‘Miss,’ said Mr Branghton, ‘I’m sorry to hear from my son that you was n’t pleased with what we did about that Lord Orville; but I should like to know what it was you found fault with, for we did all for the best.’
‘Goodness!’ cried the son, ‘why if you’d seen Miss, you’d have been surprised – she went out of the room quite in a huff, like.’
‘It is too late, now,’ said I, ‘to reason upon this subject; but, for the future, I must take the liberty to request, that my name may never be made use of without my knowledge. May I tell Madame Duval that you will do her the favour to accept her invitation?’
‘As to me, Ma’am,’ said Mr Smith, ‘I am much obliged to the old lady, but I’ve no mind to be taken in by her again; you’ll excuse me, Ma’am.’
All the rest promised to come, and I then took leave: but as I left the shop, I heard Mr Branghton say, ‘Take courage, Tom, she’s only coy.’ And, before I had walked ten yards, the youth followed.
I was so much offended that I would not look at him; but began to converse with M. Du Bois, who was now more lively than I had ever before seen him; for, most unfortunately, he misinterpreted the reason of my attention to him.
The first intelligence I received when I came home, was, that two gentlemen had called, and left cards. I eagerly enquired for them, and read the names of Lord Orville and Sir Clement Willoughby. I by no means regretted that I missed seeing the latter, but perhaps I may all my life regret that I missed the former, for probably he has now left town, – and I may see him no more!
‘My goodness!’ cried young Branghton, rudely looking over me, ‘only think of that Lord’s coming all this way! It’s my belief he’d got some order ready for father, and so he’d a mind to call and ask you if I’d told him the truth.’
‘Pray, Betty,’ cried I, ‘how long has he been gone?’
‘Not two minutes, Ma’am.’
‘Why then I’ll lay you any wager,’ said young Branghton, ‘he saw you and I a-walking up Holborn Hill!’
‘God forbid!’ cried I, impatiently; and, too much chagrined to bear with any more of his remarks, I ran up stairs: but I heard him say to M. Du Bois, ‘Miss is so uppish this morning, that I think I had better not speak to her again.’
I wish M. Du Bois had taken the same resolution; but he chose to follow me into the dining-room, which we found empty.
‘Vous ne l’ aimez done pas, ce garçon, Mademoiselle!’* cried he.
‘Me!’ cried I, ‘no, I detest him!’ for I was quite sick at heart.
‘Ah, tu me rends la vie!’† cried he, and flinging himself at my feet, he had just caught my hand, as the door was opened by Madame Duval.
Hastily, and with marks of guilty confusion in his face, he arose; but the rage of that lady quite amazed me! advancing to the retreating M. Du Bois, she began, in French, an attack which her extreme wrath and wonderful volubility almost rendered unintelligible; yet I understood but too much, since her reproaches convinced me she had herself proposed being the object of his affection.
He defended himself in a weak and evasive manner, and upon her commanding him from her sight, very readily withdrew: and then, with yet greater violence, she upbraided me with having seduced his heart, called me an ungrateful, designing girl, and protested she would neither take me to Paris, nor any more interest herself in my affairs, unless I would instantly agree to marry young Branghton.
Frightened as I had been at her vehemence, this proposal restored all my courage; and I frankly told her that in this point I never could obey her. More irritated than ever, she ordered me to quit the room.
Such is the present situation of affairs. I shall excuse myself from seeing the Branghtons this afternoon: indeed, I never wish to see them again. I am sorry, however innocently, that I have displeased Madame Duval, yet I shall be very glad to quit this town, for I believe it does not, now, contain one person I ever wish to again meet. Had I but seen Lord Orville, I should regret nothing: I could then have more fully explained what I so hastily wrote; yet it will always be a pleasure to me to recollect that he called, since I flatter myself it was in consequence of his being satisfied with my letter.
Adieu, my dear Sir; the time now approaches when I hope once more to receive your blessing, and to owe all my joy, all my happiness, to your kindness.
Letter Twenty-Five
Mr Villars to Evelina
Berry Hill, July 7
Welcome, thrice welcome, my darling Evelina, to the arms of the truest, the fondest of your friends! Mrs Clinton, who shall hasten to you with these lines, will conduct you directly hither, for I can consent no longer to be parted from the child of my bosom! – the comfort of my age! – the sweet solace of all my infirmities! Your worthy friends at Howard Grove must pardon me that I rob them of the visit you proposed to make them before your return to Berry Hill, for I find my fortitude unequal to a longer separation.
I have much to say to you, many comments to make upon your late letters, some parts of which give me no little uneasiness; but I will reserve my remarks for our future conversations. Hasten, then, to the spot of thy nativity, the abode of thy youth, where never yet care or sorrow had power to annoy thee, – O that they might ever be banished this peaceful dwelling!
Adieu, my dearest Evelina! I pray but that thy satisfaction at our approaching meeting may bear any comparison with mine!
ARTHUR VILLARS
Letter Twenty-Six
Evelina to Miss Mirvan
Berry Hill, July 14
My sweet Maria will be much surprised, and, I am willing to flatter myself, concerned, when, instead of her friend, she receives this letter; – this cold, this inanimate letter, which will but ill express the feelings of the heart which indites it.
