‘Has your Lordship then quite forgot the foolish letter I was so imprudent as to send you when in town?’
‘I have not the least idea,’ cried he, ‘of what you mean.’
‘Why then, my Lord,’ said I, ‘we had better let the subject drop.’
‘Impossible!’ cried he, ‘I cannot rest without an explanation!’
And then, he obliged me to speak very openly of both the letters; but, my dear Sir, imagine my surprise, when he assured me, in the most solemn manner, that far from having ever written me a single line, he had never received, seen, or heard of my letter!
This subject, which caused mutual astonishment and perplexity to us both, entirely engrossed us for the rest of the evening; and he made me promise to shew him the letter I had received in his name to-morrow morning, that he might endeavour to discover the author.
After supper, the conversation became general.
And now, my dearest Sir, may I not call for your congratulations upon the events of this day? a day never to be recollected by me but with the most grateful joy! I know how much you are inclined to think well of Lord Orville, I cannot, therefore, apprehend that my frankness to him will displease you. Perhaps the time is not very distant when your Evelina’s choice may receive the sanction of her best friend’s judgement and approbation, – which seems now all she has to wish!
In regard to the change in my situation which must first take place, surely I cannot be blamed for what has passed! the partiality of Lord Orville must not only reflect honour upon me, but upon all to whom I do, or may belong.
Adieu, most dear sir. I will write again when I arrive in London.
Letter Sixteen
Evelina in continuation
Clifton, Oct. 7th
You will see, my dear Sir, that I was mistaken in supposing I should write no more from this place, where my residence, now, seems more uncertain than ever.
This morning, during breakfast, Lord Orville took an opportunity to beg me, in a low voice, to allow him a moment’s conversation before I left Clifton; ‘May I hope,’ added he, ‘that you will strole into the garden after breakfast?’
I made no answer, but I believe my looks gave no denial; for, indeed I much wished to be satisfied concerning the letter. The moment, therefore, that I could quit the parlour I ran up stairs for my calash; but before I reached my room, Mrs Selwyn called after me, ‘If you are going to walk, Miss Anville, be so good as to bid Jenny bring down my hat, and I’ll accompany you.’
Very much disconcerted, I turned into the drawing-room, without making any answer, and there I hoped to wait unseen, till she had otherwise disposed of herself. But, in a few minutes the door opened, and Sir Clement Willoughby entered.
Starting at the sight of him, in rising hastily, I let drop the letter which I had brought for Lord Orville’s inspection, and, before I could recover it, Sir Clement, springing forward, had it in his hand. He was just presenting it to me, and, at the same time, enquiring after my health, when the signature caught his eye, and he read aloud ‘Orville.’
I endeavoured, eagerly, to snatch it from him, but he would not permit me, and, holding it fast, in a passionate manner exclaimed, ‘Good God, Miss Anville, is it possible you can value such a letter as this?’
The question surprised and confounded me, and I was too much ashamed to answer him; but finding he made an attempt to secure it, I prevented him, and vehemently demanded him to return it.
‘Tell me first,’ said he, holding it above my reach, ‘tell me if you have, since, received any more letters from the same person?’
‘No, indeed,’ cried I, ‘never!’
‘And will you, also, sweetest of women, promise that you never will receive any more? Say that, and you will make me the happiest of men.’
‘Sir Clement,’ cried I, greatly confused, ‘pray give me the letter.’
‘And will you not first satisfy my doubts? – will you not relieve me from the torture of the most distracting suspence? – tell me but that the detested Orville has written to you no more!’
‘Sir Clement,’ cried I, angrily, ‘you have no right to make any conditions, – so pray give me the letter directly.’
‘Why such solicitude about this hateful letter? can it possibly deserve your eagerness? tell me, with truth, with sincerity tell me; Does it really merit the least anxiety?’
‘No matter, Sir,’ cried I, in great perplexity, ‘the letter is mine, and therefore – ’
‘I must conclude, then,’ said he, ‘that the letter deserves your utmost contempt, – but that the name of Orville is sufficient to make you prize it.’
‘Sir Clement,’ cried I, colouring, ‘you are quite – you are very much – the letter is not – ’
‘O Miss Anville,’ cried he, ‘you blush! – you stammer! – Great Heaven! it is then all as I feared!’
‘I know not,’ cried I, half frightened, ‘what you mean; but I beseech you to give me the letter, and to compose yourself.’
