We went into the parlour, where we found the same party we had left. Mrs Selwyn presented Sir Clement to Mrs Beaumont; Lady Louisa and Lord Merton he seemed well acquainted with already.
The conversation was upon the general subjects, of the weather, the company at the Wells, and the news of the day. But Sir Clement, drawing his chair next to mine, took every opportunity of addressing himself to me in particular.
I could not but remark the striking difference of his attention, and that of Lord Orville: the latter has such gentleness of manners, such delicacy of conduct, and an air so respectful, that, when he flatters most, he never distresses, and when he most confers honour, appears to receive it! The former obtrudes his attention, and forces mine; it is so pointed, that it always confuses me, and so public, that it attracts general notice. Indeed I have sometimes thought that he would rather wish, than dislike to have his partiality for me known, as he takes great care to prevent my being spoken to by any body but himself.
When, at length, he went away, Lord Orville took his seat, and said with a half-smile, ‘Shall I call Sir Clement, – or will you call me an usurper, for taking this place? – You make me no answer? – Must I then suppose that Sir Clement – ’
‘It is little worth your Lordship’s while,’ said I, ‘to suppose any thing upon so insignificant an occasion.’
‘Pardon me,’ cried he, – ‘to me nothing is insignificant in which you are concerned.’
To this I made no answer, neither did he say any thing more, till the ladies retired to dress; and then, when I would have followed them, he stopped me, saying, ‘One moment, I entreat you!’
I turned back, and he went on. ‘I greatly fear that I have been so unfortunate as to offend you; yet so repugnant to my very soul is the idea, that I know not how to suppose it possible I can unwittingly have done the thing in the world that, designedly, I would most wish to avoid.’
‘No, indeed, my Lord, you have not!’ said I.
‘You sigh!’ cried he, taking my hand, ‘would to Heaven I were the sharer of your uneasiness whencesoever it springs! with what earnestness would I not struggle to alleviate it! – Tell me, my dear Miss Anville, – my new-adopted sister, my sweet and most amiable friend! – tell me, I beseech you, if I can afford you any assistance?’
‘None, none, my Lord!’ cried I, withdrawing my hand, and moving towards the door.
‘Is it then impossible I can serve you? – perhaps you wish to see Mr Macartney again?’
‘No, my Lord.’ And I held the door open.
‘I am not, I own, sorry for that. Yet, oh, Miss Anville, there is a question, – there is a conjecture, – I know not how to mention, because I dread the result! – But I see you are in haste; – perhaps in the evening I may have the honour of a longer conversation. – Yet one thing will you have the goodness to allow me to ask? – Did you, this morning when you went to the Wells, – did you know who you should meet there?’
‘Who, my Lord?’
‘I beg your pardon a thousand times for a curiosity so unlicensed, – but I will say no more at present.’
He bowed, expecting me to go, – and then, with quick steps, but a heavy heart, I came to my own room. His question, I am sure, meant Sir Clement Willoughby; and, had I not imposed upon myself the severe task of avoiding, flying Lord Orville with all my power, I would instantly have satisfied him of my ignorance of Sir Clement’s journey. And yet more did I long to say something of the assembly, since I found he depended upon my spending the evening at home.
I did not go down stairs again till the family was assembled to dinner. My dress, I saw, struck Lord Orville with astonishment; and I was myself so much ashamed of appearing whimsical and unsteady, that I could not look up.
‘I understood,’ said Mrs Beaumont, ‘that Miss Anville did not go out this evening?’
‘Her intention in the morning,’ said Mrs Selwyn, ‘was to stay at home; but there is a fascinating power in an assembly, which, upon second thoughts, is not to be resisted.’
‘The assembly!’ cried Lord Orville, ‘are you then going to the assembly?’
I made no answer; and we all took our places at table.
It was not without difficulty that I contrived to give up my usual seat; but I was determined to adhere to the promise in my yesterday’s letter, though I saw that Lord Orville seemed quite confounded at my visible endeavours to avoid him.