When I wrote to you last Friday, I was in hourly expectation of seeing Mrs Clinton, with whom I intended to have set out for Howard Grove; Mrs Clinton came, but my plan was necessarily altered, for she brought me a letter, – the sweetest that ever was penned, from the best and kindest friend that ever orphan was blessed with, requiring my immediate attendance at Berry Hill.
I obeyed, – and pardon me if I own I obeyed without reluctance; after so long a separation, should I not else have been the most ungrateful of mortals? – And yet, – oh Maria! though I wished to leave London, the gratification of my wish afforded me no happiness! and though I felt an impatience inexpressible to return hither, no words, no language can explain the heaviness of heart with which I made the journey. I believe you would hardly have known me; – indeed, I hardly know myself. Perhaps had I first seen you, in your kind and sympathizing bosom I might have ventured to have reposed every secret of my soul; and then – but let me pursue my journal.
Mrs Clinton delivered Madame Duval a letter from Mr Villars, which requested her leave for my return, and, indeed, it was very readily accorded: yet, when she found, by my willingness to quit town, that M. Du Bois was really indifferent to me, she somewhat softened in my favour, and declared that, but for punishing his folly in thinking of such a child, she would not have consented to my being again buried in the country.
All the Branghtons called to take leave of me: but I will not write a word more about them; indeed I cannot with any patience think of that family, to whose forwardness and impertinence is owing all the uneasiness I at this moment suffer!
So great was the depression of my spirits upon the road, that it was with difficulty I could persuade the worthy Mrs Clinton I was not ill: but alas, the situation of my mind was such as would have rendered any mere bodily pain, by comparison, even enviable!
And yet, when we arrived at Berry Hill, – when the chaise stopped at this place, – how did my heart throb with joy! And when, through the window, I beheld the dearest, the most venerable of men, with uplifted hands, returning, as I doubt not, thanks for my safe arrival, – good God! I thought it would have burst my bosom! – I opened the chaise-door myself, I flew, – for my feet did not seem to touch the ground, – into the p
arlour; he had risen to meet me, but the moment I appeared, he sunk into his chair, uttering with a deep sigh, though his face beamed with delight, ‘My God, I thank thee!’
I sprung forward, and, with a pleasure that bordered upon agony, I embraced his knees, I kissed his hands, I wept over them, but could not speak: while he, now raising his eyes in thankfulness towards heaven, now bowing down his reverend head, and folding me in his arms, could scarce articulate the blessings with which his kind and benevolent heart overflowed.
O Miss Mirvan, to be so beloved by the best of men, – should I not be happy? – Should I have one wish save that of meriting his goodness? – Yet think me not ungrateful; indeed I am not, although the internal sadness of my mind unfits me, at present, for enjoying as I ought the bounties of Providence.
I cannot journalize; cannot arrange my ideas into order.
How little has situation to do with happiness! I had flattered myself that, when restored to Berry Hill, I should be restored to tranquillity: far otherwise have I found it, for never yet had tranquillity and Evelina so little intercourse.
I blush for what I have written. Can you, Maria, forgive my gravity? but I restrain it so much and so painfully in the presence of Mr Villars, that I know not how to deny myself the consolation of indulging it to you.
Adieu, my dear Miss Mirvan.
Yet one thing I must add; do not let the seriousness of this letter deceive you; do not impute to a wrong cause the melancholy I confess, by supposing that the heart of your friend mourns a too great susceptibility; no, indeed! believe me it never was, never can be, more assuredly her own than at this moment. So witness in all truth,
Your affectionate
EVELINA
You will make my excuses to the honoured Lady Howard, and to your dear mother.
Letter Twenty-Seven
Evelina in continuation
Berry Hill, July 21
You accuse me of mystery, and charge me with reserve: I cannot doubt but I must have merited the accusation; – yet, to clear myself, – you know not how painful will be the task. But I cannot resist your kind entreaties, – indeed, I do not wish to resist them, for your friendship and affection will soothe my chagrin. Had it arisen from any other cause, not a moment would I have deferred the communication you ask; – but, as it is, I would, were it possible, not only conceal it from all the world, but endeavour to disbelieve it myself. Yet, since I must tell you, why trifle with your impatience?
I know not how to come to the point; twenty times have I attempted it in vain; – but I will force myself to proceed.
Oh, Miss Mirvan, could you ever have believed, that one who seemed formed as a pattern for his fellow-creatures, as a model of perfection, – one whose elegance surpassed all description, – whose sweetness of manners disgraced all comparison, – Oh, Miss Mirvan, could you ever have believed that Lord Orville would have treated me with indignity?
Never, never again will I trust to appearances, – never confide in my own weak judgement, – never believe that person to be good, who seems to be amiable! What cruel maxims are we taught by a knowledge of the world! – But while my own reflections absorb me, I forget you are still in suspence.
I had just finished the last letter which I wrote to you from London, when the maid of the house brought me a note. It was given to her, she said, by a footman, who told her he would call the next day for an answer.
This note, – but let it speak for itself.
