edward Marchmont made proposals of marriage to a young lady of seeming worth; solely induced thereto by the belief that she loved him. Though as well formed to feel, as to inspire, the tenderest of all passions, he had a strange— and, as he has since found, ill-grounded opinion of the insensibility of his heart:— mistaken gratitude taught him to give a faint preference to the lady in question, and that was all he thought himself capable of doing. He saw Miss O'Bryen! —the discernment that made him so nice in his choice, and had hitherto secured him from the sex, now only enabled him the better to discover her exquisite merit. A novice in love, he attributed his new' feelings to just admiration, and deserved friendship, till his affections were too far gone ever to be recalled.
Lady Fanny repeated the following lines of a song:—
"Les coeurs à l'amour rebelles,
"Tot ou tard sentent ses feux."
I hope you will experience the truth of the observation,
said lady Alicia,
for your impertinent interruption. Pray go on, my lord.
I continued—
Honour, that refinement of aggregated virtues, which never held a more unlimited sway than in Sir Edward's breast, directed him to chuse a life of misery, rather than take the smallest step to free himself from an engagement, which the lady gave him every reason to suppose was necessary to her happiness. At length the wedding-day was fixt, and the violence of conflicting passions increased. The near and certain prospect of compleat wretchedness could not shake his resolution; but it brought on a fever. Actuated by despair, he shunned not—he courted death; and the continued perturbation of his mind, added hourly strength to his disorder; 'till Heaven itself—I will say so—interposed. The injured wife of a man, to whom my friend's intended bride had shewn unbounded favour, sent him a letter written by her, and addressed to her sister:— Miss O'Bryen will be pleased to read these letters, while I tell you their contents. You will excuse my suppressing names, as Marchmont would not forgive my exposing the young lady.
La belle Irlandoise
took the papers with an air of confusion and surprize, and went over to a window. When I perceived she had done reading them, I approached her. —"Amazing! absolutely amazing!" said she, in a low voice, as she gave me back the papers:
but can your lordship be certain that letter was really written by Miss Ormsby?
I assured her there was not the least room to doubt it. The similarity of her behaviour to Edward's, on the same occasion, struck me.
Lady Alicia joined us.
You will excuse us,
said she to Miss O'Bryen,
if we leave you; it is time to dress; you know we have some visits to make before dinner.
Without waiting for an answer from her, she turned to me—
Our acquaintance, my lord, has commenced rather whimsically; yet I flatter myself it will be durable: and I shall ever remember this day with particular complacency. Be assured, your company must always give the highest pleasure to every individual of this family; and your friends—you understand me—
smiling,
may be certain of the best welcome in our power to give.
I made a suitable return to her considerate politeness; and she retired with her sister.
I then begged Miss O'Bryen's forgiveness for the alarm I had occasioned her; candidly telling her my motives for it.— "In short," said I,
I feared, that accustomed only to refuse, a common plea would not suffice to move you: yet I told you no more than would have been true two days ago. Now, thank God! he is recovering, and I trust will soon be out of danger.
She sighed gently, as I concluded.
My lord,
said she,
you compliment me too highly on the side of beauty; but allow me to say, you do me not justice in other respects:—why should you suppose me hard-hearted? Never did I hear a sigh, to which the sigh of sympathy did not unbidden rise; nor saw a tear, I answered not with tears. Believe me, I am above coquetry; and would neither basely excite a vain expectation, nor ungenerously delay a favour I meant to grant.
—Here, Louisa, here is the language of a noble heart! This girl is worthy of my friend.
I conversed with her above an hour, with all the ease of friendship. I spoke of Miss Ormsby, without scrupling to censure her as she deserves. Her beautiful rival forbore to pass any judgment on her; in which she certainly was extremely right; as it did not belong to virtue to excuse, nor to the delicacy of her own situation to condemn her.
She treated lady Mary's misconduct with much more tenderness than lady Lucy had done: said, though she might be blamed for her imprudent marriage, she was greatly to be pitied in its event. It was hard, she should not find a friend in him, to whom she sacrificed all her friends.
I asked what was her ladyship's disorder. —She could not tell; as lady Lucy had not particularly informed her, and she had not yet seen her, it being very late when she came to town the preceding evening; but she believed her in the last stage of a consumption.
I told her of my message, which I requested her to deliver for me, as I supposed I could not be permitted to see lady Mary. She promised to do so; and likewise to indulge the curiosity I expressed with regard to Miss Ormsby's letter, if it should be in her power.
I took my leave with reluctance, though well satisfied, you may believe, with my success. How shall I rejoice my friend's heart! How does my own already rejoice in the anticipation of his happiness!
I must conclude, for my dinner waits. It will be the most uncomfortable meal I ever sat down to, for I am quite alone. I believe I should go to my servants' table, if I did not think my presence would be a disagreeable restraint on them.
In order to have time to write to you, I sent to let Mrs. Wentworth know I could not be with her till evening.
I hope to return to you in a few days. In the mean time, continue to write to me, and always tell me how you are: you mention your own health as slightly, as if it was not the most important subject to me you could possibly speak on: but I hear from the servants that you are quite well. God preserve you, my angel!
Embrace your bold boy for me.
METHUEN.
TO MRS. CHETWYND, —IRELAND.
LONDON.
I PAY such close attendance to the unhappy lady Mary, that I have scarcely a moment to myself; otherwise I should be much to blame for being four days silent, as I think—I flatter myself—you must be impatient and uneasy to hear how Sir Edward does. Praised be God, he is better!
I inclose you letters I received from him, and my affectionate friend, Mrs. Wentworth, the day after I saw lord Methuen. — No, excuse me; I send Mrs. Wentworth's letter, and a
copy
of her brother's.—Don't laugh at me, dear aunt.
I am sure you will admire the delicacy of his stile. How few men, situated as he is, —for, doubtless, lord Methuen told him every thing—would express himself thus delicately!—with such timid respect!
I have written to him, and not without tenderness; since I reproved him for endangering his health by writing to me, and forbad him the use of his pen till he is well enough to leave his bed.
I believe I need not vindicate my behahaviour throughout this assair to you. I know you are no friend to coquetry. Indeed, wherefore should not I, certain that I possess his affections, and unconscious of offence, entirely conside in him, who conducted himself with such nice honour towards a woman he did not love; and still wishes, and studies, to promote her happiness, after receiving the grossest injury and affront it was possible for her to offer him?
I think, madam, I never was so oddly encompassed with pleasures and sorrows as I am at present:—one copious source of pleasure I need not point out. Another, which I derive from the extreme kindness of my grandfather (he will always have me call him so), and his family, is likewise sufficiently obvious. I am extremely happy too, that my wishes for Miss Marchmont are answered: she tells me, that the amiable marquis de St. Clair has declared himself her lover. She has imposed on him a probation of two months: in his particular circumstances, it was both delicate and prudent to do so. I question not, however, he will find means to persuade her to shorten the time. She writes to me with that warm and cordial friendship, which subsisted between us before our little rivalry; and which, I feared of late, was in a great measure extinguished on her side. She was unjust; but I blamed human nature—not Miss Marchmont; and with a secret satisfaction repeated those very fine lines,—
"Ne vous informez point de leur reconnoissance;
"Il est grand, il est beau de faire des ingrats."
In seeking Leonora's advantage, I found my own: the path of rectitude, I have ever experienced, leads to felicity.—O may I always tread it!
I
endeavoured to secure
her
happiness, and
Heaven
took care of
mine.
So much for my pleasures:—you may be sure I mean my lately acquired ones, as I do not mention my dear uncle or you.
My sorrows are—first, an anxious solicitude, a thousand tender fears for Sir Edward's health. Secondly, and lastly—how few people could so easily reckon up their sorrows!—a sincere affliction on lady Mary's account. Her chief physician took me aside yesterday, and honestly told me his attendance was quite unnecessary; the lady was beyond the power of medicine; might linger out a few weeks, but never could recover. I begged of him to continue his visits, notwithstanding; and asked if he did not think it expedient she should be informed of her danger. He shook his head, and said she was very despondent already; but as there were absolutely no hopes, I might do as I pleased. I have a poor opinion of the efficacy of a repentance extorted only through the fear of death; and imagine, that a dying person is far from being capable of properly settling even worldly affairs; for as the soul, in its embodied state, must have the expression of its powers modified by the nature of the organs through which it acts, it is clear, that any disorder in the nice mechanism of the body, must affect the action of the soul. Yet, though every body confesses the necessity of preparing for an event which cannot be prevented,—unhappily, there are but too many who love to postpone all consideration of it: therefore, I think it extremely wrong in a by-stander to conceal the certain approach of death: it is cruelty, at least it is very ill-judged compassion. It is not probable that either spiritual or temporal concerns will be advantageously settled at this very awful period, when the vigour both of mind and body is broken: but if it be possible they can be settled at all, people should have a chance given them for doing it. With the permission of lady Mary's physician, I undertook the most painful and melancholy office I ever executed. She seemed greatly alarmed; though she said she expected it. On the whole, however, she behaved with fortitude; called death a refuge from calamities worse than death; calamities which she had brought on herself. She mentioned her mother with tenderness; lamented her alienation from her; and severely lamented her own disobedience, which she considered as the cause of her subsequent misfortunes, having thereby incurred the displeasure of the Almighty.— She appeared, altogether, in a frame of mind very suitable to her state.
I ventured to ask, if she chose to see Mr. Webster. Her placidity was no more; —she bit her lips—called him a villain, who had basely betrayed, and ungratefully sacrificed her: loaded Miss Ormsby with execrations—not to say curses. I shuddered; but as I perceived her passions were just then too strong to combat, I did not attempt. However, I have since taken occasion to drop a few gentle hints on the necessity of forgiving injuries.
I suppose her unworthy husband, and his —I must add unworthy—mistress, are still at Jephson-lodge. Both of them, I believe, are as yet ignorant of the discovery that has been made.
Apropos
—You are desirous, I presume, to know how lady Mary came by the important letter, that has done so much harm to herself, and so much good to some others:—lady Conway, who, it seems, is extremely giddy and careless, left her cabinet open: her maid searched it out of curiosity; found that letter amongst other papers; which having read, she mischievously brought to lady Mary, who, you may imagine, handsomely rewarded this fatal service.
—
Lady Lucy Domville has just been with me. She hears from her mother, that lady Enmore is returned to Ireland. I request you will immediately inform her of her daughter's situation. I am sure her forgiveness—for I make no doubt of her granting it—will be very soothing to lady Mary. If she holds to her purposes, her heart is not so good as I have hitherto thought it: tell her I say so. I know by her answer to my pleadings for lady Mary, she is displeased with me; but I am certain she loves, and—allow me to add—respects me; and would be very sorry I should not think well of her. She says I am the most sophistical reasoner she ever knew. My arguments might not have been quite convincing, but I heartily wish she had allowed herself to be persuaded by them; for I am sure the remembrance of her severity to her daughter, will give her pain as long as she lives.
I have another commission for you, madam.—My uncle suspects something particular, from your concealing my letters from him, contrary to your wonted custom. I intreat you will tell him every thing: and, dear, dear aunt, dispose him to think favourably of Sir Edward.
To my great satisfaction, he is already approved by the duke, who is well acquainted with his character. He took an opportunity of throwing out some oblique hints with regard to lord Methuen's visit: I blushed—looked out of the window—then on the ground—counted my fingers—; at last told him, I thought it contrary to my duty to keep any thing of importance from his knowledge; and taking his hand, though without daring to raise my eyes to his face, —"Dear sir," said I,
will you excuse my speaking, and lady Alicia shall tell you all?
His eyes glistened at what he called, my sweet simplicity: he pressed me close to his breast, giving me the most flattering and endearing appellations.
The dear old man sends every day to enquire about Sir Edward. To-day, when the servant returned, his grace read the card aloud, as usual: the little wicked lady Fanny said, with an air of gravity,
You don't know, my lord, what a vile Irish tone Miss O'Bryen has in reading, though you don't perceive it in her speaking— only make her read that card.
I don't know in what
tone
I might have read it; but I am afraid my voice would have been none of the steadiest. I suppose I looked a little foolish; for lady Alicia, who cannot bear to see any body suffer the slightest pain for a moment, immediately said,—
Come, Valeria, is it not time for us to go to lady Mary?
You may believe I willingly complied. You must know, madam, she often accompanies me to see my unfortunate patient:—her gentle heart is open to every distress.
Lady Carysbrook wanted to send her own maid—who is an elderly woman, and has lived with her a long time—to take care of poor lady Mary, who has nobody about her that can be supposed any way attached to her. I refused the offer, as I knew it would be inconvenint to my aunt to want her; and the nurse-tender seems very careful and orderly. I have, however, placed my Eleanor with her, who is extremely good-natured, and will do every thing she can for her, for my sake.
Lady Alicia comes to propose our spending an hour with lady Mary before supper. She desired me to give her love to you:—I smiled:—she repeated her request; and says she will love good people, whether they are personally known to her or not;— she may safely, for every good person must love her.
Adieu, my best and dearest friend, adieu.
VALERIA O'BRYEN.
TO MISS ORMSBY.—JEPHSON-LODGE.
LONDON.
I HAVE told you a thousand times that Webster would be your ruin:—but I forget it is you that are to scold me.—My vile carelessness! We must fix on some plan:—to qualify you for it, I shall give you a detail of very disagreeable particulars. My father and Sir James went yesterday morning to see Sir Edward Marchmont, which they would have done sooner, had they been certain his fever was not epidemical. They were received with frozen civility by lord Methuen: Mrs. Wentworth did not appear. His lordship said, Sir Edward was better, but not well enough to see them; and coldly thanked them, in his name, for the honour of their visit. He had not the politeness to ask either for you or me; but said, slightly, he hoped Mrs. Ormsby was well. My father professed much concern, that the honour which had been intended his family, had been so disagreeably deferred. The insolent peer took no manner of notice of this; but, with a wonderful
sang froid,
resumed a political subject he had before introduced. He made them take wine, and some refreshments, but did not ask them to stay to dinner, though it was pretty late. My father is monstrously huffed; but Sir James seems to think nothing about the matter:— he, you know, is one of those dull, easy, mortals, whom it is difficult to vex, and impossible to please.
I was to spend the evening at Mrs. Hilton's rout; and took it into my head that some rings, I seldom wear on account of their slightness, would look well enough amongst my others,; but having sought them in vain, I was obliged to go without them.
I disengaged myself from the card-table after playing one pool of quadrille, in order to flirt with Frank Preston. As we chatted together, an officer came up to him; perhaps to take a nearer view of me.
Well, Bathurst,
said my beau,
give an account of yourself. Where were you rambling to-day? I called at your lodgings, and they told me you had gone out of town. The smart widow, to be sure—.
No, upon my honour: I did not see the lady you hinted at these three days. I confess, however, I was at the house of a rich, handsome young widow; but I went there to see her brother, Sir Edward Marchmont.
I pricked up my ears.
"How is he?" asked Preston:
Is he able to see company?
"He keeps his room still," returned the other;
and I suppose admits only particular friends.
Now, Hannah, it is plain he saw major Bathurst, though he was denied to our gentlemen; and if there was not—to borrow my eloquent Sir James's phrase—something extraordinary in the wind, it is to be imagined, he would have considered your father and brother-in-law as his
particular friends.
But you have not heard the worst yet, I can tell you. This morning—Lord knows how I came to be so careful—I renewed my search for the rings, but without effect. The uneasiness my
suivante
discovered, while I ransacked my drawers, &c. for them, induced me to suspect she had stolen them. I called to mind having forgotten my keys on my toilette, about ten days ago, when I dined at my father's; and being alarmed for the safety of a little cabinet, wherein I keep things of most value— as jewels, money, papers—I ran to see if the enemy had carried their depredations so far. I missed, besides the rings, ten or twelve guineas, some gold pocket-pieces, my grandfather's picture, and that of the reverend gentlewoman, his wife. As to the pictures, if the wench had been contentented with taking them, I should not have cared a farthing, though they were set in gold, which, I presume, was the reason of her stealing them; it could not be for their extraordinary beauty, I am certain.— How proud my poor grandfather would have been, had somebody, in the spirit of prophecy, foretold what was to befal his picture in the
latter days!
Little did he think that a fair oue would venture her neck to possess herself of it. I'll answer for it, no woman went such lengths in his favour, during his life. The Lord send Harris a husband as old and as ugly, to punish her for her dishonesty.—But I was going to say, that, though willing to indulge my maid with the pictures, I did not much relish the loss of the rest. I was frightened lest the creature had had the curiosity to look at my letters: there were some from —you may guess who;—no harm in a little flirtation, Hannah;—I found these in a place by themselves, and they did not appear to have been touched. I presently missed the letter you wrote to me the night before you went to Jephson-lodge. I don't exactly remember its contents, but I am sure they were of a nature not to bear my lady Harris's inspection. After tumbling up and down for it a great while, to no purpose, I called her up, and abruptly charged her with robbing me; threatening to send her to jail. She denied the fact; and said, if I had lost any thing, there were other servants in the house as liable to be suspected for the theft as she. Accordingly, I assembled the female part of my family, and began a general examination. They unanimously avowed their innocence: one of them offered to give her oath she had not been in the room; which was echoed by all the rest, except one of the chambermaids, who said she had been in the room, but would swear she had stolen nothing. Harris frowned at her. It instantly struck me, this girl knew something of the affair; and thinking, as she is a young, country simpleton, she would be easily wrought upon, I took her into another room, and there protested I should send her to jail that moment, if she did not tell me the whole truth. She fell upon her knees; cried bitterly; made strong protestation of honesty, and so forth; and, begging me to have mercy on her, confessed that she had gone into my chamber by accident that evening, and saw Mrs. Harris reading a letter, standing at my cabinet, which was open: her laughing over it, it seems, excited Deborah's curiosity, which the other gratified, by reading it to her. I questioned her concerning it; and from the confusion of her answers, had the satisfaction to find she did not rightly comprehend it. She affirmed, she did not know of my maid's taking any thing but that letter. I eagerly asked what had been done with it. She hesitated: I placed the formidable jail before her eyes once more. She acknowledged, that Harris had told her in confidence, that she had disposed of it to a lady, who had given her a great deal of money for it.— "What was the lady's name?" She did not remember it.
Was it lady Mary Webster?
"It was." I was beside myself with rage. Only think what a malicious action it was in the treacherous wretch! I forced her keys from her, and in a little box, in one of her drawers, found the pocket-pieces, rings, and pictures. I demanded my money. She said I owed her as much wages; which I believe was true: so after venting my rage on her, as far as impotent words could do it, I turned her away: and very merciful I was, to let her come off so easily.
What is now to be done, Hannah? I am convinced lady Mary—she is certainly capable of it—has done you some ill office with Sir Edward: perhaps sent him the very letter. You know lord Methuen and he are prodigiously intimate: what was known to one, would not long be a secret to the other; and, without his lordship had some good reason for it, I cannot believe he would have treated my father and Sir James as he did; for he is confessedly exceedingly well-bred.