‘The letter,’ cried he, gnashing his teeth, ‘you shall never see more! You ought to have burnt it the moment you had read it!’ And in an instant, he tore it into a thousand pieces.
Alarmed at a fury so indecently outrageous, I would have run out of the room; but he caught hold of my gown, and cried, ‘Not yet, not yet must you go! I am but half-mad yet, and you must stay to finish your work. Tell me, therefore, does Orville know your fatal partiality? – Say yes,’ added he, trembling with passion, ‘and I will fly you for ever!’
‘For Heaven’s sake, Sir Clement,’ cried I, ‘release me! – if you do not, you will force me to call for help.’
‘Call then,’ cried he, ‘inexorable and most unfeeling girl; call, if you please, and bid all the world witness your triumph; – but could ten worlds obey your call, I would not part from you till you had answered me. Tell me, then, does Orville know you love him?’
At any other time, an enquiry so gross would have given me inexpressible confusion; but now, the wildness of his manner terrified me, and I only said, ‘Whatever you wish to know, Sir Clement, I will tell you another time; but for the present, I entreat you to let me go!’
‘Enough,’ cried he, ‘I understand you! – the art of Orville has prevailed; – cold, inanimate, phlegmatic as he is, you have rendered him the most envied of men! – One thing more, and I have done: – Will he marry you?’
What a question! my cheeks glowed with indignation, and I felt too proud to make any answer.
‘I see, I see how it is,’ cried he, after a short pause, ‘and I find I am undone for ever!’ Then, letting loose my gown, he put his hand to his forehead, and walked up and down the room in a hasty and agitated manner.
Though now at liberty to go, I had not the courage to leave him: for his evident distress excited all my compassion. And this was our situation, when Lady Louisa, Mr Coverley, and Mrs Beaumont entered the room.
‘Sir Clement Willoughby,’ said the latter, ‘I beg pardon for making you wait so long, but – ’
She had not time for another word; Sir Clement, too much disordered to know or care what he did, snatched up his hat, and, brushing hastily past her, flew down stairs, and out of the house.
And with him went my sincerest pity, though I earnestly hope I shall see him no more. But what, my dear Sir, am I to conclude from his strange speeches concerning the letter? does it not seem as if he was himself the author of it? How else should he be so well acquainted with the contempt it merits? Neither do I know another human being who could serve any interest by such a deception. I remember, too, that just as I had given my own letter to the maid, Sir Clement came into the shop; probably he prevailed upon her, by some bribery, to give it to him, and afterwards, by the same means, to deliver to me an answer of his own writing. Indeed I can in no other manner account for this affair. Oh, Sir Clement, were you not yourself unhappy, I know not how I could pardon an artifice that has caused me so much uneasiness!
His abrupt departure occasio
ned a kind of general consternation.
‘Very extraordinary behaviour this!’ cried Mrs Beaumont.
‘Egad,’ said Mr Coverley, ‘the Baronet has a mind to tip us a touch of the heroicks this morning!’
‘I declare,’ cried Lady Louisa, ‘I never saw any thing so monstrous in my life! it’s quite abominable, – I fancy the man’s mad; – I’m sure he has given me a shocking fright!’
Soon after, Mrs Selwyn came up stairs, with Lord Merton. The former, advancing hastily to me, said, ‘Miss Anville, have you an almanack?’
‘Me! – no, Madam.’
‘Who has one, then?’
‘Egad,’ cried Mr Coverley, ‘I never bought one in my life; it would make me quite melancholy to have such a time-keeper in my pocket. I would as soon walk all day before an hourglass.’
‘You are in the right,’ said Mrs Selwyn, ‘not to watch time, lest you should be betrayed, unawares, into reflecting how you employ it.’
‘Egad, Ma’am,’ cried he, ‘if Time thought no more of me, than I do of Time, I believe I should bid defiance, for one while, to old age and wrinkles, – for deuce take me if ever I think about it at all.’
‘Pray, Mr Coverley,’ said Mrs Selwyn, ‘why do you think it necessary to tell me this so often?’
‘Often!’ repeated he, ‘Egad, Madam, I don’t know why I said it now, – but I’m sure I can’t recollect that ever I owned as much before.’
‘Owned it before!’ cried she, ‘why, my dear Sir, you own it all day long; for every word, every look, every action proclaims it.’
I know not if he understood the full severity of her satire, but he only turned off with a laugh: and she then applied to Mr Lovel, and asked if he had an almanack?