After dinner, we all went into the drawing-room together, as there were no gentlemen to detain his Lordship; and then, before I could place myself out of his way, he said, ‘You are then really going to the assembly? – May I ask if you shall dance?’
‘I believe not, – my Lord.’
‘If I did not fear,’ continued he, ‘that you would be tired of the same partner at two following assemblies, I would give up my letter-writing till to-morrow, and solicit the honour of your hand.’
‘If I do dance,’ said I, in great confusion, ‘I believe I am engaged.’
‘Engaged!’ cried he, with earnestness, ‘May I ask to whom?’
‘To – Sir Clement Willoughby, my Lord?’
He said nothing, but looked very little pleased, and did not address himself to me any more all the afternoon. Oh, Sir! – thus situated, how comfortless were the feelings of your Evelina!
Early in the evening, with his accustomed assiduity, Sir Clement came to conduct us to the assembly. He soon contrived to seat himself next me, and, in a low voice, paid me so many compliments, that I knew not which way to look.
Lord Orville hardly spoke a word, and his countenance was grave and thoughtful; yet, whenever I raised my eyes, his, I perceived, were directed towards me, though instantly, upon meeting mine, he looked another way.
In a short time, Sir Clement, taking from his pocket a folded paper, said, almost in a whisper, ‘Here, loveliest of women, you will see a faint, an unsuccessful attempt to paint the object of all my adoration! yet, weak as are the lines for the purpose, I envy beyond expression the happy mortal who has dared make the effort.’
‘I will look at them,’ said I, ‘some other time.’ For, conscious that I was observed by Lord Orville, I could not bear he should see me take a written paper, so privately offered, from Sir Clement. But Sir Clement is an impracticable man, and I never yet succeeded in any attempt to frustrate whatever he had planned.
‘No,’ said he, still in a whisper, ‘you must take them now, while Lady Louisa is away;’ for she and Mrs Selwyn were gone up stairs to finish their dress, ‘as she must by no means see them.’
‘Indeed,’ said I, ‘I have no intention to shew them.’
‘But the only way,’ answered he, ‘to avoid suspicion, is to take them in her absence. I would have read them aloud myself, but that they are not proper to be seen by any body in this house, yourself and Mrs Selwyn excepted.’
Then again he presented me the paper, which I now was obliged to take, as I found declining it was vain. But I was sorry that this action should be seen, and the whispering remarked, though the purport of the conversation was left to conjecture.
As I held it in my hand, Sir Clement teazed me to look at it immediately; and told me, that the reason he could not produce the lines publicly, was, that, among the ladies who were mentioned, and supposed to be rejected, was Lady Louisa Larpent. I am much concerned at this circumstance, as I cannot doubt but that it will render me more disagreeable to her than ever, if she should hear of it.
I will now copy the verses, which Sir Clement would not let me rest till I had read.
SEE last advance, with bashful grace,
Downcast eye, and blushing cheek,
Timid air, and beauteous face,
Anville, – whom the Graces seek,
Though ev’ry beauty is her own,
And though her mind each virtue fills,
Anville, – to her power unknown,
Artless strikes, – unconscious kills!
I am sure, my dear Sir, you will not wonder that a panegyri
c such as this, should, in reading, give me the greatest confusion; and, unfortunately, before I had finished it, the ladies returned.
‘What have you there, my dear?’ said Mrs Selwyn.
‘Nothing, Ma’am,’ said I, hastily folding, and putting it in my pocket.
‘And has nothing,’ cried she, ‘the power of rouge?’
I made no answer; a deep sigh which escaped Lord Orville at that moment, reached my ears, and gave me sensations – which I dare not mention!
Lord Merton then handed Lady Louisa and Mrs Beaumont to the latter’s carriage. Mrs Selwyn led the way to Sir Clement’s, who handed me in after her.
During the ride, I did not once speak; but when I came to the assembly-room, Sir Clement took care that I should not preserve my silence. He asked me immediately to dance; I begged him to excuse me, and seek some other partner. But on the contrary, he told me he was very glad I would sit still, as he had a million of things to say to me.