Can you think on any scheme, whereby to extricate yourself from this terrible dilemma? You may depend on my bearing any part in it you please to allot me.— Could we contrive to disavow the letter, and make the whole appear the effect of lady Mary's malice, and groundless jealousy? She will soon be out of a condition to contradict us: she is given over;—there's consolation for you!
I don't know what part to recommend to you. I think it is well worth your while to go great lengths to secure a husband of Marchmont's consequence: but do not advance a step without being sure of your ground: he is penetrating; and, take my word for it, has not passion enough for you to blind him. His demure sister, I suppose, would be consulted; and women find out women's artifices much more easily than men do. I dread, too, lord Methuen's cool judgment.
If you think he is irrecoverably lost—and, not to flatter you, I fear he is—all you can do, is to invent some plausible story to deceive my father, and throw yourself on Sir Edward's generosity to countenance it; for if he discovers your intrigue with Webster, you are utterly undone: and I don't see how he can well avoid discovering it, as he will be under the necessity of making a sufficient apology for breaking off a match, which was on the point of being concluded. O, that horrid fever! Nothing ever was so
mal a propos.
Had it seized him one week later, you would have been lady Marchmont. A separation would have been the worst that could have happened; and that is often a very desirable thing.
I suppose poor Mr. Webster is piteously grieved for his lady's illness. I hope you are humane enough to endeavour to comfort him. 'Tis really melancholy, that such a
beautiful
woman should be cut off in the bloom of life.
Happen what may, it is my advice to you, never think of taking Webster
for better for worse:
ambition and prudence— though they seldom give the same counsel— equally oppose it. He is meanly born; and,
entre nous,
our blood wants a little refining; on one side at least. His wife's fortune— you know he has nothing else—will not entitle him to your's: and, depend on it, he would soon run through both. Besides, as you can never expect that my father will consent to your making such an alliance, you must wait till his death, which is probably a distant event. Add to all this, Webster will not have any respect for you, or confidence in you, after the experience he has had of your character:—excuse this free remark. Be guided by me; set your cap at some sober, leaden-pated fellow, with a good estate, over whom your beauty will secure you an easy dominion. Retain Webster, since he is so agreeable to you: and if you conduct yourself with common prudence, you have such a gentle, innocent, sanctified appearance, you will never be suspected.
O ciel!
what a letter is here! the longest I ever wrote. I expect you to thank me for it. It puts me in mind of my boarding-school correspondence with Burton, when I
"—Bid
him
still adieu, yet added more."
Let me know what you intend to do, that I may have my lesson.
My compliments to Bab Jephson: tell her, her wicked eyes have done a world of mischief amongst the beaux:—pierced poor Hammond's heart through and through. Seriously, he professes himself violently smitten with her. She need not doubt his veracity, for every acre of his estate is mortgaged; and no lover is so passionate, as he
"Who burns for love and money too."
These young widows have great attractions. Cupid never misses his mark, when he takes
"His stand
"Upon a widow's jointure land."
Heigh-ho! for a crape fan, to ogle the fellows through.
EMILY CONWAY.
TO MISS ORMSBY.—JEPHSON-LODGE.
MADAM,
HERMITAGE.
THE uncommon nature of the subject whereon I am obliged to trouble you, will, I hope, be a competent excuse for me, if I should seem wanting in that delicacy and respect which is due from my sex to yours. I will not fatigue you with any other preface but this necessary one.
A letter of your's, to lady Conway, was sent to me by a person, with whom I have no manner of connection. I see by it, that I am not so happy as to possess your affection; I must, therefore, beg leave to decline the honour to which I had aspired.— As I know not in what way it would be most agreeable to you I should declare my intentions to Mr. Ormsby, I request you will take the conduct of that matter on yourself. I rely on your having the kindness to represent my procedure as little to my disadvantage as circumstances may admit.
I inclose you your letter, madam, as I cannot think of retaining it; and imagine it will be more to your satisfaction to destroy it yourself, than if I were to do so.— What it may have suffered before it came to me, I am ignorant of, and cannot be answerable for; but since that period, assure yourself, nothing has happened to it that need give you uneasiness; though, I confess, it has passed through a greater number of hands than I could wish.— When it arrived here, I was so dangerously ill, that Mrs. Wentworth and lord Methuen would not deliver it; but, with a freedom their friendship fully authorized, they opened it. My lord judged it proper that a thing of such importance should be made known to me; and apprehending that the agitation of mind it would excite, might have bad consequences, he consulted with my physician; an indiscretion, of which nothing but the excess of his fears for me could have made him guilty. I have since exacted a promise of secrecy from doctor Howard; and, it is my opinion, you may very confidently depend on it. The letter has not been seen by any other than the persons I have mentioned, except a young lady of distinguished honour, and unequalled generosity.
With the sincerest good wishes for your future happiness,
I am, madam, &c. &c. EDWARD MARCHMONT.
TO MRS. CHETWYND.—IRELAND.
LONDON.
AH! madam, lady Enmore's maternal tenderness rekindles too late. Her unfortunate daughter cannot be made sensible of her pardon and affection. She is totally deprived of recollection and reason. She neither eats, nor speaks, nor moves;—knows nobody, and takes not the least notice of any thing that is done about her. In short, she appears bereft of every faculty of mind and body: she is not dead, but I can scarcely say she is alive.
I am extremely glad lady Enmore did not come here; though sorry it was indisposition that prevented her. Let her by no means think of undertaking the journey:— her presence can avail nothing, for lady Mary has every help, and all the attendance that could be procured for her; and her situation is by much too shocking for the eye of a parent to behold.
I directed lady Mary's maid to write to her master:—the following is his answer, word for word:—
I cannot go to town. Take care of your lady; and call in a physician, if it should be necessary.
FREDERIC WEBSTER.
Soon will this insolent and cruel wretch enjoy the fortune of her, whom he has murdered, without the heavy incumbrance of a hated wife. Perhaps I am too severe, in saying he has murdered her, as she had strong symptoms of a decay, long before they were married: that he has shortened her life, however, by some months—or, it may be, years—is a circumstance that will not admit of doubt. The poor creature, I fear, cannot hold out much longer: I ought not to have said, I fear; for, in her dreadful state, it is rather the part of humanity to wish to hasten, than retard her death.
I am so much fatigued and dispirited, that I really am not able to write to lady Enmore. You say she is in your neighbourhood;— you will please to bear her these sorrowful tidings. The soothing gentleness of your manners, admirably fits you to perform these sorts of melancholy offices; and I know the goodness of your heart ever leads you to seek them.
I thank you ten thousand times, for the warmth of your congratulations on a certain subject: they are just such as I expected from the kindest friend, and best natured woman in the world. My dear uncle, too!—and did he weep over my letters? —As I read your's, I took his picture from my bosom, and pressed it to my lips; shedding on it soft tears of affection and gratitude. How many of his unfeeling sex would have sneered at the girl's folly, and made a sport of her sufferings? But he happily unites female delicacy of sentiment, and tenderness of heart, to manly firmness and intrepidity.
I am delighted with your account of Sir Francis O'Bryen: he is worthy of the noble name he bears. My uncle was quite right—as he always is—in declining his very generous offer with regard to me. As to the jewels, I see no necessity for my accepting any, and wish I might be excused; but as he is so earnest, and you seem to think there would be a disobliging formality in my continuing to refuse them, I shall take a few rings, or pins, or something not exceeding the value of one hundred pounds.
I cannot answer your question concerning the chevalier du Mornai: I never heard of him before the last letter I received from my uncle. If your mentioning Mrs. Wentworth's name in so slight a manner, was really the cause of his disorder, there must certainly be something extraordinary in the affair. I suppose, by O'Bryen's immediately retiring with him, he is in his confidence. I agree with you in thinking he must be a lover of Mrs. Wentworth's.— Possibly he may have seen her at Paris, where she has spent several months. His attachment could hardly have commenced since her widowhood; as, during that period, she has lived in almost a monastic seclusion from the world. If our conjectures are well founded, he is highly deserving of pity and esteem, for so constant and unfortunate a passion. I'll ask Harriet about him the next time I see her. I am not afraid of giving her any disturbance:—du Mornai may love her; but she, I am convinced, never did, nor ever will, love any other than the man whom she has lost for ever.
I had a billet yesterday from the charming invalid: he begged I would permit him to wait on me this day; but, as I had secret information from Mrs. Wentworth that his health was not sufficiently re-established, I thought proper to curb his impatience; and have put off his visit till next week.
I should write to you two hours longer, my dear aunt, if I had time; but it is near our breakfast hour, and I must scribble a few lines to
mon petit soupirant
at Granvillepark. This is acting
en coquette,
I think, to correspond with two lovers at a time.
Robert says, he languishes to see me— by my absence, the trees have lost their verdure, the birds their melody—in short, the fair face of summer never was so deformed before; not even by the iron hand of hoary winter.
May each returning season bring health and peace to my maternal friend!
VALERIA O'BRYEN.
TO MRS. CHETWYND.—IRELAND.
LONDON.
WILL you, madam, permit Alicia Sedley to address a few lines to you, for your niece, who is at present engaged in the very difficult task of informing lady Enmore of her daughter's death? Valeria and I have sat together this hour, weeping over the remembrance of the sad scene we have been so recently witnesses of; and lamenting the hard fate of this most unhappy woman.
Miss O'Bryen, my mother, and I, spent some part of this morning with lady Mary, without perceiving any alteration in her. As we sat at dinner, a message came from Miss O'Bryen's maid—who has attended her ladyship since we came to town—informing us, that she was much better within the last half hour; had spoken several times, and, for the most part, very rationally. Impatient to behold this happy change, my cousin and I drove to Doverstreet, the moment we could disengage ourselves from the table. On approaching the bed, our too sanguine hopes immediately subsided: the wildness of her eyes was the only visible alteration in the death-like appearance our patient had so long worn. She would have stretched out her hand to Valeria, but could not, from extreme weakness. "It is as you told me," said she; "I am just going."
"What shall we do, Valeria?" whispered I, in great terror.
Had we not better dispatch a messenger to Mr. Bailly?
—my grandfather's domestic chaplain, madam, who had before administered the sacrament, and frequently read prayers to her ladyship. We instantly sent to him, and to her two physicians.
Miss O'Bryen then placed herself on a chair that stood at the head of the bed, and drawing back the curtain a little, was going. to speak; when lady Mary cried out—
My mother too!—my own mother to refuse ever to see me! And even—
. The remainder of the sentence was so inarticulately pronounced, I could not understand it.
Your mother has entirely forgiven you. —She charged me to assure—
.
Lady Mary, without attending to her, exclaimed—
Webster! you cruel, treacherous villain!—
. And immediately afterwards—
Hannah Ormsby! Hannah Ormsby! may everlasting curses—.
Valeria, with her usual presence of mind, prevented her finishing this horrid imprecation:—instantly rising, and assuming a tone of authority, that was quite necessary to restrain her fury,—
What are you doing?
said she:
do you know that a few minutes hence you may be called to account for your sins—and dare you add this black one to their catalogue? Is this obeying his precepts, who taught us to love, and pray for our enemies? Pardon those that have injured you, if you would be pardoned yourself. Your earthly parent has forgiven you;—in like manner may your heavenly father pardon all your transgressions!
So saying, she knelt, and with that air of humility, which becomes the creature when addressing the creator—joined to a dignity and solemnity, that must have commanded the reverence of any person who had the least remains of reason,—she prayed aloud. I was inexpressibly awed, and knelt likewise, as did the women that were in the room. A faint, but fearful, shriek issued from the bed: we all started up, except Miss O'Bryen. I flew to her: —terrified, lest the unfortunate lady, in her madness, should attempt to hurt her. In my fright I forgot her debility. The first look I gave at her, almost petrified me with horror. Nothing can be conceived more frightful, than the quick and wild rollings of her sunk eyes, and the dreadful distortions of her ghastly face. I am amazed my lovely friend had the courage to remain so near her. She shrunk not from the bed-side, but continued to kneel by her:— now gazing on her with fast-falling tears of compassion; then raising her eyes and clasped hands to Heaven, her lips moved tremblingly, as in fervent prayer. Perceiving I could scarcely stand, and that I supported myself by holding the curtain, she arose, and insisted upon my allowing her Eleanor to attend me home. I refused to leave her. During this friendly contest Mr. Bailly arrived; and one of the physicians, who declared his patient to be in the last agonies, and led us both into another room. In about an hour after they told us she was dead. As soon as we had a little recovered from this shock, Miss O'Bryen, with the assistance of lady Mary's maid, locked all the apartments, which it was not necessary for the convenience of the servants should remain open; and leaving the keys in her ladyship's dressing-room, and locking the door, and setting a seal on it, she inclosed the key in a letter she made the waitingwoman write to Mr. Webster, and which she sent to him by one of our footmen, before we quitted the melancholy house.
I shall now dismiss a subject, so little calculated to please either the imagination or the heart. If my being so circumstantial, has been tedious and disagreeable, it is Valeria, by whose desire I was so, that must be blamed for it.
I cannot conclude, without expressing the earnest desire I have to be ranked amongst the happy number you honour with your acquaintance. I would aspire to more —to your friendship. Miss O'Bryen paints your character in colours so engagingly amiable, it is impossible not to love you; and nothing, you know, is more natural than to seek a return of affection, however destitute one may be of any just claim to it.
I hope my grandfather's present fondness for Valeria—which from the steadiness of his temper, and her uncommon merit, I am persuaded must endure—will obliterate the remembrance of past unkindnessess, and extinguish the animosity that has so long —and, I may add, so causelessly—subsisted between the O'Bryen and Sedley families.
Assure Mr. Chetwynd of my respect.
I am, Madam, With the most perfect esteem, Your obedient, &c. ALICIA SEDLEY.
To the RIGHT HON. LADY METHUEN.— POPLAR-HILL.
HERMITAGE.
NO more of your soft reproaches, my lovely Louisa. I fly to you. I shall be in my chaise to-morrow, as soon as Phoebus ascends his chariot; and before he takes his night's draught of sea-water—a potation I shall not much envy him—I expect to drink a social cup of tea with my angel: and when the god reposes himself on Thetis's bosom!—my charming Louisa!— But I have done. Allow me some merit in thus breaking off my bold parallel.
As I would not have the shadow of a frown remain on that dear brow when we meet, I must repeat to you the cause of my stay at Hermitage.—Edward, by means of his vigorous constitution, and great flow of animal spirits, has, I thank God! recovered as fast as it was reasonable to expect he could, from so violent a fit of illness; but his brisk and sanguine temper ill brooked such slow advances to health. Ever since my conference with Miss O'Bryen, he has imagined himself quite well; and would hardly submit to be treated
en malade.
He wanted to go to London before we thought it safe for him to leave his room. As soon as he was permitted to take the air, he renewed his resolution, and persisted in it with a degree of obstinacy not natural to him. He attributed his sister's opposition to the timidity of her sex, and the apprehensiveness of her temper, increased by her excessive affection for him. She observed, that he paid more regard to my remonstrances, and begged me not to leave him till he was perfectly recovered. Ill would it have suited my friendship for them both, not to have complied with her desire.
I have told you all this before, my love; and yet you almost blame me for staying from you. I thank you for this petulance: I would not have you unmoved by my absence, however necessary. I am too fond to be always reasonable myself; and I cannot suffer you to be a bit wiser, in this respect, than I am. Your general superiority, I behold not without jealousy,—yet with pride, and with pleasure. When I hear a man declare—and many such declarations have I heard—that he would not marry a lady of distinguished talents, I regard him as a conceited blockhead: no matter whether a learned, or an illiterate one. A man of understanding would, assuredly, prefer a sensible and agreeable companion, to a silly, or an insipid one: he that would chuse the reverse, is a puppy; and never intends to treat his wife with that respect which her station, and even her sex, entitles her to; and which he ought to pay for his own sake, if incapable of being actuated by a more generous motive. Puffed up with the imagined superiority of his own sex—and, at the same time, aukwardly conscious that he does not himself possess it—he would fear to have a wife's understanding set in contrast to his own shallowness. Blinded, or misled by vanity, he either does not, or will not, perceive how much it is in a sensible woman's power to supply her husband's deficiencies. He sees not that the connection is so close, the union of interests so perfect, that the merit of one party must reflect lustre on the other.
Our education gives us a certain superiority over the fair sex; but they, on the other hand, possess a superiority of a much higher nature—the noble superiority of virtue! In some things they are above us, in others on a level with us; in others again sweetly inferior: on the whole then, my dear Louisa, balancing one qualification against another, I am of opinion that there is nearly an equality of merit between the sexes; and I am very sure that he will never find happiness in matrimony—that is, in its native soil—who will not consider his wife as his equal, his companion, and his friend. Love soon languishes and dies away, when it is not supported and cherished by friendship; and though a mutual regard can certainly subsist between persons of very different capacities, yet equality, though constituted—and perhaps it would be best it should be constituted—by different qualities, is indispensibly necessary to true and consummate friendship. The warmest, the tenderest, the most delightful, and the most durable affection, is the delicious
melange
of love and friendship: they strengthen each other; love enlivens friendship, and friendship refines love. Happy the man who has judiciously chosen his life's companion!— who finds the mistress and the friend united! In a word—for I cannot suppress the fond boast—thrice happy Methuen!
It is with inexpressible pleasure I reflect on my dear Marchmont's being soon to enter on a state of felicity similar to my own. His affairs are in the best train imaginable. He wrote to Miss O'Bryen some days ago, to obtain permission to visit her. I immediately protested against his rashness in venturing abroad so soon. Mrs. Wentworth, with the most tender and earnest importunity, besought him not to go.
But, my sweet sister,
cried he, pulling her on his knee,
I must go. How can you have the cruelty thus to compel me to contradict you? Oh! if you knew the half of what I feel—
, putting her hand to his heart.
As to Methuen, I won't listen to him; because I am sure, if he were in my circumstances, he would act just as I do. What a tardy wretch Miss O'Bryen might think me!—a frosty-spirited fellow, as I remember lady Conway once called me. Besides, I don't expose myself to any danger; I am perfectly well; look at me, Harriet?— Have I the least appearance of a sick man, except this vile
robe de chambre?
"A compromise, Edward," said I;
you may go to town, provided you wear that
robe de chambre.
"O! not for a thousand pounds!"
"And so you'll throw it off," said Mrs. Wentworth, almost crying;
and I know what will be the consequence;—you'll get cold, and relapse. My dear brother," putting her arms round his neck, why will you be so obstinate?
He looked so much distressed, that I pitied him; and, winking significantly at his sister, gave it as my opinion, that he might go, if he would wear two waistcoats, two pair of stockings, and something extraordinary about his neck. He was charmed with my expedient; and ran up stairs to write.
"Ah! my lord," said Mrs. Wentworth,
why did you interpose? He was just going to consent.
I thoroughly satisfied her, by explaining my intention; which was, that she should secretly write to Miss O'Bryen, to forbid his coming. Accordingly our hasty lover was politely, and —both as to the intention and the manner—kindly repulsed. She desired him to wait till the end of this week; —no disputing her sovereign will;—he was obliged to submit.