To Miss Anville
With transport, most charming of thy sex, did I read the letter with which you yesterday morning favoured me. I am sorry the affair of the carriage should have given you any concern, but I am highly flattered by the anxiety you express so kindly. Believe me, my lovely girl, I am truly sensible of the honour of your good opinion, and feel myself deeply penetrated with love and gratitude. The correspondence you have so sweetly commenced I shall be proud of continuing, and I hope the strong sense I have of the favour you do me, will prevent your withdrawing it. Assure yourself that I desire nothing more ardently, than to pour forth my thanks at your feet, and to offer those vows which are so justly the tribute of your charms and accomplishments. In your next, I entreat you to acquaint me how long you shall remain in town. The servant whom I shall commission to call for an answer, has orders to ride post with it to me. My impatience for his arrival will be very great, though inferior to that with which I burn to tell you, in person, how much I am, my sweet girl,
Your grateful admirer,
ORVILLE
What a letter! how has my proud heart swelled every line I have copied! What I wrote to him you know; tell me then, my dear friend, do you think it merited such an answer? – and that I have deservedly incurred the liberty he has taken? I meant nothing but a simple apology, which I thought as much due to my own character, as to his; yet, by the construction he seems to have put upon it, should you not have imagined it contained the avowal of sentiments which might, indeed, have provoked his contempt?
The moment the letter was delivered to me, I retired to my own room to read it, and so eager was my first perusal, that, – I am ashamed to own – it gave me no sensation but of delight. Unsuspicious of any impropriety from Lord Orville, I perceived not immediately the impertinence it implied, – I only marked the expressions of his own regard; and I was so much surprised, that I was unable, for some time, to compose myself, or read it again, – I could only walk up and down the room, repeating to myself, ‘Good God, is it possible? – am I, then, loved by Lord Orville?’
But this dream was soon over, and I awoke to far different feelings; upon a second reading, I thought every word changed, – it did not seem the same letter, – I could not find one sentence that I could look at without blushing: my astonishment was extreme, and it was succeeded by the utmost indignation.
If, as I am very ready to acknowledge, I erred in writing to Lord Orville, was it for him to punish the error? If he was offended, could he not have been silent? If he thought my letter ill-judged, should he not have pitied my ignorance? have considered my youth, and allowed for my inexperience?
Oh Maria, how have I been deceived in this man! Words have no power to tell the high opinion I had of him; to that was owing the unfortunate solicitude which prompted my writing, – a solicitude I must for ever repent!
Yet perhaps I have rather reason to rejoice than to grieve, since this affair has shewn me his real disposition, and removed that partiality, which, covering his every imperfection, left only his virtues and good qualities exposed to view. Had the deception continued much longer, had my mind received any additional prejudice in his favour, who knows whither my mistaken ideas might have led me? Indeed I fear I was in greater danger than I apprehended, or can now think of without trembling, – for oh, if this weak heart of mine had been penetrated with too deep an impression of his merit, – my peace and happiness had been lost for ever!
I would fain encourage more chearful thoughts, fain drive from my mind the melancholy that has taken possession of it, – but I cannot succeed; for added to the humiliating feelings which so powerfully oppress me, I have yet another cause of concern; – alas, my dear Maria, I have broken the tranquillity of the best of men!
I have never had the courage to shew him this cruel letter: I could not bear so greatly to depreciate in his opinion, one whom I had, with infinite anxiety, raised in it myself. Indeed, my first determination was to confine my chagrin totally to my own bosom; but your friendly enquiries have drawn it from me; and now I wish I had made no concealment from the beginning, since I know not how to account for a gravity which not all my endeavours can entirely hide or repress.
My greatest apprehension is, lest he should imagine that my residence in London has given me a distaste to the country. Every body I see takes notice of my being altered, and looking pale and ill. I should be very indifferent to all such observations, did I not perceive that they draw upon me the eyes of Mr Villars, which glisten with affectionate concern.
What he thought of my silence and uneasiness I fear to know, but I hope he will mention the subject no more. I will not, however, with ungrateful indolence, give way to a sadness which I find infectious to him who merits the most chearful exertion of my spirits. I am thankful that he has forborne to probe my wound, and I will endeavour to heal it by the consciousness that I have not deserved the indignity I have received. Yet I cannot but lament to find myself in a world so deceitful, where we must suspect what we see, distrust what we hear, and doubt even what we feel!
Letter Twenty-Eight
Evelina in continuation
Berry Hill, July 29
I must own myself somewhat distressed how to answer your raillery: yet believe me, my dear Maria, your suggestions are those of fancy, not of truth. I am unconscious of the weakness you suspect; yet, to dispel your doubts, I will animate myself more than ever to conquer my chagrin, and to recover my spirits.
You wonder, you say, since my heart takes no part in this affair, why it should make me so unhappy? And can you, acquainted as you are with the high opinion I entertained of Lord Orville, can you wonder that so great a disappointment in his character should affect me? indeed, had so strange a letter been sent to me from any body, it could not have failed shocking me; how much more sensibly, then, must I feel such an affront, when received from the man in the world I had imagined least capable of giving it?
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