He then began to tell me how much he had suffered from absence; how greatly he was alarmed when he heard I had left town, and how cruelly difficult he had found it to trace me; which, at last, he could only do by sacrificing another week to Captain Mirvan.
‘And Howard Grove,’ continued he, ‘which, at my first visit, I thought the most delightful spot upon earth, now appeared to be the most dismal; the face of the country seemed altered: the walks which I had thought most pleasant, were now most stupid: Lady Howard, who had appeared a chearful and respectable old lady, now seemed in the common John Trot style of other aged dames: Mrs Mirvan, whom I had esteemed as an amiable piece of still-life, now became so insipid, that I could hardly keep awake in her company: the daughter too, whom I had regarded as a good-humoured, pretty sort of girl, now seemed too insignificant for notice: and as to the Captain, I had always thought him a booby, – but now he appeared a savage!’
‘Indeed, Sir Clement,’ cried I, angrily, ‘I will not hear you talk thus of my best friends.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ said he, ‘but the contrast of my two visits was too striking, not to be mentioned.’
He then asked what I thought of the verses?
‘Either,’ said I, ‘that they are written ironically, or by some madman.’
Such a profusion of compliments ensued, that I was obliged to propose dancing, in my own defence. When we stood up, ‘I intended,’ said he, ‘to have discovered the author by his looks; but I find you so much the general loadstone of attention, that my suspicions change their object every moment. Surely you must yourself have some knowledge who he is?’
I told him, no. Yet, my dear Sir, I must own to you, I have no doubt but that Mr Macartney must be the author; no one else would speak of me so partially; and, indeed, his poetical turn puts it, with me, beyond dispute.
He asked me a thousand questions concerning Lord Orville; how long he had been at Bristol? – what time I had spent at Clifton? – whether he rode out every morning? – whether I ever trusted myself in a phaeton? and a multitude of other enquiries, all tending to discover if I was honoured with much of his Lordship’s attention, and all made with his usual freedom and impetuosity.
Fortunately, as I much wished to retire early, Lady Louisa makes a point of being among the first who quit the rooms, and therefore we got home in very tolerable time.
Lord Orville’s reception of us was grave and cold: far from distinguishing me, as usual, by particular civilities, Lady Louisa herself could not have seen me enter the room with more frigid unconcern, nor have more scrupulously avoided honouring me with any notice. But chiefly I was struck to see, that he suffered Sir Clement, who stayed supper, to sit between us, without any effort to prevent him, though till then, he had seemed to be even tenacious of a seat next mine.
This little circumstance affected me more than I can express: yet I endeavoured to rejoice at it, since neglect and indifference from him may be my best friends. – But, alas! – so suddenly, so abruptly to forfeit his attention! – to lose his friendship! – Oh Sir, these thoughts pierced my soul! – scarce could I keep my seat; for not all my efforts could restrain the tears from trickling down my cheeks: however, as Lord Orville saw them not, for Sir Clement’s head was constantly between us, I tried to collect my spirits, and succeeded so far as to keep my place with decency, till Sir Clement took leave: and then, not daring to trust my eyes to meet those of Lord Orville, I retired.
I have been writing ever since; for, certain that I could not sleep, I would not go to bed. Tell me, my dearest Sir, if you possibly can, tell me that you approve my change of conduct, – tell me that my altered behaviour to Lord Orville is right, – that my flying his society, and avoiding his civilities, are actions which you would have dictated. – Tell me this, and the sacrifices I have made will comfort me in the midst of my regret, – for never, never can I cease to regret that I have lost the friendship of Lord Orville! – Oh Sir, I have slighted, have rejected, – have thrown it away! – No matter, it was an honour I merited not to preserve, and I now see, – that my mind was unequal to sustaining it without danger.
Yet so strong is the desire you have implanted in me to act with uprightness and propriety, that, however the weakness of my heart may distress and afflict me, it will never, I humbly trust, render me wilfully culpable. The wish of doing well governs every other, as far as concerns my conduct, – for am I not your child? – the creature of your own forming? – Yet, Oh Sir, friend, parent of my heart! – my feelings are all at war with my duties; and, while I most struggle to acquire self-approbation, my peace, my happiness, my hopes, – are lost!