The ardently wished-for time draws near. He sent yesterday to let the duke of Granville know, he should do himself the honour to wait on him to-morrow. His grace returned a very polite card, requesting the favour of his company to dinner.— You will suppose the invitation very agreeable; so, in fact, it was; yet he will not accept it, but prefers dining at his own house. Are you not amazed? But the cause is still more surprizing than the effect: —Mrs. Wentworth accompanies him. Her fear that he will not take sufficient care of himself, is her sole motive for going. Nothing, I believe, but the passionate, and well-merited love she bears him, could have induced the lovely recluse ever again to visit the gay metropolis. I wish she could contrive to shake off a little of her melancholy there; but I only
wish,
I do not in the least
expect
it. Never did I see so deep, and fixed a sorrow;—such calm despair. How am I pained, my Louisa, when I behold this amiable young creature a prey to never-ending grief; and consider that
my
fatal imprudence was—in a great measure, if not solely—the cause of her sufferings! Yet how far is her noble mind from resenting the involuntary injury!— from disclaiming the friendship that has undone her!—O, blind, mis-judging Wentworth! how could you suspect such an angelic woman? And where did your imagination find the colours that drew me such a villain; for your own heart—yes, unfortunate man! my honoured, and much-lamented foe! your own heart—was good and generous, and, as much as mine, above such wickedness? But why, my love, do I thus unnecessarily distress you, by calling to your remembrance an event that has occasioned so much affliction to us both.
I will write no more, for this subject has made me sad, and I do not wish to make you so. If I had sufficient command over myself, I should never make you the partner of my griefs; but my heart is so open to you, that it communicates all its feelings without distinction or reserve. Joy is not joy till I have shared it with you; and sorrow loses its name, when you become my comforter. Say, by what generous art is it, you thus, in sweet partition, augment all my joys, and steal my every sorrow?— Thou dear source of all my happiness!— farewell. To-morrow I shall clasp you to a heart that beats but for you.
METHUEN.
TO LORD METHUEN.—POPLAR-HILL.
LONDON.
HUMAN bliss is never without alloy, says the moralist. The observation is just; I subscribe to it with a sigh. Doubtless, this is a right disposition of things: were it otherwise, we should be apt to place our affections wholly on the happiness of this world, without reflecting on its immense disproportion to that of Heaven: and, God knows, this is what we are but too much inclined to do already.—"Marvellous!" you exclaim:
a sermon, instead of the gay flights I expected from him! What the deuce sets the fellow a preaching?
— Why, my dear Methuen, I should this moment be the happiest man in the world, if I could wrap myself up in my own enjoyments, without suffering for the afflictions of others. How abominably I express myself! What a nonsensical supposition! No; the man who feels not for the distresses of others, cannot be happy himself:— and God forbid that he could!—Selfish happiness!—there is no such thing: I cannot even frame an idea of it. And great, poignant as the anguish is, with which my heart mourns my lovely sister's woe, I would not barter the dear, painful sympathy —I will not say for insensibility, I would not barter it—for happiness.
My spirits are at present in a pretty exact equilibrium; though inclining, I believe, to melancholy: for if, on the one side, I am powerfully elated by my flattering reception at the duke of Granville's; on the other, I am strongly depressed by what I have seen my poor Harriet suffer this day. 'T was above three years, you know, since she had been in London before. When she left this city, it was to attend the death-bed of a loved and honoured parent; a consideration which, alone, would have been but too affecting to so feeling a mind: but here, she last saw her adored, ill-fated husband! This was too much for her to support. I endeavoured all the way to divert her thoughts, as much as possible, from dwelling on such melancholy subjects. She was in tolerable spirits till we came near town; her chearfulness then gradually subsided. I forced her to taste some wine, I had ordered into the chaise on purpose to give her; and caused the postillion to drive faster, hoping that the quick motion would in some degree enliven her; or, at least, serve to disturb her reflections. At length the tears, she had no longer power to suppress, gushed from her sweet eyes. I put my arms round her, and laid her lovely face on my breast, without attempting to comfort her, otherwise than by joining my tears to her's. I was several times apprehensive of her fainting.
I made Bernard take a great round about, to avoid driving through the street in which my brother Wentworth had resided. At last the carriage stopped at my door; and I supported, or rather carried, the dear mourner into a parlour.
I knew not what to say to her: a melancholy speech might have increased her sorrow; and I felt, that a sprightly one would have insulted it. I judged it best to strive to keep her from thinking at all. I brought her up stairs, made her walk up and down the dining-room, with drawing-room, &c.—asked her opinion of this, or that piece of painting, or furniture. I neither expected, nor waited for an answer:— all I wanted, was to hurry the dear creature a little.
Will you think me a phlegmatic lover, my dear friend, when I own to you, that thus employed, I almost forgot my engagement? Harriet reminded me of it. I was extremely unwilling to leave her; and, feigning a head-ach, would have sent an apology: but she saw through my little deception, and insisted on my going, in such a manner, as shewed me she would be distressed by my persisting to stay with her.—I went.
As I enquired for the duke, I was shewn into his study. He received me, not only with civility, but kindness. We had chatted together above ten minutes, before I could find courage enough to—hope Miss O'Bryen was well; not that there was any thing in the duke's deportment, or quality, that intimidated me. He does not appear to me that haughty man you think him; and if he were, his arrogance would be much apter to inspire me with contempt than awe. I have been used to converse with men of rank; and though I should think myself highly blameable, if wanting in due respect to them,—I should despise myself, were I suffer that respect to degenerate into an aukward and uneasy fear. I do not consider myself so far beneath even a duke, that it need at all dazzle my eyes to look up to him. There a is point of elevation, which places a man on a certain degree of equality, with any rank below that of a sovereign prince. In short, my backwardness to pay this necessary compliment to my charming girl, arose entirely from the difficulty I find in pronouncing her name. You smile,—you examine the construction of the syllables:
O'Bryen!— O'Bryen!—a very easy name.
Yes, Methuen, very easy to you, perhaps; but the most difficult in the world to me. At last, however, I contrived to stammer out this formidable name. His grace thanked me: replied, she was very well; and, rising, said he would conduct me up stairs: —
I must introduce you to my family, Sir Edward. I have two other granddaughters that I am very proud of, I assure you; though I don't tell you, they are as handsome as Miss O'Bryen. There is not an old fellow in England,
added he, smiling,
can boast three such granddaughters.
You are quite in the right, thought I, if the two I have not seen, be any way equal to her I have.
O, how my heart fluttered as I walked up stairs! But why need I take your lordship any further. Your imagination will present you with the interview. You will easily fancy me introduced to the agreeable lady Carysbrook, and her two daughters; whom, by the way, I should have thought fine women, had they chosen their company a little more judiciously: but they need not be ashamed to yield to the superiority of the loveliest creature in the universe. You will imagine, my low, obsequious bow, to the divine mistress of my foul, instead of the rapturous embrace my panting heart would have dictated: but with this bow, I intreat you, connect not the attitude of Hudibrass, nor the compliment with which he opens his speech:—
"Madam, I do, as is my duty,
"Honour the shadow of your shoe-tie."
You will imagine, too, the rose usurping the lily's place, on the most beautiful face, the most seducing bosom, that ever the fair-proportioning hand of nature formed. Her fine black eyes half-raised, sparkling through their long silken lashes; whilst her harmonious voice, in sweetly trembling accents, expressed her pleasure at my recovery.
Half an hour had elapsed in general conversation, on indifferent subjects, when a number of visitors came in; a circumstance that pleased me, as I have remarked people usually fall into parties in large companies; and I had already, in imagination, placed myself on the sofa between lady Fanny Sedley and Miss O'Bryen. The timidity inseparable from a love like mine, still withheld me, when a smart military figure put an end to my deliberation, by seizing the object of it. I am ashamed to tell you how much this disappointment vexed me: and, you may believe, my chagrin was in no small degree increased, when I saw the captain, determined to draw every advantage from his post, laying close siege to my little fortress. I arose; leaned over the back of the sofa, and sighed: that sigh passed not unheard, nor unpitied;—she turned to me instantly, with a look of expressive sweetness: —
Shall we make room for you, Sir Edward?
Then offering a pair of scissars to the captain, she said, with an air half pleasant, half contemptuous,—
Here, Sir, will you cut the cotton of lady Fanny's knotting?
Her ladyship, laughing, praised her cousin's judgment in the employment she had chosen for him; protesting, that nothing could better suit his delicate, white fingers. His vanity interpreted this piece of irony into a compliment; and, bowing with a self-satisfied air, he moved nearer to lady Fanny: while I, to my unspeakable pleasure, sat down between him and Miss O'Bryen. I began a most delicious and interesting
tete à tete
with her; which, however, he had so far his revenge of me, as to interrupt every moment.
Pray, ladies, were you at Drury-lane last night?
said he.
"No, Sir."
Bless me! you had the greatest loss— The elegant colonel Bibton sat in one of the front boxes. You have seen him, I suppose, madam?
to Miss O'Bryen.
"Never, Sir."
Then you have a great pleasure to come. He is a perfect Adonis!
—looking sideways into a large pier-glass.—
The finest eyes!
—surveying himself again— "The whitest teeth too!"—stealing another look.
Miss O'Bryen, smiling, repeated the following lines from Waller:—
"And when she would another's praise indite,
"Is by her glass instructed how to write."
Lady Fanny pointed her satire more directly and severely:—
If yonder officer could speak,
said she, pointing to the glass,
he would certainly tell us, captain Wilson is much handsomer this colonel Bibton.
A half coxcomb would have been out of countenance; but on our little warrior's
"—brow, shame was asham'd to sit."
Vanity was his weapon, offensive and defensive, his sword and shield; and did not more surely expose him to the attacks of derision, than effectually preserve him from being wounded by them. He was so completely stupified by conceit, that the raillery of the ladies, instead of hurting, slattered him:—
"Pardonez moi, mesdames;"
bowing affectedly;
very inferior, indeed, to colonel Bibton.
In which probably he spoke the truth, though he neither believed it himself, nor intended we should. He then, with a very bad grace, pronounced some disqualifying speeches; in which, by the way, vain people always abound. We punished him—and I think very properly— by not contradicting him.
I am not very certain whether his behaviour should be attributed to stupidity or assurance: most likely, indeed, it was the result of both. It would be equally unjust and ill-natured, to call impudence the companion of dullness; but I may fairly assert, that an impudent fellow is generally deficient in understanding; and must, of necessity, be entirely devoid of that delicate mental feeling we call sentiment.
The captain soon became tired of undervaluing himself to so little purpose; and, by way of changing the subject, asked lady Fanny what use she made of her knotting. She replied,
It would answer for several purposes;
—leaning a little forward, and looking, with an archness not to be described, full in my charming Valeria's face, she added,
I design this to trim Miss O'Bryen's wedding-gown.
Surely, her ladyship did here, in some measure, sacrifice both her delicacy and good-nature to her vivacity. I pitied my blushing fair; but her distress was of too delicate a nature to admit of consolation from me: I could only increase her consusion by appearing to observe it. I turned away my admiring eyes, and began to talk to Wilson. However inattentive I might seem to the incident, I
felt
it!—Augustus, how bewitchingly handsome she looked!— How lovely are those effusions of modesty! How little did women of fashion know their own interest, when they banished blushes from the
beau monde!
The recollection of my dear sister's situation, obliged me to tear myself from my charmer's side. I whispered to her my intention, and its motive. "I leave you," said I, "surrounded with admirers—" for by this time two or three gentlemen had gathered round her, with such an air of attention, of interest, that my fond, jealous heart, regarded them as rivals:—
I leave you surrounded with admirers,—O promise me that you will not listen to any of them, when I go away.
"How can I make you such a promise?" demanded she, with a smile. I looked at her with beseeching fondness:—she had the goodness to add,—
My ear may listen, but my heart shall not.
The duke followed me to the door, and, in an obliging manner, expressed his regret at my declining to spend the day with him. —"I must be paid with interest," said he,
for relinquishing that claim. I shall expect to see you often, and without ceremony: come to us
en ami.
I thanked him in suitable terms, and took my leave.
On my return home, I had the satisfaction to see Harriet had assumed an air of tranquillity: but, alas! her swollen eyes told me, it was bought with many tears.
Here is Philip come in, for the third time, to undress me. I have not the conscience to keep him waiting any longer. I told him to go to bed before, but he would not. Ever since my indisposition, it is he that is master, not I. I must not do this, nor wear that:—but a moment ago, he had the assurance to tell me, he would complain to Mrs. Wentworth of my sitting up so late. Upon my word, I am finely documented between my sister and my servant. Don't you think I shall be handsomely tutored by the time I come into Miss O'Bryen's hands? If the dear creature has a mind to tyrannize, I shall have my lesson of obedience pat.
I have really a great regard for this goodnatured, officious Philip; and consider myself highly indebted to him for his affectionate behaviour. The care he took of me during my illness, shall neither be forgotten, nor unrewarded. That illness, I shall always remember with peculiar satisfaction and thankfulness; as it was made the instrument to deliver me from a connection, which I can never think of without horror.
O this tormenting valet of mine—
Adieu. My love to lady Methuen:—
comment se porte elle?
I would have you translate
porte
literally. Again adieu, my loved and faithful friend.
EDWARD MARCHMONT.
TO LORD METHUEN.—POPLAR-HILL.
LONDON.
HOW does the thick, smoaky air of London agree with me, you ask:—Surprizingly well; I am quite recovered within the few days I have passed here. However, I believe I owe much more to the society, than to the air of the place. I am every day at the duke of Granville's; and every day, with delight, read my welcome in my Valeria's sparkling eyes. I am really in danger of becoming the vainest coxcomb alive:—to be distinguished by such an angelic creature!—a woman so superior to all other women!—O, she is
"—all that wish can claim,
"Chaste passion clasp, and rapture name."
To be preferred to such a number of rivals! —many of them my superiors!—
Apropos;
—jealous fellow, as you call me, I was right with respect to lord Wardour. The duke told me yesterday, that his lordship had requested permission to pay his addresses to Miss O'Bryen. Heavens! how coldly some men can act in these affairs! I should never have thought of asking such a permission. I told the duke so. He said, smiling,
Then I ought, in justice, to have preferred lord Wardour's suit to your's. To own the truth, however, I believe my influence, had I been inclined so to exert it, would have signified very little. Valeria is extremely gentle: but I am mistaken if she be not, at the same time, extremely steady.
I took advantage of our being on this subject, to hint a desire to know, if I was to receive Miss O'Bryen from his grace, or Mr. Chetwynd. After a pause, during which he appeared disturbed, he replied,—
To deal frankly with you, Sir Edward, I have no title to an authority over her, though she is my grand-daughter. Mr. Chetwynd has been a father to her, as such she regards him: to him, therefore, you are to apply. Valeria's mother, as you must have heard, married against my consent: my resentment—and in that, perhaps, I was to blame—descended to her. It was my fixed resolution to consider her as a stranger to my blood. I saw her—heard her—and my resolution vanished. She is an irresistible creature.
I am sure, if my looks were true to my heart, they gave a full assent to his observation.
"I suppose, my dear sir," continued the duke,
you know that Sir William O'Bryen died in debt, and left his daughter—
.
"Enough, my lord." cried I, with impatience;
I would not chuse to receive a fortune with her.
"And yet you should receive one," answered he,
had not Sir William, like the haughty man he was, made it the condition of his last blessing to his daughter, that she should never receive any thing from me. The restriction, however, extends not to her children—
.—I had actually the grace to redden at the mention of children. He laughed at me; but quickly resuming his gravity, went on to tell me, that he would settle an estate in Nottinghamshire, worth about a thousand a year, on her eldest son; and twenty thousand pounds on her younger children; that he would appoint me trustee, and put me into possession on my marriage.
Don't think me too romantic, Augustus, when I tell you, I am almost vexed to find she will bring me a fortune. But, perhaps, she will not think proper to accept her grandfather's offer. For my own part, I see little or no difference between his giving her a fortune in this manner, and the more usual one. It is in this light I have represented the matter to Mr. Chetwynd. I should be very glad to know her own opinion; but it would be altogether indelicate to speak to her on the subject.
I am to have the honour to accompany the duke's family to Granville-park tomorrow. It is no small addition to my satisfaction, that my sister is to be of the party. It was with difficulty she was prevailed on to go: the dear, romantic creature, loves to indulge her sorrows in retirement; and seems to think there would be a sort of impiety, in enjoying any of the pleasures of that world, of which her Henry is no longer an inhabitant. Lady Carysbrook, and lady Alicia Sedley, have quite won my heart by their attention to her. They appear to compassionate her exceedingly, although they are ignorant of the peculiar nature of her misfortunes; and, with the rest of the world, believe Mr. Wentworth's quarrel with you arose from a political dispute.
The Granville family pass this day at the duke of Avon's. My divine Valeria, and lady Alicia, have promised Mrs. Wentworth to sup with her. It grows late: I begin to fear something may have happened to prevent their coming: I sicken at the thought. I shall see her to-morrow, to be sure; but I expected to see her to-night, and I cannot bear to be disappointed. My watch lies by me on the table,—I look more on it than on my paper.
How soon do you think, Methuen, I may expect an answer from Mr. Chetwynd? I sent my letter to him by express. Have I, do you imagine, any room to dread his disapprobation? Perhaps he is ambitious: he may have promised his interest to some competitor of higher rank, or larger fortune; and her gratitude and affection to him may—Away with these apprehensions—The thought of losing her is death to me.
Ah!—she is come!
Mrs. Wentworth desires your company in the drawing-room, sir.
By Jupiter, the fellow has electrified me.
EDWARD MARCHMONT.
TO LORD METHUEN.—POPLAR-HILL.
GRANVILLE-PARK.
WHEN I carried off my mistress in triumph, from all the young
noblesse
and beaux of London, I sittle thought what a formidable rival I was to encounter in the country. Certainly nothing less than a duel can decide the contest. Remember, I engage you for my second.
Imagine, if you can, what must have been my astonishment, confusion, jealousy, and rage, when, on our arrival here the other day, a young gentleman flew into my Valeria's open arms, hung round her snowy neck, and imprinted a hundred kisses on her enchanting lips.
"Hold, master Sedley," cried I,
do not quite smother her, I intreat you.
"Pray, sir," demanded he, turning about with great quickness,
are you most careful of the lady, or jealous of me?— My sweet Valeria!
again embracing her,
I cannot tell you how much I longed to see you. Shut your eyes a moment, if you please—
she did so:
yes, you are every bit as handsome as you were before you went to town.
Could not you see that she was handsome,
asked his mother,
unless she shut her eyes?
I saw it very plainly, madam; I am not quite blind, I assure you: but her eyes are so bright, they dazzle mine; and I could not see if she was entirely and exactly as beautiful now, as when she went away.
"Upon my word, Robert," said the duke,
you have early applied yourself to learn the important art of complimenting.
"I think," said Mrs. Wentworth,
he is already as good a proficient, as some who seem to have made that art the chief study of their lives.
"A future
mignon de couchette!"
whispered I to lady Carysbrook, who stood smiling at her son's gallantry.
The little, busy, impertinent rogue, has some way or other found out my attachment to Miss O'Bryen; and you can have no notion how troublesome he contrives to make himself to me: he is continually interrupting our conversations, placing himself between us, and snatching from me the pleasure of rendering her many of those little, trifling, nameless services, which are so delightful to an enamoured heart to perform.
—
My sister has just now surprized me exceedingly:—she has received letters from France, which inform her that Miss Marchmont is going to be married to the marquis de St. Clair;—the very man, whose suit to Miss O'Bryen she so earnestly forwarded. It is really very extraordinary. I must go and talk to Harriet about it.
—
She has annihilated me! This St. Clair —this happy St. Clair!—was the favoured lover of Miss O'Bryen; sacrificed to her friendship for Miss Marchmont. Did she love him then?—Perhaps she still loves him:—the supposition distracts me: it is— it must be false. Have I not reason to flatter myself, I hold a place in her affections? —and if St. Clair was ever dear to her, could she have forgotten him in so short a time? Or, rather, could she—generous as she is—have resigned him to another?— Could she, on my sister's account, have destroyed at once his happiness and her own? —Are the rights of friendship more tender, more sacred, than those of love?
My friend, I am disturbed—extremely disturbed. I cannot content myself with the second place in her heart; no, not in any sense the second place: I would be loved first, and best. She is
my
first love; and the eye that pierces the inmost recesses of the soul, only sees how dear she is to mine,—with what an excess of passion I doat on her.
She walks at this moment under my window—She looks up—that look invites my attendance—I will go to you, my angel.
O, that I could tell her the anxiety of my mind!—but that I never will—I must not—dare not do. It might distress her; and that I would not do for worlds. It might lead to a confirmation of my suspicions; and that, too, I could not bear.
Write to me, Augustus: tell me that she does not love St. Clair—that I only am dear to her—that you saw her weep—faint for me. Recal that gay dream which charmed my senses. O, must all my bright hopes be thus clouded in an instant!—It is insupportable!
EDWARD MARCHMONT.
TO MISS O'BRYEN.—GRANVILLE-PARK.
POPLAR-HILL.
WILL my dear Miss O'Bryen allow me, once more, to trouble her on Sir Edward Marchmont's account?—Read his letter, which I inclose.—I do not think it a breach of trust to communicate it, without his knowledge, to a person who has a much dearer interest in his heart, than I can boast of.
You need not be told, that my motive for acting in this manner, is to give you an opportunity of relieving my friend from an uneasiness, that a very refined mind only could feel from such a cause. Nature wrought Marchmont's soul almost too delicate to bear the finishing touches of love;— that master-polisher of the mind, has refined his to a nicety. There is a part of the world —and that not the smallest part—to whom that nicety would appear unaccountable, if not censurable or ridiculous; but if Miss O'Bryen does not both understand and approve it, I have greatly mistaken her character.
I am convinced you do not at present— and I am strongly inclined to believe you never did—entertain any sentiments for the marquis de St. Clair, that can interfere with the wishes of the gentleman you now favour. Whatever may be the case, my procedure can occasion you no embarrassment; as I give you my honour, my writing to you shall ever be a profound secret, unless you chuse to divulge it.
I will not apologize for this, or any other trouble, my attachment to Sir Edward has prompted me to give you. I hope you think the cause of sufficient importance to excuse the effects. Besides, I shall soon have a sort of claim to your friendship; which, believe me, I shall consider as one of the highest advantages I derive from Sir Edward's.
I am, madam, with the truest respect, and—permit me to add—affection,
Your very obedient servant, METHUEN.
TO LORD METHUEN.—POPLAR-HILL.
GRANVILLE-PARK.
METHUEN, I thank you a thousand times. She loves me!—me only! I am happy beyond expression.
Last night, when I retired to my apartment, I had no inclination to go to bed; so dismissed my servant, and extinguished the candles, preferring the fairer light of Cynthia, who shone full into my windows. It came into my head to take a walk in the garden. My chamber opens to a gallery, from which there is a staircase, that leads into it. I feared the door would be locked at that time of night, but had the satisfaction to find it open. I strayed up and down the walks for some time, wrapt in a pleasing
reverie.
I admired the moonbeams shooting through the trees, and playing tremblingly over the water. At length, I became weary of the folitary scene; and, casting a wistful eye towards the house, sighed to myself—
What a paradise, if she was here!
I went into a little arbour, to indulge my contemplations; but was soon roused by the noise of passing feet: they stopt; and I presently heard my Valeria say,
Let us go in here, Harriet, if you are not afraid of taking cold.
My heart beat as if it would have forced itself a passage through my breast to meet her.
Harriet came in first. "Don't be frightened, sister," said I. She screamed, notwithstanding.
"What is the matter?" demanded her lovely companion, rushing in.
"Nothing, my soul!" answered I, eagerly pressing her hand to my breast.
Indeed, brother, you startled me exceedingly, Why, in the name of wonder, are you not in bed?
May he not ask the same question, in his turn?
said Miss O'Bryen.
"He may," replied Mrs. Wentworth;
and I'll leave you to answer it, for I'm afraid of sitting here. You will find me on yonder gravel walk.
"We will go with you," cried Miss O'Bryen, hastily.
"We will not," whispered I. Harriet went away without minding her.
I drew her to the seat:—my bold, yet trembling arm, encircling her.
Are you afraid of being alone with me?
asked I.
With a softened voice, she answered—
No, indeed, Sir Edward, I am not; and I am glad I have met you, for I could not find an opportunity, the whole evening, of conversing with you on a subject —on a subject, that I don't know how to introduce.
I was very desirous to know what subject she meant; but wished first to familiarize her to me, as I may say, by a little longer conversation, that she might speak with more ease and freedom. "Well," said I,
you may first tell me, as my sister desired, what kept you up so late.
Because I could not sleep, while you suffered any anxiety on my account.— You have no cause to be uneasy, Sir Edward: believe me, I neither do, nor ever did, love the marquis de St. Clair.
"Heavens! madam:" exclaimed I, in the utmost surprize,
how could you find out I was uneasy? I did not hint the matter even to my sister; nor to any person, but a friend, who is not used to betray me.
"Lord Methuen has written to me," said she:
but do not call this betraying you; it deserves a very different epithet. 'Tis fit that ordinary minds should, in dull safety, run the circle custom has marked out: but when a person unites such a heart as lord Methuen's, to such a head,—he is above rules, and must be allowed to move a little eccentrically.
You did not need her pretty apology, my dear Augustus. I immediately discerned the whole force of this
tour d'ami.
"Tell me, my life," cried I,
tell me, sincerely, did you never love St. Clair?
Never, upon my honour. I will conceal nothing from you, Sir Edward.— I had a tender friendship for him;—a friendship you'll allow me still to retain. Had not our better stars divided us, I cannot absolutely assert, that his charms and merit might not in time have made some impression on me; as my affections were entirely disengaged, and I liked him better than any man I then knew.
I can never, never thank you sufficiently, my Valeria, for this kindness— this condescension—this amiable ingenuity. Now, thou most angelic woman!" straining her to my beating heart, complete my bliss!—say, O, deign to say, that you love your adoring Marchmont.
Imagine with what rapture I listened, while, in half-formed accents, she pronounced my happiness! I kissed—but half repulsed, yet unreproved, with extasy I kissed—her balmy lips! Wild with transport, I leaned my forehead on her bosom! —the softest, fairest bosom, that ever heaved to the emotions of a feeling heart!—She sprang from me:—"Come," says she, "Mrs. Wentworth will get cold."
Both her own health, and my sister's, were too precious to me, to suffer me to endanger them, by seeking to detain her.
I attended them to the foot of the stairs, but would have forborn entering the house with them, lest, if any of the servants were still up, and should chance to see us, they might make impertinent observations on the incident; but neither of the ladies would allow me to stay out any longer.
I went to bed, but my thoughts were so much engaged, I was not able—nor, indeed, willing—to sleep till day-break: then the soft god strewed his poppies over my pillow; and my delighted fancy flew back to the charming night. Again I beheld my Valeria's matchless form; while the moon shone resplendent o'er our heads, and not a zephyr breathed upon the trees.
It was near eleven before Philip could find in his heart (that was his phrase) to awaken me:—one would think the fellow knew my dreams.
I found all the family assembled in the parlour, except the duke, who usually breakfasts in his own apartment. My lovely fellow-rakes had just made their appearance; the rest of the ladies had been down stairs a good while: upon which, lady Fanny— who, I think, always finds something unlucky to say—remarked, that one would imagine we three had been sitting up together. A conscious blush overspread the finest features in the world.
"Fanny," said lady Carysbrook,
it must be confessed you are the farthest from envy of any woman breathing, or you would not take such delight in heightening Miss O'Bryen's beauty.
I don't at all deserve your ladyship's compliment,
returned she,
for I am far from thinking a blush the least improvement to any body.
"I don't know," said Mrs. Wentworth,
whether it may, or may not, be an advantage to the complexion. I admire it, as the sign of a quick and delicate sensibility.
Lady Fanny briskly replied,
And I— excuse me, Mrs. Wentworth—dislike it, as a sign of rustic simplicity.
"Thank you for that, my dear," said Miss O'Bryen, bowing and smiling.
Nay, upon my honour, I neither did, nor could mean to reflect on you: your good-breeding cannot be questioned. I assure you, I have often wondered how you could contrive to unite so much ease to so much modesty. One would imagine, that a person of your qualifications, who had constantly frequented polite company, would be inclined rather to err on the side of assurance than bashfulness.
Lady Alicia was of opinion, that there were many occasions, on which a blush was beautiful and becoming; but said, she would readily condemn what the French called a
mauvaise honte.
If your ladyship chuses to adopt the French expression,
said I,
I would humbly counsel you, not to allow it the same latitude the French do: limit its signification as much as possible; or your opinion perhaps may—though I am convinced your conduct never will—encroach on the borders of modesty. Allow me to say, that bashfulness—or, if you please,
mauvaise honte
—is, in your sex, much more amiable and engaging, than the least tendency to the opposite quality.
"You speak very justly, sir," said lady Carysbrook:
modesty is certainly a woman's chief ornament; and even an excess of it, is at least pardonable. Men, indeed, require some assurance—.
"O, an infinity, madam!" interrupted I, gaily,
for if we don't shew ourselves, the ladies will never be at the pains to draw us out. But, for us,—we do not love to have a woman's perfections too obvious; there is a pleasure in the search after them, we do not willingly forego. It is an universal maxim amongst you, ladies, that men do not much prize what they obtain very easily. You do not judge amiss: we love a little difficulty; —but you mistake the matter widely, when you make a mean and despicable coquetry the source of our difficulties:— a man must, in that case, either give up the pursuit, or his reason. It is sweet,
retiring
modesty, that prompts us to
follow;
—modesty, the most distinguishing and lovely characteristic of your charming sex, that must ever enhance your value to us.
"I would, by all means," said lady Fanny,
have a woman modest; yet, I think, every body must allow, that bashfulness often makes one appear in a very disadvantageous light.
"Do not think so," I answered:—
Though bashfulness may sometimes obscure the full glare of your charms, the effect is as agreeable, as shade to the light of a fine picture: or, I might better compare it to—the gauze with which you cover your bosoms—
, looking archly at her's;—
and you know very well, that though we love to draw aside the veil ourselves, we should be highly disgusted if you attempted to do it for us." She coloured, and called me impertinent.
"You ought to thank me," said I,
for you never looked handsomer in your life. If you are wise, you will not quarrel with blushes. To tell you a secret, lady Fanny,—there is no man that does not feel a certain sensation, of mingled admiration and love, at the blush of a fine woman.
I must this moment bid you adieu, and attend the young ladies, who are going to take an airing on horseback.
EDWARD MARCHMONT.
TO SIR EDWARD MARCHMONT, BART.— ENGLAND.
CHETWYND VILLA.
SIR Edward, you have as much romance as a girl of fifteen; and I like you for it. I do love the romantic; their hearts are warmed by the fire of their imaginations. Let cold, unerring reason, hold unresisted sway in the becalmed breast of the philosopher:—passion, generous passion, must animate the heart of that man, I could wish to call my friend. The virtues require a warm soil;—I never knew them flourish in a cold bosom. If the heart does not burn at twenty, I shiver to think, what a frozen lump it will become at forty. If there be a young fellow in the world that could write coolly about such a girl as Valeria, he deserves to be hanged: or I'd burn the rascal, and supply the want of inward, by outward heat.
I am a romantic fellow myself: indeed, you might have guessed as much;—we are seldom forward to praise a qualification that we do not possess—or, at least, that we do not imagine we possess—ourselves. I married a woman, whose fortune was much superior to mine; but I loved her with the most disinterested tenderness:—had the wealth of the Indies been mine, I should have laid it at her feet.
My wife is a generous, romantic woman, who gave me her hand with ten thousand pounds, when I had nothing but a curacy, and some uncertain expectations of church preferment, which I have since partly realized.
I give you this sketch of our characters, to induce you the more readily to accede to our opinion, with respect to the duke's proposal. We do no think there can be any sufficient reason to oppose his doing justice to his late most amiable daughter, in the persons of her grandchildren: we do not think that, if Sir William O'Bryen himself was alive, he would object to it. When he, on his death-bed, became sensible that his extravagance had ruined his child, he feared she might have recourse to the duke of Granville's protection; and no wonder that his pride was so severely wounded, at the thought of leaving her dependent on a man, who had always treated him with such unjust contempt. But here the case is widely different; and the duke has little cause to triumph, in being permitted to settle on Sir William's grandchildren, what his daughter would not accept, and—I thank God!— does not need.
Allow me to tell you, sir, that I exceedingly approve your naming a jointure, rather than offering me
carte blanche,
as a person of ordinary generosity would have done. Very sensible you must have been, that I neither could nor would have demanded so large a jointure. I admire, likewise, the delicacy wherewith you hint your knowledge of Miss O'Bryen's not having a fortune: in that, however, you are mistaken. —Lady Enmore—who is now at my house, and whose paternal affection for Valeria gives her a right to know every thing that concerns her—insists on presenting her with five thousand pounds on the approaching occasion; and will secure to her the possession of a very considerable estate, at her decease. Mrs. Chetwynd and I must likewise give her five thousand pounds at present; and which ever of us is the survivor, will certainly leave the remainder of our fortune to her.
I am not yet so much of an old man, as not to know what must be your present impatience. I promise you shall meet no unnecessary delays on my part. Mrs. Chetwynd and I are every day in anxious expectation of Miss O'Bryen's return:—I presume you have not employed your time so ill, as not to have already obtained permission to escort her. My dear Sir Edward, we shall receive you as our friend—as our son.
It would give me particular pleasure, if Mrs. Wentworth could be prevailed on to favour us with her company. I need not say how much Mrs. Chetwynd desires it, as she is herself writing to Mrs. Wentworth on that subject.
Now since I am so ready to give you my Valeria—the noblest gift that could possibly be presented to any man—I hope you will not so ill requite my generosity, as to snatch her from me immediately.—Don't be alarmed; I am not going to raise any obstacles to delay your union; but I must insist on your staying three or four months afterwards. This is a point that I will not —I mean that I
cannot
—give up; for it is already almost a year since I have seen my darling girl; and I imagine you must know the value of her society too well, to wonder that I prize it as one of the first blessings of my life.
I was just going to conclude, when casting my eye over the paper, it struck me that I ought first to make some apology for this letter, which is certainly the most unceremonious that ever was written on such a subject:—not a word of
the honour of your alliance,
and so forth. The truth is my best excuse—I already love you; and affection with me, ever banishes ceremony, though I hope not politeness and attention.
I am, With equal respect and esteem, Yours, CHARLES CHETWYND.
TO LORD METHUEN.—POPLAR-HILL.
GRANVILLE-PARK.
VOUS vous trompez, mon ami;
I am not at all jealous of lord Osmore. Far from doing me any injury, he has really been of essential service to me: my Valeria, before, received my attentions with complacency, and discouraged those of others; but ever since his lordship came to Granville-park, she has treated me with a preference so marked, as to keep all other lovers—even the aspiring Osmore himself—at a distance.
I was very near quarrelling with lady Fanny Sedley this evening:—as I was walking with her and Miss O'Bryen, I was pouring out my grateful heart in acknowledgments to the latter, for her generous and considerate behaviour with respect to lord Osmore. Lady Fanny interrupted me, by saying, something peevishly,
I declare, Marchmont, you are the stupidest fellow I ever knew: I shall absolutely die with
ennui.
For Heaven's sake, do you think this conversation can be any entertainment to me?
"Pardon me," said I, smiling,
I am very inconsiderate. I protest, I never thought of asking myself the question whether it was, or was not.
This, you'll say, was not a very polite speech: but nobody thinks of treating lady Fanny with much ceremony. People that say free things—especially if they are as good-humoured as she is—will always have free things said to them. She really is not bold, but her unguarded vivacity destroys all dignity of character. Now, my Valeria, with all the ease even of a Parisian education, preserves, in her sprightliest moments, a delicate reserve, that at once inspires respect and tenderness.—But I wander.
"Rude creature!" said lady Fanny, in reply to me:
lord Osmore would not have spoken to me in this manner for the world; and yet I believe he is as fond of Miss O'Bryen, and as indifferent to me, as you can be.
My charming girl said, with some warmth,
lord Osmore's politeness differs from Sir Edward's, more in
kind
than in
degree:
— the one is acquired by education, and perfected by habit; the other evidently flows originally from the heart, and is but methodized—if I may so express it— by an acquaintance with the polite world.
"You make nice distinctions," replied her ladyship;
but, for my part, if I find a person polite, I shall never trouble my head to enquire, whether it be the result of nature or education. Say what you will against lord Osmore, he is a man quite to my taste: and, positively, I am monstrously angry with you for using him so cruelly as you do.
"Indeed, lady Fanny," said I, gravely, "I am not at all obliged to you for this."
"Don't mind the madcap," said Miss O'Bryen.
Vain wretch! do I depreciate you, by praising Osmore?
Not in the least; your ladyship mistakes me entirely: you are extremely welcome to praise him, but not to recommend him to Valeria's favour.
"I did not do so."
You complain of that cruelty to him, which is certainly kindness to me; and,
vice versa,
kindness to him would be cruelty to me.
Not at all: she might be kind enough to you both.
O, madam, if that be your way of thinking—
. I stopt suddenly. I believe I was going to say something too expressive of the contempt I at that moment felt for her.
"My dear Fanny," said Miss O'Bryen,
you are not a coquette: both your understanding and your heart, are too good to suffer you to be one. Why, then, do you thus allow your ungoverned sprightliness to lead you to affect a character so contemptible? Detestable as affectation is, there may be some sense in endeavouring to appear possessed of any praise-worthy quality; though there would be much more, in striving really to acquire it:— but what can be more wretchedly silly, than to
affect
to be
unamiable?
"How charming it is," I exclaimed,
to hear such language flowing from the rosy lips of youth and beauty! May reason and virtue,
added I, affectionately kissing her hand,
ever have such an advocate!