’Tis you alone can compose a mind so cruelly agitated; you, I well know, can feel pity for the weakness to which you are a stranger; and, though you blame the affliction, soothe and comfort the afflicted.
Letter Twelve
Mr Villars to Evelina
Berry Hill, Oct 3
Your last communication, my dearest child, is indeed astonishing; that an acknowledged daughter and heiress of Sir John Belmont should be at Bristol, and still my Evelina bear the name of Anville, is to me inexplicable: yet the mystery of the letter to Lady Howard prepared me to expect something extraordinary upon Sir John Belmont’s return to England.
Whoever this young lady may be, it is certain she now takes a place to which you have a right indisputable. An after-marriage I never heard of; yet, supposing such a one to have happened, Miss Evelyn was certainly the first wife, and therefore her daughter must, at least, be entitled to the name of Belmont.
Either there are circumstances in this affair at present utterly incomprehensible, or else some strange and most atrocious fraud has been practised; which of these two is the case, it now behoves us to enquire.
My reluctance to this step, gives way to my conviction of its propriety, since the reputation of your dear and much-injured mother must now either be fully cleared from blemish, or receive its final and indelible wound.
The public appearance of a daughter of Sir John Belmont will revive the remembrance of Miss Evelyn’s story in all who have heard it, – who the mother was, will be universally demanded, – and if any other Lady Belmont shall be named, – the birth of my Evelina will receive a stigma, against which honour, truth, and innocence may appeal in vain! a stigma which will eternally blast the fair fame of her virtuous mother, and cast upon her blameless self the odium of a title, which not all her purity can rescue from established shame and dishonour!
No, my dear child, no; I will not quietly suffer the ashes of your mother to be treated with ignominy! Her spotless character shall be justified to the world – her marriage shall be acknowledged, and her child shall bear the name to which she is lawfully entitled.
It is true, that Mrs Mirvan would conduct this affair with more delicacy than Mrs Selwyn; yet, perhaps, to save time is, of all considerations, the most important, since the longer this mystery is suffered to continue, the more difficult may be rendered its explanation. The sooner, therefore, you can set out for town,
the less formidable will be your task.
Let not your timidity, my dear love, depress your spirits: I shall, indeed, tremble for you at a meeting so singular, and so affecting, yet there can be no doubt of the success of your application: I enclose a letter from your unhappy mother, written, and reserved purposely for this occasion: Mrs Clinton, too, who attended her in her last illness, must accompany you to town. – But, without any other certificate of your birth, that which you carry in your countenance, as it could not be effected by artifice, so it cannot admit of a doubt.
And now, my Evelina, committed, at length, to the care of your real parent, receive the fervent prayers, wishes, and blessings, of him who so fondly adopted you!
May’st thou, oh child of my bosom! may’st thou, in this change of situation, experience no change of disposition! but receive with humility, and support with meekness, the elevation to which thou art rising! May thy manners, language, and deportment, all evince that modest equanimity, and chearful gratitude, which not merely deserve, but dignify prosperity! May’st thou, to the last moments of an unblemished life, retain thy genuine simplicity, thy singleness of heart, thy guileless sincerity! And may’st thou, stranger to ostentation, and superior to insolence, with true greatness of soul, shine forth conspicuous only in beneficence!
ARTHUR VILLARS
Letter Thirteen
[Enclosed in the preceding Letter]
Lady Belmont to Sir John Belmont
In the firm hope that the moment of anguish which approaches will prove the period of my sufferings, once more I address myself to Sir John Belmont, in behalf of the child, who, if it survives its mother, will hereafter be the bearer of this letter.
Yet in what terms, – oh most cruel of men! – can the lost Caroline address you, and not address you in vain? Oh deaf to the voice of compassion – deaf to the sting of truth, – deaf to every tie of honour – say, in what terms may the lost Caroline address you, and not address you in vain?
Evelina Page 39