"Now," cried lady Fanny,
to be even with you both for this fine lecture, I shall, in my turn, find fault with you, Valeria.
Find fault with her! How?—where? —what?
Ha! ha! ha! I dare say you do not think she has any faults at all.
"I do not, upon my honour!" I replied, with emphasis.
Why, to be just, she has less than most people, or conceals them better; yet I could point you out a capital one; and that is in her conduct to lord Osmore and yourself. If she dislikes him, she ought to refuse him, without letting him see it is for you he is refused: by acting as she does, she puts herself more in your power than is consistent with prudence.
I was excessively hurt. My dear Valeria saw that I was; and, with a look of tender confidence, she laid her hand on mine: that little action, that sweet look, spoke more forcibly than words.
Her ladyship resumed her discourse:—
If any thing should happen to prevent your union, it would be an irreparable disadvantage to Miss O'Bryen, to have thus publicly favoured you.
What disadvantage can it be to her, to be known to have some consideration for a man, who loves her almost to idolatry? Should your cruel supposition be realized, yet she would have no mortification to fear on that account;—I would publish my passion for her to the world— devote my life to her!
Very fine! But suppose she chose to marry some other gentleman, —how would he—
.
"Ah! no more," said Miss O'Bryen; "I cannot bear to hear you talk thus."
"Indeed, Valeria," replied the provoking creature,
Sir Edward himself would value you more, if you treated him with a prudent reserve.
This is past enduring, madam:—how can you pretend to know my mind? I assure you, if any thing could lessen Miss O'Bryen in
my
esteem, or induce me knowingly to forget
her
's, it would be her changing that endcaring frankness, wherewith she at present honours me, for that meanly suspicious prudence you would inculcate. As she has never, I flatter myself, had the least reason to doubt my sincerity and honour, a reserved behaviour to me, could be dictated only by a very cold heart; and a cold heart, I am sure, never was a good one. Believe me, I should despise myself, were I ungenerous enough to attempt to take a liberty with any lady, which I should think the worse of her for suffering;—and her I love, is the last woman on earth I could think of with indelicacy.
"Still," said she,
I must insist on it, ladies and gentlemen do not enter into these engagements on equal terms.
"One would think," said my Valeria,
you were talking of the dispositions for a battle.
No, madam; but she is striving to
make
dispositions for a battle. I thank her for it.
"Really, child," addressing herself to Miss O'Bryen,
you ought to consider, that if your uncle Chetwynd should withhold his consent, or —.
"Or what?" demanded I, angrily.
Or if Sir Edward should forsake you, you may probably be obliged to lead apes; whereas, he can get a wife when he pleases.
"Whatever," said I,
are your ladyship's designs, happily for me, you have avowed fentiments so opposite to the delicacy and nobleness of Miss O'Bryen's, that I am not at all afraid you will be able to prevail against me.
"Valeria," said she,
I'll be affronted with you these seven years to come, if you don't revenge me for this cutting rebuke.—Shew him my advice has some effect on you.
Excuse me, my dear: so far from interfering in your behalf, I must tell you, that I think his reproof
almost
as just as it is severe. When lady Fanny acts up to her character, she will find no person more ready to defend her interests than I; but when she chuses to sink so much beneath it, she is no longer the lady Fanny that I love.
"This," said I,
is the best solution of personal identity I ever heard: —and remember, lady Fanny, whenever you act thus perversely, I shall consider you as a different person.
"On that footing," answered she,
let our dispute end:—I shall be
myself
again, as I see we are near the house; for, I give you my word, all I said was only for the sake of taking part in the conversation, which otherwise you would not have permitted me to do. When I have the misfortune to fall into the company of lovers, I always quarrel with them, or set them a quarrelling with one another;—'tis the only way a third person can avoid being totally insignificant. —Well, are we friends, Sir Edward?
No, I'll not forgive you this week. And I'll complain of you to lady Alicia the moment we go in.
Fort bien, Monsieur;
then I shall look on you as my declared enemy this whole week; and accordingly, play you all the mischievous tricks I can think of.
No, no; let us be friends: I am half afraid of you, since I find you can be so spiteful. I would not, for any consideration, be at enmity with you while lord Osmore stays.
"Oh!" cried she,
it is the most delightful thing imaginable, to have two lovers; they keep each other in such excellent order. When a man has no rival, he assumes so many saucy or negligent airs, there is no bearing him. If ever I have one over, and can't get a fellow for him, I'll certainly discard him: I would rather go barefooted, than walk with one shoe.
We shook hands in token of perfect amity; but the moment we returned to the drawing-room, the little urchin found means to set me down to piquet with the duke. I told her in a whisper, I considered this as an absolute breach of our new-made treaty of peace. "With all my heart:" returned she;
you may begin hostilities as soon as you dare.
When I was released from the card-table, I stept up to lord Osmore, and begging him to humour whatever I should say to lady Fanny, I went over to her, and in a low voice intreated her to walk to the other end of the room with me: quite unsuspicious of my design, she complied; and I lead her directly to Osmore.
You see, my lord, I keep my promise with you, in giving you an opportunity to thank this lady for the very favourable sentiments, I have this evening been so fortunate as to discover, she entertains for you.
She looked quite surprised and confounded.
"I have not words," said Osmore,
to express the sense I have of your ladyship's goodness.
Indeed, my lord, I—I—The deuce take you, Marchmont!
Be not displeased, madam; I was too much the friend of both parties, to conceal a secret, that was so necessary to your happiness, and so conducive to his lordship's, to have mutually known.
"I declare I could beat you," cried she, in a violent pet.
I answered with profound gravity,
I should be miserable if I thought your ladyship was really offended at my officious zeal.
"And I," said Osmore,
shall be the most unhappy of men, should she have the cruelty to doubt—
"I assure you, my lord," interrupted she,
this is all a jest of Sir Edward's: for which, I promise him,
shaking her head threateningly at me,
I will be sufficiently revenged.
She will be as good as her word, I dare say.
"Madam," replied I,
I understand you perfectly; nobody is quicker at taking a hint:—but be persuaded, I have served you without any view to interest: I don't desire the least return, upon my honour.
That I believe, indeed! but if I make you not an ample one,—I give you leave to make a similar declaration for me, to every gentleman of my acquaintance.
"Generous creature!"
"Most generous!" echoed his lordship;
I am overpowed with gratitude—I have not language—This kind partiality was as little expected, as deserved.
"Sure," said she,
it is not possible you can believe any thing, this abominable, malicious wretch, has told you? My lord, I must let you know how this matter comes about—
"I comprehend your meaning exactly:" said I;
you would have me leave you with him. I am gone
—bowing.
"Stay," she cried;
You are mighty penetrating to-night.—Stay, when I desire you.
Madam, I obey the reiterated command with pleasure: I easily see why it is given;—you would have me spare your blushes, by making this delicate explanation for you.—My lord as we walked together this evening—
Be silent, you vile, provoking animal!
—Your lordship's name being accidentally mentioned; she—
O there is no stopping the wretch! Don't listen to him, Osmore: go away, I entreat you.
"I dare not disobey your ladyship," and leaving her, was bending his steps to the upper end of the room, where was
metal more attractive,
—
la belle
O'Bryen at work with lady Alicia.
"Now," said I to lady Fanny,
this action is more against you, than any thing I could have told him.
"O come back, my lord!" exclaimed she, quite frightened.
He obeyed.
"Ah!" cried I,
how weak are our resolutions when the heart is in a certain situation!
"You'll set me mad," said she; flying away from us over to the working-table; where she received no better consolation than being heartily laughed at.—Every body enjoys a joke against lady Fanny; the little chit is so very apt to be merry at other people's expence, that she has as many enemies as a minister of state.
But do I intend to go to bed to-night? It is just three o'clock.
Always yours, EDWARD MARCHMONT.
I forgot to tell you, that your friend, dean Domville's lady is safely delivered of a fine boy; to the great joy—as the newspapers will inform you—of that noble family: —which, by the bye, might soon be extinct on the part of the two elder brothers.
TO MISS O'BRYEN.—ENGLAND.
CHETWYND VILLA.
SO, Mrs. Wentworth denies all knowledge of the Chevalier du Mornai:— strange!—That he knows her too well, I am sufficiently convinced.—Something that happened this morning, increases my curiosity and surprize:—Sir Francis O'Bryen and the chevalier, breakfasted here. The conversation turned on Mrs. Hervey:—I believe you remember seeing her at the earl of Melmont's—she lost her husband about three months ago; her grief was so extravagant, as to put her friends in fear of her attempting to destroy herself: however, she changed her mind; and was last week married to a Mr. Walsh; a man every way her inferior.—Sir Francis made many gay observations on her conduct; and in his usual lively way, went on to say, that women never lament the loss of
the
husband, but the want of
a
husband.
"I hope," said Mr. Chetwynd,
it will soon be in my power to introduce you to a lady, in whose favour you will be obliged to give up that notion. What do you think, Francis, of a beautiful widow of two and twenty, with an immense fortune, devoting herself to solitude and celibacy?
Faith! Sir, 'tis very extraordinary; so much so, that I am sure it can't last long.—You said that you expected the lady here?
"Yes; very soon."
"Then, uncle," tapping him on the knee, "she is the very woman for me."
"You do not know her," said I,
or you would respect her sorrows.
Your pardon, madam, I have done. Only—her name?
"Harriet Wentworth."
A chocolate cup dropt from du Mornai's hand upon the floor: and faintly exclaiming, "my God!" he fell back in his chair. He remained for some minutes insensible. As soon as he recovered, he made some excuses—awkwardly enough, I thought— for the trouble he supposed he had given: said, that his health was bad; and he was subject to these sudden fits.—Yes, thought I, when Mrs. Wentworth is spoken of.
Certainly, my dear Valeria, this is a most mysterious and perplexing affair. I feel extremely for the poor chevalier. I am persuaded, he is deeply unhappy. On a nearer acquaintance, I find him exceedingly amiable. His
abord
is so very cold, that it almost freezes one; but by degrees the reserve wears off, and allows you to pay due esteem to his worth,—He speaks English remarkably well for a foreigner; indeed, quite as well as a native. He generally preserves a thoughtful and gloomy silence; but when he chuses to talk, his conversation—though always grave—is uncommonly sensible and entertaining.
Don't you think it was something extraordinary in him, to cry out, "my God!" should he not rather have said,
mon Dieu?
In a sudden and violent agitation of the mind, it is most natural and customary to use one's own language.
I cannot get this man out of my head: but I would not have you mention him to Mrs. Wentworth any more, lest it might prevent her coming here; and I earnestly wish to see her.
The moment I received yours, I wrote to lady Alicia. Her desire of accompanying you is extremely obliging; and the ready acquiescence of the duke and lady Carysbrook, is very flattering both to you and us.
Hasten your return, my lovely child. I long mightily to know your Sir Edward. Mr. Chetwynd is charmed with his letter, which he justly calls, a noble one.
Lord Melmont's coach coming up the avenue.—
Adieu, ma tres chere amie; Je vous embrasse.
CAROLINE CHETWYND.
TO LORD METHUEN.—POPLAR-HILL.
GRANVILLE-PARK.
LORD Osmore left us this morning. The precipitance of his departure was, I believe, partly occasioned by a whimsical little incident I will recount to you:— Chancing to rise this morning earlier than usual, I intended to take a ramble before breakfast; but finding it rained, I changed my mind, and the door of the breakfast-parlour standing open—I stroled in. My Valeria alone—standing at a window, writing carelessly with a pencil on the margin of a newspaper.—I stole behind her.—She had written' "Valeria O'Bryen," and under it, "Valeria Marchmont."—I caught the betwitching charmer in my arms. "Oh! Sir Edward!" Then hastily, and in extreme confusion, she would have effaced the pretty scribble. I pulled her away; embracing her with transport. She hid her lovely, blushing face on my shoulder; I pressed my lips to her forehead; —and in that very moment, who should enter the room but lord Osmore! as the devil, or his evil genius, would have it. What a sight for him! it pains me to reflect on what he must have suffered. At the time however, I felt only for my Valeria; —I gave her a pretence to retire, by saying aloud,
Tell me, you forgive me; and I'll not detain you any longer.
"I thank you," said she, in a low voice; and hurried away.
Assuming an air of unconcern, I said, "Your lordship is an early riser this morning."
So are you, Sir, I perceive. I believe we rise early from a very different cause:—you are too happy, I am too miserable, to sleep.
I did not chuse to understand this speech seriously; to answer it with raillery, was repugnant to my feelings;—I was silent; and he,
malheureusement,
walked over to the window at which Miss O'Bryen had stood. He instantly saw my name joined to hers; and retreated two steps, with a look of surprise and anguish.
Let me take away my impertinent scribble,
said I, putting the paper in my pocket:
I wish I had been wise enough to do so before she saw it.
He made some indistinct apology of "Letters to write"—and left me.
I amused myself with a book, till the family assembled to breakfast: when lord Osmore declared he must return to London immediately, on business of importance. Accordingly, he took his
congé:
and I have now no declared rival, except master Robert; of whom I should be extremely jealous if he was ten years older.
A letter from Ireland—How my heart beats!
—
With fearful impatience I broke its seal: —from Mr. Chetwynd;—fully answerable to my warmest wishes.—I must seek my fairest!
EDWARD MARCHMONT.
TO LORD METHU N.—POPLAR-HILL.
MARCHMONT-HOUSE.
I HAVE this moment been favoured with your's; and am surprised you should think me capable of treating you with so much neglect: no, be assured, my dear Augustus, I had not the least intention of leaving England without seeing you.
As you say, I must have a great deal of courage to venture to attend my Hibernian belle to Ireland. If one of her countrymen does not blow my brains out, or run me through the body, I shall have a worse opinion of the gallantry of the nation, than I have hitherto entertained. And yet, after all the fine women those
tall Irishmen
have carried away from us, it would ill suit their characteristical generosity, to grudge an Englishman one beauty.
I write this from Marchmont-house; where I am at present employed in making some alterations and arrangements, which will render this fine old seat more worthy of its future mistress. I am almost certain the little improvements I am making will please her; for during our sweet intercourse of unreserved friendship at the duke's, I studied her taste; and found it—which most agreeably flattered me—perfectly similar to my own.
I must tell you some news, I have heard from good authority since I came down here:—Miss Ormsby, my old flame— though, Lord knows, she never warmed me much—is going to be married to Sir Peter Ball; a poor city knight; who, I suppose, is very glad there should be a mutual participation of his title and her fortune. I think knights are quite her game: yet I would fain think, we are not easier taken in, than any other set of men. You see she is determined to be a
lady
at any rate; and that, as Sir Peter is considerably on the wrong side of fifty, must, I presume, be her principal inducement to wed him. I am afraid it would not be very uncharitable to conjecture, by his age, that Mr. Webster is not to lose any thing by the match.
"Vieillards qui deviendrez maris,
"Mettez bien vos lunettes."
Poor Sir Peter! Whenever I call to mind some late occurrences, I find myself exceedingly inclined to compassionate any man I think in danger of Acteon's fate.
A propos
—Pray, my lord, is it not a little surprising, that the goddess of chastity, and ladies who are not, Heaven knows, very famous for that virtue,—should have fixed upon the same mode of punishing our hapless sex?
I have another piece of intelligence to communicate: you perceive I am quite a news-monger to-day:—Sir James Conway has let his estate here to Mr. Domville; who, ever since his marriage, has been fluctuating between Ireland, France, and England. I find he intends to settle here; so I shall exchange a very undesirable neighbour, for a very agreeable one.
The two days I have been obliged to spend here, have appeared to me insufferably tedious. The day is, undoubtedly, three times as long here as at Granvillepark.—I go to London to-morrow; where I expect to discharge as much business in one day, as would take me up four, at another time. Then away to Granville-park —which has more charms for me, at present, than any other place in the world. From that I shall go to Poplar-hill: I believe my sister will accompany me; as I am sure she is desirous to see lady Methuen before our excursion to Ireland, which is fixed for next week. I was afraid she would not have consented to undertake this little voyage: but her gentle temper could not withstand Mrs. Chetwynd's pressing invitation, which was equally friendly and polite; joined to Miss O'Bryen's persuasive eloquence, and my earnest solicitations.— It would have thrown a shade of regret over my joys, to have left this sweet, melancholy creature, unprotected and alone. —If my love for my Valeria could admit of any heightening, it would receive it from her tenderness to this dear, unfortunate fister; who hangs about my heart, in a manner I cannot describe. How closely does pity tie the band of friendship!
Tell my dear lady Methuen, I long to see whether your daughter or Arthur has
grown
most, since I was at Poplar-hill: there was then, I remember, a powerful emulation between them; though their ambition was somewhat differently directed; she aiming entirely at bulk, and he chiefly at height.
O, Methuen, how opposite is my present situation, to that in which I last visited your amiable family! Crooked and thorny was my path to happiness; but I have arrived at it! Praised be the Hand that led me! May the same mighty and merciful Hand pour its best blessings on the head of that dear friend, whose feeling and generous heart equally participates my afflictions and my joys!
EDWARD MARCHMONT.
TO LORD METHUEN.—ENGLAND.
CHETWYND VILLA.
THIS is my third letter from Ireland: you see you are getting deep into debt: I warn you, you will find me a most merciless creditor. My first from Dublin, I presume, you have received by this time.— The ladies are perfectly recovered of their little fatigue: and we are all as well and as happy as possible at Chetwyndvilla.
Our agreeable fellow - travellers, Mr. Domville and lady Lucy, are still at lord Melmont's house in Dublin; but are to-morrow expected at Firdale, a seat of his lordship's, within six or seven miles of this place.
I am charmed with my future relations: —they already treat me
as their friend— as their son.
—With Mrs. Chetwynd I am almost as much in love, as with her beautiful niece. She is still extremely agreeable in her person, though I suppose she must be about forty. Her understanding is very good; and her conversation and manners evidently shew a perfect knowledge of the
grand monde.
But what principally attracts me, is the affectionate sensibility of her heart; which is easily discernible to the most superficial observer. There is a tenderness—an air of interest, in her behaviour to any person in distress, that is unspeakably pleasing and amiable: I have seen tears in her eyes as she surveyed my sister; to whom her whole behaviour—as, indeed, that of every individual of this family—is assiduously attentive and obliging.
Mr. Chetwynd is a sensible, and most worthy man. His temper is warm, even to enthusiasm. The fire of the man is catching;—I frequently feel my heart glow as I converse with him.—From this warmth of disposition proceed most of his virtues, and all his faults: here I may justly apply a line of that character, so admirably drawn by Goldsmith,
—Ev'n his failings lean to virtue's side.
He can hardly behave with common civility to a man he despises; he would scorn to take off his hat to a scoundrel, though he lolled in a coach adorned by a coronet; —but he would kneel in the dirt to kiss the hand of an honest man in rags.—Do not figure to yourself a sour cynic, snarling at the world:—no man is more ready to overlook any errors that do not flow from the depravity of the mind. He is polite, frank, hospitable, sprightly, and good-humoured; enjoying the world freely, but enjoying it with reason and innocence; and quarrelling as much with the meanness, as with the sinfulness of vice. In short, I never yet knew a heart, every way so totally uncorrupted by five-and-forty years commerce with the world.
Such are the parents of my Valeria,— for it is in that light she considers them; and most gladly shall I render them the duty and affection of a son. They absolutely doat on their niece—How should they do otherwise?—They treat her in such a manner, that I am seriously surprised she is not as vain as she is lovely. And perhaps it was well for her she did not lose her real parents, till her mind had acquired sufficient solidity to resist the attacks of vanity. Yet she was but seventeen, when she came under the guardianship of Mr. Chetwynd and his lady;—a most dangerous period in life, to a woman of her uncommon beauty: she has now lived with them near four years,—and is it not amazing, that their incessant flattery, their unbounded indulgence, joined to the universal admiration, has not quite turned her head? Yet is she not the most modest, the most unassuming of women? Can I ever enough admire the excellence of her judgment, the steadiness of her mind?—It has been observed, that wherever nature is lavish of personal beauties, she is extremely sparing of mental ones;—or perhaps we might as well say, that the former have a natural tendency to destroy the latter, by laying open the youthful mind to the destructive, the almost resistless power of vanity:— and how very rarely do we see united, as in Miss O'Bryen,—every grace, every charm of person and mind? There is none like her—
"Nature, full of grace,
"Made only one, and having made her, swore,
"In pity to mankind, to make no more."
And that one—O my exulting heart!— that most perfect work of nature, was made for me!
Philip to dress my hair for dinner.—I fancy your are not displeased with him for the interruption.
—
Congratulate me, Augustus:—my happiness is fixed at the distance of a fortnight.
Fourteen tedious days!—Is not the charmer cruel, to delay my bliss so long? Yet, I assure you, if Mr. Chetwynd had not been warmly my friend, she would have put me off a whole month.
—
Sir Francis O'Bryen—cousin-german to the loveliest of women—dined here to-day. I like him much. He is an agreeable, elegant fellow, of two or three and twenty. A great favourite of his uncle Chetwynd's; which is a powerful recommendation to me.—I regretted that he did not bring the chevalier du Mornai with him:—I suppose you recollect what I told you I had heard from my Valeria concerning that gentleman.
Mr. Chetwynd asked for the chevalier: —Sir Francis replied, that he hoped he was well; he had been at Cork these ten days.
Lady Enmore—did not I tell you in my last she was at Chetwynd-villa?—repeated with some surprise,
At Cork! What could have carried him to such a distance? —Eighty miles hence: Is it not?
"Thereabouts," answered Mr. Chetwynd:
Pray, Sir Francis, has the chevalier any acquaintance there?
None, Sir.—He went to see the place.
It surprises me exceedingly, my lord, that such a man, as Sir Francis appears to be, should allow his friend—a stranger and a foreigner—to travel alone. But perhaps he went with a party. However, 'tis certainly no concern of mine; and rather impertinent in me to trouble my head about the matter.
O! I must throw away my pen—I can't write in this room—what is worse, I can't sleep in it—Yet there is but one in the house I would exchange it for—the very one, which, by its vicinity, puts it out of my power to rest in this. The partition wall is so thick, I cannot hear the least noise;—but the very idea of her being in the next room!—Come, sweet Morpheus; bear away that cruel partition!—Observe my inconsistency—I tell you first I cannot sleep, then immediately begin to invoke the god of dreams:—I give you leave to laugh at me. Since the Hibernian air has such an effect on me already, in a short time you may expect to hear me sing.
"Since the first time I saw her, I took no repose,
"But sleep half the day, &c.
After all, I am not so very inconsistent; for what are a lover's thoughts but waking dreams?—Not very clear, however, that it is Morpheus inspires those waking dreams.
Adieu: it is time for me to go to bed; —you see I am almost dreaming already.
EDWARD MARCHMONT.
TO THE CHEVALIER DU MORNAI.—CORK.
O'BRYEN CASTLE.
HEAVENS! my dear du Mornai, leave Ireland!—As you prize my friendship do not think of it. Why this sudden resolve? And why so soon revoke your promise of spending the winter with me? You do not care to see her—Well, she will not follow you to Cork, I warrant. But
I
will, as soon as I possibly can; which will be in a day or two. In the mean time, seek amusement, banish thought, banish care. I hope you find the families, to whom my letters introduced you, agreeable. When I join you, we will take a tour through some parts of this island; and I will shew you whatever it produces most worthy your observation.
I have been to pay
mes devoirs
to Miss O'Bryen. An amazing fine woman!—I wish you could see her: unmeaning wish! with all her attractions, she would be an uninteresting object to you.—I take it strongly into my head, that she is the cause of Sir Edward Marchmont's visit to Ireland; for I don't think he knew either my uncle or aunt Chetwynd before he came, and his whole behaviour to her is most tenderly and respectfully assiduous. His eyes follow her with a fond—nay, a jealous attention; they languish as she retires, and sparkle at her approach.—
Entre nous,
if I did not absolutely despair of supplanting such a man as this Sir Edward, I should find myself exceedingly inclined to feel something more than friendship for this beautiful relation.
There is another young lady at Chetwynd-villa —besides one I will not mention to you—who is
assez jolie,
and very pleasing: her name is Sedley, daughter to the late lord Carysbrook; the same relation to Miss O'Bryen on her mother's side, that I am on her father's.
Shall I, or shall I not, say any thing of —By what name shall I call her to you?— Pale; but extremely lovely—An air of touching sadness—Dressed in doleful black—.
"A Venus rising from a sea of jet."
O woman—woman, thou art deceitful! Who could look in Mrs. Wentworth's face, and not pronounce that tender sorrow, the result of suffering innocence, rather than repenting guilt?—But enough on a subject I ought not to have introduced at all.
Adieu, mon cher chevalier: amusez vous; soyez gai.
FRANCIS O'BRYEN.
TO SIR FRANCIS O'BRYEN, BART.— O'BRYEN-CASTLE.
CORK.
PALE! sad! in mourning!—O, Sir Francis, how this description melts my soul!—But fool—fool that I am! 'tis not for the wretched Henry she is pale, sad, or in mourning: for him, even
the mockery of woe,
is by this time laid aside. If she be melancholy, it is because, perhaps, she is forsaken by—. His name shall not stain my paper.
Pardon my weakness; I cannot write— I cannot think on any other subject. In vain does my reason recal the insufferable wrongs she has done me: and time, that should have effaced my love, has only lulled my resentment to sleep.—O cruel Harriet! false, ungrateful woman! to what endless—to what unspeakable misery, have you doomed a man, who, while he thought you innocent, would have shed his heart's dearest drops for you! Nay, by Heaven! I would do so at this moment!
I am almost ashamed to confess to you, I have been so weak as to write to her in my feigned character. I have disguised my hand—vain caution! I have doubtless no place in her remembrance.
I told her—that I had seen her at Paris with lady Marchmont: that I there imbibed for her a passion, which marked my future days with woe.—I had been married by my father, when I was extremely young, to a woman for whom I never had the least affection: this unfortunate engagement put it out of my power to declare my love for her. Respecting her virtue—
Her
virtue!—O 'twas profaning the facred name—Yet she has more perfections, and fewer faults, than many who have not her frailty.—But of what account are a woman's virtues, if chastity be not amongst the number? 'Tis that which brightens and refines all the rest: without it, every other virtue under the sun cannot render a woman amiable; and with it, she can hardly ever be thoroughly contemptible.
—I said—that respecting her virtue, I shunned her sight; and determined to impose on myself an eternal silence. About a year after this, my wife died; and resolving to go immediately to England, I waited on Monsieur de Villemar, and requested he would favour me with a recommendatory letter to Sir George Marchmont. He informed me Miss Marchmont was already married!—This dreadful and unexpected stroke was near depriving me of my existence. I quitted my friends and country: rambled over most part of Europe; hopeless of happiness, and wholly regardless of life.—At Rome I contracted a friendship with Sir Francis O'Bryen; by whose solicitations I was induced to come to Ireland: Heaven directing my steps! for here I learned she was again free.—I concluded with earnestly intreating permission to throw myself at her feet.
Such, in brief, was the purport of an address, every way calculated to sooth the vanity of her sex. It agrees very well with the disorder, the mention of her fatal name excited in me; and of which, I doubt not, she has been informed.—The real agitation of my mind, and the mixture of truth contained in this fiction—gives, I think, an air of sincerity to the whole.
You will ask me why I wrote:—I cannot tell you; I had no sort of purpose to answer by it; I was actuated by an impulse I could not resist. If she rejects du Mornai, it will not be for me, he is rejected; but for the cursed murderer of my peace and honour. If she grants the permission I affect so much to desire—do not think I could be so meanly irresolute, as to make myself known to her.—I do not wish to upbraid her—Alas! I could not upbraid her—Her presence would be more dreadful to me, than mine could be to her.—I acknowledge, with shame I acknowledge, I love her still; yet, do me the justice to believe, that no consideration could induce me to renew my connexions with her. No, my friend; lovely as she is, I should
"—scorn the person, where I doubt the heart."
And could I—which I never could—depend on the stability of that heart,—yet the delicacy of my love is mortally wounded; —I never could be happy.
I am inexpressibly impatient for an answer to my ill-judged and unnecessary letter; although that answer, of whatsoever nature it may be, cannot, in any degree, alleviate, or even alter my misery.—Pity me, dear O'Bryen: pity, and despise me not. You have never felt the all-subduing power of love; you know not to what various inconsistencies it prompts us;—great then will be your candour, if you can excuse the weakness of your unfortunate friend.
I should intreat you not to come here, if I did not know, by experience, how impossible it is to dissuade you from any thing that is good-natured. Come, my dear Sir Francis: but expect not that I can join you in parties, either of pleasure or improvement: —I have no taste for pleasure; and to what purpose should I seek to improve my mind? There is none I wish to please; the world is to me a desart.
You must not insist on the performance of my promise: when I gave it, I could not foresee its consequences. I cannot remain in a place where there is a probability —a bare possibility—of again seeing her, I
must
for ever love, and
will
for ever shun.
In whatsoever place or circumstances I may drag on the remains of a hated existence —be assured, I shall always conserve the liveliest remembrance of your generous friendship.
DU MORNAI.
TO THE CHEVALIER DU MORNAI.—CORK.
O'BRYEN-CASTLE.
MY heart is penetrated with your distress. My dear Chevalier, you shall not go:—I cannot support the thought of your rambling about the world, a joyless, friendless, unconnected being; perhaps wanting even the necessaries of life. And can I be happy while you are miserable? Can I riot in abundance while you want? No, du Mornai; you know not my honest heart, if you think I can.—The world, you say, is to you a desart;—you cannot, therefore, have a particular liking to any place; then why not fix your residence in Ireland? The only obstacle will soon be removed; she is but on a visit;—and this preference is due to my affection, though not to my merit.— You shall never go: we will live together; we will have but one house, one purse, one heart. If my vivacity is disagreeable to you—I can, and will suppress it: I will be serious, melancholy—any thing, to please and sooth you.
It was not my intention to make you this proposal, until time had rendered—as I flattered myself it would—my friendship and society dearer to you; that you might, of consequence, be the less able to reject an offer I so passionately wish you to accept: but your precipitance, of necessity, hurries me.—If you deny me—I shall think you one of the proudest, and most hardhearted of men: if you comply—I swear to you, my dear chevalier, I shall consider your condescending to be indebted to me, as the highest obligation that can possibly be conferred on me.
For God's sake, du Mornai, let me hear no more apologies for your feelings:—I more than excuse—I admire
"—The graceful weakness of your heart."
In me, behold not a cold, unfeeling censor, but a warm and sympathetic friend. And yet, my friend, allow me gently to observe, that love or honour must be conquered: —the first, I fear, is unconquerable; the last I dare not advise you to combat. I do not presume to offer my counsel in a case so very delicate: I shall never recommend to my friend—no, nor to my enemy—a conduct which I think I ought not to pursue myself; and on the other hand, I shall never take upon me to censure any man for acting, as I might perhaps myself do, in his circumstances.
I am sure it was hard for my business to prosper within the last fortnight; for I have cursed by the hour every thing that has kept me from you. The affair which, you know, principally detained me, is yet unfinished; but that, and every thing, shall give way to friendship: nothing shall prevent my going to Cork to-morrow.
FRANCIS O'BRYEN.
TO THE CHEVALIER DU MORNAI.—CORK.
CHETWYND-VILLA.
I AM pained, Monsieur, to be obliged to convey to you my sister's sentiments. To well have I known the agonizing pangs of hopeless love, not to feel the deepest compassion for any man condemned to bear them. I respect, I love, and I lament, the noble constancy of your unfortunate passion. Would to Heaven it was in my power, in any degree, to soften the wound my unwilling hand must give! If the
manner
of a refusal can console—be consoled, chevalier:—Mrs. Wentworth rejects, but she insults you not; she refuses you steadily; but it is with gratitude, it is with tears. —She
cannot
love; her heart was buried in the grave of her husband! A husband, who, as her brother I would say, deserved her not: but as a man—bound to allow for the frailties incident to humanity—I can pardon his errors, and grieve for his misfortunes.
You merit Mrs. Wentworth's friendship; —but let the confidence she allows me to repose in you, evince that she withholds it not:—the inclosed I may call a history of her misfortunes: it was written by Miss O'Bryen for Mrs. Chetwynd. I need only add to it, that by the prudence of my most amiable friend, lord Metheun, —these melancholy transactions were kept from the public knowledge: the world—ever prone to look on the dark side of things—would not have believed that a woman, so perfectly innocent, could be so very unfortunate. I do not pretend to acquit her wholly of the charge of imprudence: but very slight was the fault; and such as a woman of a less unsuspecting heart, with half her understanding, might have avoided: the fault, I repeat, was trivial; and the punishment severe, indeed! —Whilst the fair mourner weeps incessant for her Henry—you, chevalier, I am persuaded, will drop a generous tear to the misfortunes of both.
I think so highly of your delicacy, and imagine you must have so good an opinion of Mrs. Wentworth's, that after you have read these papers, I will not suppose it necessary to tell you, that you must not expect time can make any change in your favour.
I am, Monsieur, With the greatest esteem, Your most obedient, &c. EDWARD MARCHMONT.
TO LORD METHUEN.—ENGLAND.
CHETWYND VILLA.
GRACIOUS Heaven! my dear friend, what an amazing tale have I to unsold!— Should I tell you that Harry Wentworth lives,—will you not believe that I rave, or that I mock you? Yet, I have received a letter from him within this half hour. It is impossible to describe the emotion the perusal of it gave me. With what aftonishment, what tumultuous joy—joy checked by doubt—did I regard it! My head grew dizzy; and my behaviour, I believe, was absolutely frantic. By an impulse almost involuntary, I flew to the dear partner of my soul:—her soothing softness has, in some degree, composed my agitated spirits; yet still my heart beats strangely, and my blood seems to circulate in an unusual way. —I was in my own chamber when the letter was brought to me; and having heard Miss O'Bryen enter her's, without reflecting on the boldness and impropriety of such an intrusion—
The carriage waits—Imagine with what impatience I go to embrace my long-lost brother.
I shall request my Valeria to add a few lines, and seal this.—She knows that I have already told you every thing relative to this pretended Frenchman's addresses to my sister.
—
I esteem myself singularly fortunate, to have at once an opportunity of testifying my sense of the favours I have received from lord Methuen, conveying pleasure to him, and obliging Sir Edward Marchmont. —Your lordship will lose by the change of your correspondent.—But it would be unpardonable to tire you with tedious apologies, instead of entering immediately on a subject so interesting to you. Where am I to take it up? Let me see.—At my own room door, I think.—I had just sat down to write to Miss Marchmont, when I heard a hasty tap at my door. "Come in, Sir," said I, supposing it was my uncle; and rising, I walked towards the door:—I was extremely surprised to see it opened by Sir Edward. He clasped me in his arms without speaking a word: he was in violent disorder; and changed colour every instant.
My God!
cried I,
what is the matter? —You are ill!—O sit here
—I led him to a large elbow-chair as I spoke: he sat down, and placed me beside him; saying, with great emotion,
O, Valeria! my sister
—He laid an open letter on my lap; and burst into tears.—I cannot express how much he frightened me:—Harriet had gone out a little before to take the air with lady Enmore;—an over-turned carriage, and broken limbs, were the first ideas that rose in my mind;—I grasped his hand in speechless terror.—
I have discomposed you, my love,
said he:
How could I be so thoughtless? But how, at such a moment, could I be otherwise?—You shall not see this yet.
He would have taken away Mr. Wentworth's letter—I snatched it eagerly— What a sudden transition from affliction to joy!—But, my lord, it will be a great deal more to the purpose, to give you some account of the letter itself, than to attempt to tell the effect it had, either on myself or on Sir Edward.—It is written in a style I cannot do justice to: irregular, elevated, warm, and pathetic. After most passionately lamenting the pain his unworthy suspicions occasioned to his Harriet—severely condemning himself, for giving way to thoughts so injurious to her—earnestly begging his brother's forgiveness—and generously praising the candour of the writer of the little narrative Sir Edward so fortunately sent to him—he proceeds to applaud your lordship's behaviour in your unhappy duel: he says, you in the gentlest, though most intrepid manner, ineffectually demanded what cause of offence you had given; and refused to fight, until provoked by the most opprobrious language.—When you fell bleeding and senseless to the ground, he thought you dead; yet still animated by a furious resentment, he was going to stab you through the heart; but every feeling of the man and the gentleman, rising against so base an action, he threw away the bloody sword with horror, and precipitately quitted the place.
He embarked on board a merchant ship bound to Cadiz; taking with him bills on that city to the amount of about two thousand pounds: this sum he thought would be sufficient for a year or two; and his melancholy imagination naturally enough suggested, that he could not survive his misfortunes beyond that time.
He was received with all the friendship he expected by Don Juan d'Almagro; to whom he disclosed the secret cause of his voluntary exile. The jealous, haughty, vindictive temper of the Spaniard, highly approved his conduct; and confirmed him in his resolution of estranging himself for ever from England.—Sir Edward's enquiry embarrassed them very much: neither were willing to acknowledge the truth; both scorned a lie; and Don Juan's politeness rejected the idea of leaving the letter unanswered. An accident at length determined them; and induced them to adopt as wild a scheme as ever a romantic brain suggested: truth, they relunctantly obliged to give way to a supposed necessity.—Mr. Wentworth's servant was thrown from his horse, and died in a few days after of his bruises and a fever, which was their consequence. During his illness, he expressed so strong a concern at the thought of being buried in a foreign country, that his master humanely promised, that if he died he would be at the expence of having him conveyed to England. The sequel is easily imagined: —Mr. Wentworth, to put a final stop to the enquiries of his friends, thought fit to make the corps pass for his own; and dictated to Don Juan that letter, which drew so many tears from the fairest eyes in England. This strange deceit was not easily detected: the body of a person dying in such circumstances would be expected to be altered and disfigured; and this man, though unlike him in bulk and complexion, was about his age, nearly of the same stature, had some resemblance in his features, and hair of the same colour.
Some time after this, from a restlessness of disposition, he left Cadiz; and, as he himself phrased it, when he wrote in his assumed character to Mrs. Wentworth—
rambled over most part of Europe, hopeless of happiness, and wholly regardless of life.
Passing one night through the streets of Rome, he saw a young gentleman leaning his back against a wall, defending himself with great bravery against three men. Our generous unfortunate immediately drew his sword, in aid of the person who fought so unequal a combat:—the dastardly assassins were soon put to flight.—Mr. O'Bryen— for you will guess it was he—thanked his deliverer in the warmest terms.—
You owe me nothing,
returned Mr. Wentworth gravely:
I am happy to have assisted to preserve
your
life; and only wish I had been fortunate enough to have lost my own.
Ah! Signior, I fear you are unhappy: if by my fortune, my friendship, my life itself, I can render you any service, freely command me.
My misfortunes are not of a nature to admit of remedy. At present, however, I think of nothing but your safety: allow me to attend you.
Such an incident as this naturally led to an intimacy between them. O'Bryen was of a temper too grateful and generous, not to seek to return so great an obligation: but the reserve of the man he wished to oblige, put it out of his power to do more than endeavour to divert a melancholy, of which he knew not the cause. Though Mr. Wentworth's mind was soured by misfortune, he could not long be insensible to such attention;—the most perfect friendship was quickly founded on the strong basis of mutual worth and mutual gratitude: the fullest confidence soon succeeded. They became inseparable companions; visited several places in Italy together; and when Sir John O'Bryen's death called home his son, he found means to persuade his friend to accompany him: though not without much difficulty; and after repeatedly urging the improbability of his being known, under the disguise of a Frenchman, in a kingdom where he had never been; especially as his perfect knowledge of the French nation and language gave him no room to apprehend suspicion.
You know all the rest, my lord;—I have only to tell you, that Mr. Wentworth and Sir Francis O'Bryen left Cork immediately on the receipt of Sir Edward's letter, and late last night returned to O'Bryen castle; where Sir Edward is now gone.—I presume he will return tonight, as the distance is not more than eight miles.
It is well Mrs. Wentworth happened to be abroad this morning:—our excessive joy might have betrayed more than it would be proper for her yet to know. I dread the consequences of a full discovery: —but we must be cautious, and hope the best.
I will bid you adieu, and return to my letter to Miss Marchmont:—
now,
what a joyful letter!—How peculiarly happy am I to be able to convey pleasure to three such persons, as your lordship, lady Methuen, and Miss Marchmont; To give happiness is, certainly, to feel it in a very superior degree: then, am not I highly favoured by fortune, in having such an addition made to my own happiness?
Make my affectionate compliments acceptable to lady Methuen.
I have the honour to be Your Lordship's Obliged and attached friend, VALERIA O'BRYEN.
To the Right Honourable LADY METHUEN.— ENGLAND.
CHETWYND-VILLA.
O MY dear lady Methuen, my heart is strangely agitated! They tell me that my Henry lives! Is it—can it be possible?
There is here—I mean in this neighbourhood —a gentleman, who professes to entertain for me a passion, I as little desire as deserve. I always disliked second marriages; I thought they betrayed a want of delicacy;—but ever since I have been a widow, I have abhorred them; I have almost thought them criminal. I blush that any man should love me: I do not, somehow, think myself at liberty—I am sure, at least, my heart is not free—to receive addresses of this nature; they even strike me with a kind of horror. I pity Du Mornai; and yet inconsistently hate him: unjust and ungenerous that I am, to hate a man only because I have done him an injury! —I, however, allowed my brother to impart to him the circumstances that attended the loss of my husband. O, my friend, I blot the last sentence with my tears. No woman ever loved a husband more tenderly, more ardently, nor more
delicately,
than I did; and yet my unjust, my cruel—but still dear, ever-to-be-lamented Henry, could think me false! Alas!—my bursting heart!—he
dying
thought me so! Ye powers! that I should live to have my virtue suspected! and that too, by the man whom, next to Heaven, I esteemed and loved!
I am writing in the most incoherent manner—I meant to have told you, that my brother has been to visit Monsieur du Mornai; the morning after he returned, he told me—after many pauses, hints, and much circumlocution—that the chevalier was of opinion, that Mr. Wentworth is still alive; and had only made use of an artifice —which might, he said, be easily managed —to induce us to believe him dead. To my infinite surprise, my brother himself, and all my friends here, agree in thinking this conjecture founded on probability. They say a great deal in support of this opinion;—they particularly urge the congruity of such a procedure in Mr. Wentworth, with his abrupt departure from England, and earnest request to my father and brother never to make any enquiry after him.—What, Louisa, do you think of all this? For my part, I know not what to believe. I am perplexed and anxious beyond measure. I am a thousand times more miserable than ever.—Can Sir Edward, do you imagine, have heard any thing concerning Mr. Wentworth, which he fears to impart to me immediately? I know his tender consideration for me—But from what quarter should he receive such intelligence? 'Tis, however, extremely unlikely that this Chevalier du Mornai should have so much more penetration than every body else.—I distract myself with conjectures— My soul is on the rack.
—
Yes, Louisa, Edward certainly knows something which he chuses not to communicate: I have told him that he does;— he did not deny it; but squeezing my hand, said,
If I conceal any thing from my dear Harriet, I trust she is no stranger to the motive of that concealment.
I should have importuned him, had not the entrance of lady Alicia Sedley put an end to our conversation. I like not to talk on this subject before her or lady Enmore; though I find my brother has made them acquainted with all my affairs; Was it right, my dear lady Methuen, to make them my confidants without my leave? This behaviour is not consonant to his usual delicacy;—it must mean something.
Write to me immediately, my friend: tell me, do you think it possible that my Henry lives?—Why will not they tell me all they know? There is no bearing this torturing suspense.
Lady Enmore is obliged to go to Dublin for a few days;—the wedding is deferred till her return; a compliment, to which her generous friendship for Miss O'Bryen certainly entitles her: yet I fancy Sir Edward paid it with reluctance.
I am interrupted by Mrs. Chetwynd. I am not allowed to be a moment alone. However, Mrs. Chetwynd can never be an intruder to me: I love her from my soul; and could with pleasure join Edward and Valeria when they call her mother, as they both frequently do.
Farewel.
Most truly yours, HARRIET WENTWORTH.
TO LORD METHUEN.—ENGLAND.
CHETWYND-VILLA.
I AM this moment honoured with your lordship's very polite letter. Some people cannot bear encouragement:—see, what an encroacher I am! I no sooner learn that you tolerate one letter, than I commence another. However, 'tis at Sir Edward's desire. Not that the saucy fellow has
yet
a right to command me; but as my day of power will—alas!—be very short, it is politic to use it generously, in order to set him a good example.
Now, my lord, prepare yourself to read one of the longest letters that ever was written.—Your friend has told you all the artifices we have been obliged to use with his sister, during the last fortnight. We were tortured to behold the disquietude occasioned by the suspense we excited; yet none of us dared to speak out. Mr. Wentworth has, if possible, suffered more than her:—his impatience to behold her could have been checked only by his fears.
When I arose yesterday morning, I sent, as usual, to enquire how Mrs. Wentworth had passed the night. Her woman came to me, and told me, she feared her lady would absolutely destroy herself, by giving way to so violent an anxiety; that she had been up the greatest part of the night; one time throwing herself on her bed, or walking slowly about the room, she silently wept; then moving with a quicker pace, she beat her breast, and threw out many expressions, denoting the severest anguish of mind.
I went to her chamber immediately. I met Sir Edward at the door.
I have been with poor Harriet,
said he.—Indeed, he had no need to tell me so; I saw by his tearful eyes where he had been.— "What shall I do?" added he:
my heart bleeds for her.
"Have you told her nothing more," asked I, "than she knew before?"
I have not. I was several times going to speak; but had not the courage. O, Valeria, should I tell her all, perhaps—
he stopt;—it was, as a feeling writer says, "a perhaps not to be borne."
"In my opinion, Sir Edward," said I,
no hazard can be greater, than that of suffering her to remain much longer in her present state of mind. It is four days since you told her that Du Mornai saw Mr. Wenworth in Italy, since the time she believed him dead: consequently, she has now accustomed herself to think him alive:—it is time she should know more: and more she shall know, if you give me leave.
I do.—Yet, my dear creature, consider.
—"I will not be discouraged," cried I, abruptly quitting him.
I found his sister, as I expected, in tears. I sat down by her.
I must scold you, Harriet, I am angry with you.
"What have I done?"
You have been careless of your health: you have sat up almost all night.
I could not sleep. It is impossible for me to rest either by day or night.
And why impossible? Are you not most unreasonable? While you were entirely without hope, you combated your afflictions; you were calm, though unhappy: now, when you know certainly that Mr. Wentworth lives, you abandon yourself to grief.
"I know he did live: but, oh:" cried she, weeping afresh,
how do I know that he lives still? In what part of the world am I to seek him?
You will know all in time:—has not your brother written to his friends in Italy?
Yes, yes; he has
written:
—I knew the time he would have
gone.
But I am unreasonable: pardon me.
"I cannot pardon you." The tears I had with much difficulty restrained before, fell from my eyes in spite of me.
I understand your hint very well," added I; but I swear to you, my cruel friend, were matters situated, as you suppose, I should be the first to persuade him to go. If leaving me was an obstacle, I would go with him.
Forgive me; I knew not what I said; —I did not intend to wrong either his friendship or yours. But what did you say, Valeria? If matters were, as I suppose —What meant my friend?
I am afraid to tell you. You can bear nothing with equanimity but despair.
For God's sake! if you know any thing of my husband, do not hide it from me! O, my friend—my sister!
throwing her arms round my neck—
if you know any thing of my Henry, do not hide it from me!
What would you that I should tell you?
"Is he living? Where is he?"
Mark me then, Harriet—he undoubtedly is living; and in perfect health.
— She sunk down on her knees, and silently raised her hands and eyes to Heaven, with a look of transport and gratitude unutterable. I did not attempt to move her from a position that so well became her situation; but hastily mixing some sal-volatile with water, I gave her a glass of it: she drank it almost mechanically: and thinking she would chuse to be alone, I left the room.
Knowing how uneasy Sir Edward would be till he saw me, I flew to the breakfast-parlour; —he met me at the door, with open arms, and looks of anxious enquiry. I recounted my proceedings; and had the pleasure to receive his approbation.
My aunt observing that she should not be left long alone, I was returning to her apartment, when I met her in the hall. She affectionately embraced and thanked me.
But, Valeria, you only half answered my question—Where is he?
"I cannot tell you."
"Good God!" she exclaimed, with the most disappointed air;
you cannot tell! —How then do you know if he is living?
You misunderstand me; I did not mean that I could not, but—excuse me —that I would not as yet inform you. Let me see you easy and chearful till after dinner, and upon my honour I will then tell you in what prince's dominions he is.
"Were I treated thus," said she,
by any person of whose good-nature I could entertain the least doubt, I should unavoidably accuse them of playing with my misery.
You would be most unjust if you thought so of me. Be assured, my Harriet, if I did not fear to overpower you with joy, I should with rapture gratify you.
"Your motive is kind, indeed," returned she;
but the conduct resulting from it is most cruel.
My uncle hearing us in the hall, came out, and took us both into the parlour.
The dear sufferer made visible efforts to appear chearful till the expiration of the stated time.—As soon as the servants were withdrawn after dinner, she turned to me, as I sat by her;—
Now, Valeria, have I not been patient? Do I not deserve to be pitied?
Sir Edward left his seat, and leaned on the back of her chair;—his intelligent countenance speaking what he felt for her.
Her expression filled my eyes with tears: —"Indeed, Harriet," said I,
you do.— Ask your question.
"Where is he?" demanded she eagerly.
He is in the dominions of the King of—.
"Dare I guess England?"
"You are right."
"O merciful Heaven!" cried she, clasping her hands together;
is he then in England? This is expected happiness indeed! Well might you fear to overpower me with joy! O Valeria!
falling on my bosom—
are you sure my Henry is in England?
The sweet, extravagant creature proposed setting out for Dublin instantly; that she might be ready to embrace the first opportunity of returning to England.
"Sure" said my uncle,
you would not go till you have seen the chevalier du Mornai;—'twas entirely by his means you have recovered Mr. Wentworth;— your thanks are certainly due to him.
Well, Sir, I'll write them. I would not see him on any account.
"Pardon me, madam," he replied,
I believe you ought.
She did not contend with him; but addressed herself to my aunt:
Favour me with your advice, my dear Mrs. Chetwynd: I will follow it implicitly. Think you not there would be an indelicacy in my receiving a visit from him? Should I not be wanting in what I owe Mr. Wentworth?
I saw my aunt was perplexed for an answer; and particularly as she could not but approve her refusing to see her imaginary lover:—to
disembarrass
her, I said, that I thought Mrs. Wentworth judged perfectly right with regard to Monsieur: "But indeed, Harriet," added I,
I cannot so readily approve of your going to England. It is certainly Mr. Wentworth's business to come to you. And he will do so, the moment he obtains your permission; for lord Methuen has explained to him every thing he unhappily misunderstood.
"And is he then convinced—"
of my innocence,
she would have said, but delicacy and tears joined to break the sentence.
"My excellent Valeria!" whispered Sir Edward tenderly; and he had the assurance to kiss my cheek. But why do I tell
you
this? I forget I am not writing to my aunt Chetwynd.
"Your brother," resumed I,
will write to him immediately. Not a word, my dear Harriet;
for she was opening her lips to speak—
you must not write a line to him.
I must, I must: wherefore should I wear the appearance of a resentment I do not feel? You speak from the feelings of a single woman;—I would act from those of a wife.
"I do not want you," said I,
to resent an error that brought its own punishment with it: yet, for reasons you will yourself approve, when you come to consider the matter dispassionately.—I intreat you, leave it to Sir Edward to write.
And I, my dearest sister, request that you will allow yourself to be directed, in this affair, by Miss O'Bryen's counsel. —I will tell my brother that you wished to write.
He put his arms round her:—tears trembled in his fine eyes: —
I know, my gentle sister, our conduct has a strange, and even a barbarous appearance to you: but I beseech you to rely on our friendship:—in a short time you will be convinced of the propriety of our measures.
I thought it would not be amiss to endeavour to give the conversation a gayer turn:—"Go to your place, Sir Edward," said I,
and take your wine. As soon as the servants have dined I'll call for the coach; for be it known to you, ladies and gentlemen, we are all to drink tea with lady Melmont this evening.
"With all my heart," cried my uncle.
"I shall go and write my letter then," said Sir Edward.
"Very well," said I,
you have nothing else to do, for you are as well dressed as possible. So are you, Sir. Mrs. Wentworth and Mrs. Chetwynd, you are quite elegant. Now, do you three go and take a turn in the garden till the carriage is ready.—Lady Alicia, I don't like your cap; it does not become you; you must change it.—How am I?" going to the glass"—
passablement bien;
but I must mend my hair a little.—Lady Alicia, you shall dress at lord Uvedon's:—Mr. Melmont for me. If the fine Miss Stanley be there still—Sir Edward shall have his choice of her, or lady Anne Melmont.
"Were there ever such airs?" said my aunt, smiling.
"Upon my word, madam," cried lady Alicia,
I think she takes a great deal too much upon her.
"I think so too," said Mr. Chetwynd;
but as it must be confessed her commands are very reasonable, we had better submit.
Allons mesdames,
presenting one hand to Mrs. Wentworth and the other to my aunt,
We were ordered to walk in the garden.
They obeyed with a very good grace; and we three ran up stairs to our several employments.
On our way to Firdale, Mrs. Wentworth pressed to know the occasion of her husband's return to England—how he came to an eclaircissement with lord Methuen, &c.—As I could not refuse to satisfy a curiosity so very natural and reasonable, I was obliged to acknowledge how far I had deceived her; and fairly discovered to her the whole truth; only concealing his being at O'Bryen-castle, as I imagined it would too much discompose her to know he was so near her, so as I had already been compelled to tell her so many lies, I easily stretched my conscience a little further, and said he was at Cork.
Her boundless joy was expressed more by tears than words.
She leaned upon my shoulder for near a quarter of an hour without speaking: then suddenly raising her head, she cried,
Dear Valeria, may I depend on what you tell me now?
I could not forbear to smile at her well-grounded doubts of my veracity; and maliciously drew in my aunt and lady Alicia to confirm my falsehood, by appealing to them for the truth of what I said.
"How soon," asked Mrs. Wentworth, her eyes flashing fire—
how soon may I expect to see him?
"Courage, my fair friend," replied Mrs. Chetwynd;
he will certainly be with you to-morrow evening.
A lively red overspread her lovely face, but instantly gave way to a death-like paleness: —we let down the coach windows for air; which, with the application of lady Alicia's
eau de luce,
prevented her fainting, and, happily, she was quite recovered by the time we reached Firdale.
Our gentlemen, who rode, arrived some time before us: a very fortunate circumstance; for almost the first persons they saw, as they entered the drawing-room, were our quondam Chevalier and Sir Francis O'Bryen. The former took an opportunity of whispering to his brother, an earnest enquiry for his Harriet. Sir Francis, guessing their subject, joined them:
Well, Sir Edward,
said he,
when shall I see my friend happy.
He answered, "Very soon."
"Soon let it be," returned he,
unless you would chuse to have him become a mere statue: he is little different from one at present, except the not being quite so passive. The poor fellow is conscious he is but bad company, for you cannot conceive any thing more difficult than to get him to stir from home.
"How, my dear O'Bryen," cried Mr. Wentworth,
will not you preserve some consistency in your censures? you upbraid me now with total suspension of my faculties—yet how often do you talk to me of the unreasonable effervescence of my passions?
"Why," replied Sir Francis,
you are sometimes passionate to madness; but more generally quite exanimate. In short, though it sounds a little harshly, I am sure, if your affairs continue much longer in the same train, you must necessarily become either a madman or a fool.
"A terrible alternative!" said Sir Edward.
Lord Uvedon seeing our carriage at a distance, came up to Mr. Wentworth, saying,
I fancy, Sir, you would do well to retire, until Mrs. Wentworth can be prepared to see you.
This counsel being strongly enforced by every person present, he cast a wishful look towards the carriage, and heaving a deep sigh, suffered lord Uvedon to conduct him to another room.
Some explanation is necessary here; as your lordship will be surprised at the Melmont family's appearing to be so well acquainted with the situation of our friends. —As Mr. Wentworth's happy reconciliation with his lady obliged him to drop the name of Du Mornai, and re-assume his own: to avoid an unpleasingly mysterious appearance, it was requisite that some reasons should be given for the change to Sir Francis's acquaintance, who first knew him in his French character. All his English friends thinking him dead, to them a still clearer explanation was necessary. Accordingly, he has fabricated a tale that he designs should satisfy both:—his delicacy for his Harriet not allowing him to let the world know he
had
suspected her.—Your supposed coffee-house dispute, your consequent duel, his subsequent flight to Cadiz, and believing you killed—all stands as it was.—As nobody knew his address, all the letters written to him miscarried: so that he still remained in his error; and being struck with a remorse so violent, as in some degree to disorder his reason, for having murdered, upon a frivolous quarrel, a man of worth and honour, and his brother's friend, he determined to exclude himself for ever from the society of his wife, his friends—in short, to resign every thing he held valuable. Knowing how averse his relations would be to this resolution, he concealed himself from them, until his dying servant's wish to mix with his native dust, suggested to him a method of freeing himself from their opposition.—The lenient hand of Time healing, in a good measure, both his head and heart, he began to repent of the part he had acted; and hearing, by accident from Sir Francis O'Bryen, that lord Methuen was still alive, he suddenly resolved to return to his country. —I don't know if your lordship will think this story probable; but I believe you will agree with me in thinking, that the truth of it will not be questioned. Every body of sense and experience, knows that things frequently happen in real life, which a judicious author would not introduce into a fictitious story. It is a very just, though trite observation, that—probability is not always on the side of truth.
When the two gentlemen left the room, lady Melmont said it would be proper for some of the ladies to drink tea with them; which lady Lucy Domville and Miss Stanley did. On our enquiring for them, lady Anne said that her sister was with Miss Stanley, who was confined to her chamber by a cold. Lady Melmont told my aunt, in a low voice, how matters really stood. Sir Edward gave me the like information: at the same time, telling me that he thought it would be highly imprudent to venture to let her know he was in the house. I thought so at first myself; but when I considered the uneasy and unsettled state of mind in which she must remain while this important affair depended, I could not help thinking it would be most advisable to put a speedy period to her anxieties. Knowing how difficult it would be to bring him over to
my
opinion, I pretended to assent to
his;
but secretly resolved to be guided by my own. His love for his sister makes him act in direct opposition to the native fire of his character; rendering him as timid, as deliberate, as nature made him bold and decisive.
After tea, lady Anne saying she would go to Miss Stanley, and send lady Lucy to us, I begged leave to attend her; my aunt joined in the same request, from a desire to see Mr. Wentworth, for whom she has a great friendship. We found him leaning on a sofa, in a posture of deep thoughtfulness. He saluted Mrs. Chetwynd very cordially; and bowing low to me, said, with great gallantry,
Such beauty can belong only to Miss O'Bryen.
When we were seated, he said, directing himself to my aunt,
O, madam, will the dear treasure I threw away in my folly never be restored to me again?
It shall be restored to you immediately,
replied I, with some spirit.
"What do you mean, my dear?" asked my aunt.
I mean to elude Sir Edward's caution; and this very evening to re-unite this deserving pair.
He arose, and pressing one of my hands between both his, said,
Then, madam, I shall say that my Harriet was first given me by Hymen, and the second time by an angel!
I returned to the drawing-room with lady Lucy.—We found lady Melmont, lady Alicia, my uncle, and Mr. Domville, just sitting down to quadrille. The rest of the company was going to make another table; but Sir Francis protesting it was a sin to waste such a fine evening at cards, lord Melmont proposed a walk, to which we all agreed.
As we walked, I secretly begged Sir Francis would draw off Sir Edward; telling him my motive for the request: he warmly approved my design; and promised to take away all the gentlemen if he could.
"Sir Edward," said he,
have you seen my lord's canal improvements?
Being answered in the negative, he proposed going to view them. Your friend said, he had no objection, if it were agreeable to the ladies. Mrs. Wentworth would have complied, but lady Lucy and I had our own reasons for opposing it.
"Let
us
go, however," said O'Bryen.
"No, no," replied Sir Edward,
we'll take another opportunity.—Sir Francis,
added he, with a smile,
I should not have suspected
you
for such a proposition.
Lord Melmont did not give up the point so easily; being extremely fond, as O'Bryen well knew, of having his improvements admired, he seconded the motion so strenuously, that Sir Edward could not civilly withhold his consent any longer.
Sir Francis perceiving that Mr. Melmont meant to attach himself to our party, took hold of his arm, saying,
Come along, Melmont. Deuce take me if you, or any man living, shall quietly enjoy a blessing I chuse to resign.—
Serviteur, mesdames;
we shall return in a moment,
kissing his hand to us, with his usual air of graceful sprightliness.
"Saucy fellows!" said lady Lucy, when they left us;
we'll take care they shall not. Come, my friends, shall we go in?
I assented; saying,
Since we are forsaken by one set of beaux, we must only have recourse to another.
They are too busy with their cards to mind you,
said Mrs. Wentworth.
I answered, that I did not mean the gentlemen of the card party.
"Who then?" she demanded carelessly:
I presume lord Uvedon is not at home.
He is; and I wish to Heaven I dare bring you to the place he is in.
"What is your reason for such a wish?" asked she, with some surprise.
Cannot you guess? Does Sir Francis's being here suggest nothing to you?
"O, Valeria, is my Henry here?"
"He is:—be composed."
She trembled violently; and there was a wildness in her looks which froze my blood. My good-natured friend, alarmed at her disorder, gently reproved my precipitance; and supported her by holding one arm, while I held the other. I was exceedingly agitated myself; and really stood in need of the assistance I endeavoured to give her.
"O God! support me!" said she, in a voice hardly articulate.
We placed her on a garden-chair. Neither of us was able to refrain from weeping: —tears are softly infectious;—she wept likewise; which considerably relieved her. Starting up, she cried,
Come, my dear Valeria, will you not conduct me to my Henry?
"I will," said I; again taking hold of her arm, and pressing her hand to my breast.
But, my dearest Harriet, summon all your courage:—should you suffer by my conduct, Edward will never forgive me. Promise me that you will not faint.
She replied with an amiable simplicity, "Indeed I will not, if I can help it." With trembling steps she hasted towards the house, leaning on lady Lucy and me.
I took her into a small parlour, adjoining that in which Mr. Wentworth was; begging lady Lucy would direct him to us. He came instantly, accompanied by my aunt only. He flew to her; his arms involuntarily extended to embrace her; but, as if impelled by a sudden recollection of his injurious conduct, he threw himself on his knees at her feet; passionately kissing her hand, and the tears falling fast down his face, he cried, "O, Harriet! forgive me!" She sunk from my arms, almost lifeless, into his, faintly murmuring, "My Henry!"
They remained several minutes in a close embrace, without speech or motion.—O, my lord, what must have been their feelings!
At length, he gently raising her, said,
My dear, my injured wife! say that you forgive—say that you love me!
She was not able to reply:—I thought I saw her just expiring; and kneeling by her, I exclaimed in the most frantic manner,
O, Harriet! speak! live!—Edward, dear Edward! forgive me!
My beloved aunt, inexpressibly terrified at my behaviour, raised me from the ground; and weeping, folded me to her fond heart:— "My child—my darling child!" said the tenderest of parents,
be not alarmed;— she will recover presently.
Mr. Wentworth, with a distracted air, cried,
Revive, my only love! Let me not lose my dearer life in you!—Oh! thou injured angel! what a barbarian have I been to thee!
Had she continued much longer insensible, I don't know what might have been the consequence.—Opening her lovely eyes, she gazed on her husband with a tenderness not to be described.—
My soul! my heart's treasure! speak to me!
said he, kissing her with eager transport.—In the most melting accents, she replied,
My dear Henry.
Enraptured to hear again the sound of that soft voice, I sprung from my aunt, and again threw myself by her on the floor. "My lovely sister!" said the sweet creature. —Mr. Wentworth, in the same affectionate tone, kindly repeated,
And
my
lovely sister!
putting one arm round my waist, he lifted us both; saying to me, with an air of politeness and sincerity,
Miss O'Bryen, I have obligations to you that words cannot repay.
My aunt observing that Mrs. Wentworth's spirits were weak and exhausted, called for Sir Francis's chaise; and stept up to lady Melmont, requesting she would let them go unnoticed; to which her ladyship consented, on the obliging condition, that the rest of the family should stay to sup with her.
My aunt, Mrs. Wentworth, and her happy Henry, were just departed, when the gentlemen returned. O'Bryen danced up to me:—
What have you done since, my fair cousin?
"Sent them home together."
"Are you serious?" his eyes sparkling with pleasure.
Serious, upon my honour. And you must sleep at Chetwynd-villa, for they have taken your carriage:—you shall have your choice of the two vacant seats in our coach.
"Do what you please with me," said he.
Lord Uvedon overhearing him, said, with a pretty affected sigh,
Alas! O'Bryen, how many of our sex are there, with whom that lady does what she pleases!
"Faith," replied my gay relation,
she does what she pleases with both sexes; as Sir Edward Marchmont may know to his cost.
Sir Edward bowing to me, with his accustomed grace, said,
Miss O'Bryen's power over my sex, no man can be more sensible of than myself; but I confess I do not perceive how any influence she may have over the ladies can affect me.
"It affects you very nearly," answered Sir Francis,
for she has disposed of your sister without your knowledge; and
mon petit chevalier
is gone off with her.
Your dear friend's susceptible heart was too much overjoyed to be restrained by the laws of cold propriety, from discovering its emotions;—the presence of so large a company did not prevent his expressing the acknowledgments, he generously imagined, due to me, in terms but too flatteringly particular.
What an unconscionable letter have I written! Was I not in the right, to prepare you for a long one? I assure you it has furnished me with constant employment for two days—or nights, rather. I have not the confidence to expect you can read it
tout de suite;
but as Sir Edward tells me he has amply experienced your patience, I am not without hopes, that you will be able to get through it in some little time.
Lady Methuen has my most ardent wishes for her safety.
I hope her ladyship is not jealous of our correspondence:—do you know that Sir Edward has the impertinence to declare that he is? Though I write merely in compliance with his own request! the unreasonable creature! He urges, however, that I comply with pleasure; which certainly cannot be controverted. Mr. Wentworth, who was present, said, that,
If there could be any excuse for causeless jealousy, Lord Methuen's engaging qualities would form one.
—One word for you, my lord; and two for himself. But seriously, he speaks of you in the justest, that is to say, in the highest terms; and you may be assured, that a sincere and lively esteem now holds the place of the enmity he formerly bore you. He mentions your answer to his letter, with great encomiums on your politeness; candour, and generosity.—Noble minds, betrayed by some fatal mistake or inadvertency, may undesigningly injure; but they are ever sure to make all the amends in their power to the person they have wronged.
I am, my Lord, With every possible sentiment Of esteem and friendship, Yours, VALERIA O'BRYEN.
TO MRS. CHETWYND.—CHETWYND-VILLA.
DEAR MADAM,
O'BRYEN CASTLE.
I AM infinitely sorry it is not in my power to return to Chetwynd-villa to-day; —when I came home last night, I found a letter from my mother, wherein she complains very much of her health: I cannot dispense with visiting her immediately; and am just on the wing for Dublin.
The little box that accompanies this, I did not get out of the jeweller's hands till late last night; though the things have been bespoken these two months. I thought the rascal would never let me have them. I shall be much indebted to you, if you will take the trouble to order Miss O'Bryen's woman to leave them on her lady's toillette.
I know what my dear, sagacious uncle, will think of my journey to town; but it is no such matter, I assure you. I own there have lately been overtures made to me from that quarter, through lady O'Bryen: she approves them; but I do not. I hate these sober, formal, patched-up family-matches. To think of my going expressly to pay my addresses to a woman I never saw!—and whose temper and character— whose very face—I know only on report from the opinion of others! ridiculous! detestable! No, I will judge for myself, chuse for myself; and if ever I marry a woman that does not wait till I ask her,— may I be a cuckold in the honey-moon! —I am astonished that gentlemen have not more pride—more delicacy—for their female relations. Had I a sister or a daughter, she might die an old maid sooner than I would
offer
her to any man. I could not endure to have a saucy coxcomb exult— even in thought—at having rejected her.
One word
a l'oreille:
—lady Anne Melmont—amiable, elegant, accomplished, sensible, and unaffected; of a noble and worthy family, with a respectable fortune.— It will do, aunt; but—mum!
Tell my dear Wentworth I have not time for a line at present, but shall write to him from Dublin.
I hope I shall be able to prevail on my mother to return with me to O'Bryen-castle. The country air agrees best with her; besides, she must come and pay her respects to lady Marchmont.
Adieu, my dear madam, I kiss your hands.
FRANCIS O'BRYEN.
TO SIR FRANCIS O'BRYEN, BART.— DUBLIN.
CHETWYND VILLA.
I AM extremely glad you found lady O'Bryen so much better than you expected; though, I confess, I am not a little angry with her, for contriving to be indisposed so very
mal a propos.
You have missed a wedding, my friend:—yesterday Mr. Chetwynd joined the hands of the loveliest pair I ever beheld.—We had no company but the ladies of the Melmont family. Lady Alicia Sedley, and lady Anne Melmont, were bridemaids. Your admired lady Anne looked more than usually pretty. I regretted that you were not present: what an opportunity to say soft things!—I took care, however, that she should think of you.—"Dear lady Anne," whispered I,
what would Sir Francis O'Bryen give to be here now!
She was silent, blushed, looked down, and opened and shut her fan with the sweetest confusion imaginable. How easy to read the language of an ingenuous heart!
'Twould be vain for me to attempt to mention the bride: your own lively imagination will scarcely be able to do her justice;—judge then if my pen can.
"Triumphant beauty never looks so gay
"As on the morning of a nuptial day."
This observation is rather quaintly expressed; but I think you would with me have subscribed to its justness, had you seen your charming cousin yesterday morning; her fine complexion heightened by pleasure, and modesty again improving the rouge of joy.
I wonder not at the ardour of my brother's passion for her. I acknowledge that I never saw a woman, who in person, mind, and manners, would appear so completely and engagingly beautiful to an unprejudiced man: but my fond eye discovers more attractions in another;—my gentle Harriet is to me a hundred times more lovely.
Sir Edward calls himself the happiest of men: but surely the cup of happiness must have a higher flavour to me, who have drunk so deeply of its bitter reverse. Yet perhaps his assertion may be just; for he feels not, as I do, the pang of having injured her he loves.—I look back on my past conduct with amazement:—how could I suspect her? The most delicate—the most virtuous of women!
"Pure as the winter stream, when ice embossed
"Whitens its course."
Even to myself reserved, though fond.— Never, never can I make her sufficient amends for what she has suffered for me. Yet the dear, too generous girl, thinks herself recompensed for years of heartrending anguish, only by the return of that affection and confidence I never had a right to withdraw.
I propose to myself a very singular gratification on my return to England;—'tis to visit my own superb monument!—You will chide me if I pursue this subject. I remember, when you were here, you told me, that—even my happiness was melancholy. True; it is;—refined and exquisite joy almost touches sorrow.
I had a letter from England by last post, from a proud old fellow, who is my relation; —he supposes I shall immediately have my servant's body removed from the vault of my ancestors.—Did you ever hear any thing so ridiculous?—Honest, faithful fellow! let thy ashes mix with theirs, and welcome!
All this happy family wish for you, my dear O'Bryen. I am impatient to see you: I long to have you better acquainted with my Harriet: I am sure you will admire her. Fear not my jealousy;—O, trust me, I am cured of that!—I have already prepared her to love you as you deserve.
Adieu, my friend—the friend of my adversity! I will not wound your delicacy by acknowledging how much I owe you.
HENRY WENTWORTH.
TO LORD METHUEN.—ENGLAND.
CHETWYND-VILLA.
KISSING, with glowing lips, the whitest hand in the world—I had just sworn that my felicity could not admit of increase, when your letter arrived to contradict me. —My dear Augustus, you have considerably augmented my happiness: both lady Marchmont and I inexpressibly rejoice at your loved Louisa's safety.
My Valeria and Mr. Wentworth request the honour of being sponsors. However, I need not have spoken for my brother; he is writing to you himself.
I presume your little girl will be named after the late Mrs. Sidney.—I shall take it as a particular favour, if you will add my wife's pretty, romantic name:—your lordship may think it is with an air of no small importance, I write—
my wife!
On the day I wrote to you last—
"O day the fairest, sure, that ever rose!"
—I was so much out of my senses, that I don't know what I may, or may not have said; but I think I could not have omitted telling you, that we have prevailed on Mr. and Mrs. Chetwynd to live with us. I am delighted beyond measure at their compliance: every day renders me more sensible of their inestimable worth, and more attached to their society. I doubt if their charming niece herself can love them better than I do.
My little French sister is married:—
Madame la marquise de St. Claire!
nothing less!—The marquis has promised me a visit in England next spring. I long extremely to see them both: my Valeria and lady Enmore have very much prepossessed me in their favour.
Lady Enmore purposes spending much of her time with us. I like this lady very well:—she is exceedingly fond of my Valeria, is generous, well-tempered, and agreeable; has a great deal of good sense, and some knowledge of the world;—yet still I cannot give her such a place in my affection, as Mrs. Chetwynd holds:—her mind is not sufficiently above the common class. The friend of my heart—and more particularly if that friend be a woman—must be exquisitely refined; must breath the very soul of sentiment.
I wish to Heaven you could transport yourself to Chetwynd-villa for five or six hours;—I should not ask to keep you longer from lady Methuen at present. I am impatient to have you acquainted with my uncle and aunt Chetwynd; I know you will be charmed with them. What pleasure too would it give your generous heart, to behold my brother and sister Wentworth's happiness!—Besides, I want to shew you my angel! lady Marchmont— with pride I give her that name—is, if possible, more lovely than Miss O'Bryen was.
"Beauty and worth in her alike contend
"To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind;
"In her my wife, my mistress, and my friend,
"I taste the joys of sense and reason join'd."
My boundless and unutterable love gains hourly strength; nay, each moment she is dearer than the last.—Methuen, I shall for ever join with you in heart and voice, to condemn the unfeeling libertine, who stupidly calls matrimony the bane of happiness and love.
Sir Francis O'Bryen sent my Valeria some very fine diamonds a few days before our marriage. I hope he will soon give me an opportunity of acknowledging the favour, by a similar present to his wife.
He has been here these two days, but returns to Dublin to-morrow, in order to escort his mother to O'Bryen-castle.—He is a most engaging fellow:—Wentworth and he are exceedingly attached to each other. If Methuen was not my friend, I should almost envy my brother.—O'Bryen has a vast deal of sensibility, though apparently gay and inconsiderate: when he looks round on this family, his expressive eyes seem to speak the good-natured language of a French writer;
Qu'il est doux de voir des beureux!
—Happy the man, whose clear mind, unsullied by selfishness or envy, shines with the reflected light of others joys!
I just cast my eye out of the window, which commands a view of the garden;— the divine lady Marchmont
tete a tete
with Sir Francis.—What a form! what movements! —The sportive zephyrs play through her auburn ringlets; and artfully steal fragrance from her bosom, while they pretend to add unnecessary freshness to her cheek.
She leans on O'Bryen's arm;—she smiles —Ah! the happy fellow! I'll supplant him in a moment.
EDWARD MARCHMONT.
FINIS.