Mr Lovel, who always looks alarmed when she addresses him, with some hesitation answered, ‘I assure you, Ma’am, I have no manner of antipathy to an almanack, – none in the least, – I assure you; – I dare say I have four or five.’
‘Four or five! – pray may I ask what use you make of so many?’
‘Use! – really, Ma’am, as to that, – I don’t make any particular use of them, – but one must have them, to tell one the day of the month, – I’m sure, else, I should never keep it in my head.’
‘And does your time pass so smoothly unmarked, that, without an almanack, you could not distinguish one day from another?’
‘Really, Ma’am,’ cried he, colouring, ‘I don’t see any thing so very particular in having a few almanacks; other people have them, I believe, as well as me.’
‘Don’t be offended,’ cried she, ‘I have but made a little digression. All I want to know, is the state of the moon, – for if it is at the full I shall be saved a world of conjectures, and know at once to what cause to attribute the inconsistencies I have witnessed this morning. In the first place, I heard Lord Orville excuse himself from going out, because he had business of importance to transact at home, – yet have I seen him sauntering alone in the garden this half-hour. Miss Anville, on the other hand, I invited to walk out with me; and, after seeking her every where round the house, I find her quietly seated in the drawing-room. And but a few minutes since, Sir Clement Willoughby, with even more than his usual politeness, told me he was come to spend the morning here, – when, just now, I met him flying down stairs, as if pursued by the Furies; and, far from repeating his compliments, or making any excuse, he did not even answer a question I asked him, but rushed past me, with the rapidity of a thief from a bailiff!’
‘I protest,’ said Mrs Beaumont, ‘I can’t think what he meant; such rudeness from a man of any family is quite incomprehensible.’
‘My Lord,’ cried Lady Louisa to Lord Merton, ‘Do you know he did the same by me? – I was just going to ask him what was the matter, but he ran past me so quick, that I declare he quite dazzled my eyes. You can’t think, my Lord, how he frighted me; I dare say I look as pale – don’t I look very pale, my Lord?’
‘Your Ladyship,’ said Mr Lovel, ‘so well becomes the lilies, that the roses might blush to see themselves so excelled.’
‘Pray, Mr Lovel,’ said Mrs Selwyn, ‘if the roses should blush, how would you find it out?’
‘Egad,’ cried Mr Coverley, ‘I suppose they must blush, as the saying is, like a blue dog, – for they are red already.’
‘Prithee, Jack,’ said Lord Merton, ‘don’t you pretend to talk about blushes, that never knew what they were in your life.’
‘My Lord,’ said Mrs Selwyn, ‘if experience alone can justify mentioning them, what an admirable treatise upon the subject may we not expect from your Lordship!’
‘O, pray, Ma’am,’ answered he, ‘stick to Jack Coverley, – he’s your only man; for my part, I confess I have a mortal aversion to arguments.’
‘O fie, my Lord,’ cried Mrs Selwyn, ‘a senator of the nation! a member of the noblest parliament in the world! – and yet neglect the art of oratory?’
‘Why, faith, my Lord,’ said Mr Lovel, ‘I think, in general, your House is not much addicted to study; we of the lower House have indubitably most application; and, if I did not speak before a superior power,’ bowing low to Lord Merton, ‘I should presume to add, we have likewise the most able speakers.’
‘Mr Lovel,’ said Mrs Selwyn, ‘you deserve immortality for that discovery! But for this observation, and the confession of Lord Merton, I protest I should have supposed that a peer of the realm, and an able logician, were synonymous terms.’
Lord Merton, turning upon his heel, asked Lady Louisa if she should take the air before dinner?
‘Really,’ answered she, ‘I don’t know; – I’m afraid it’s monstrous hot; besides,’ (putting her hand to her forehead) ‘I a’n’t half well; it’s quite horrid to have such weak nerves! – the least thing in the world discomposes me: I declare, that man’s oddness has given me such a shock, – I don’t know when I shall recover from it. But I’m a sad weak creature, – don’t you think I am, my Lord?’
‘O, by no means,’ answered he, ‘your Ladyship is merely delicate, – and devil take me if ever I had the least passion for an Amazon.’
‘I have the honour to be quite of your Lordship’s opinion,’ said Mr Lovel, looking maliciously at Mrs Selwyn, ‘for I have an insuperable aversion to strength, either of body or mind, in a female.’
‘Faith, and so have I,’ said Mr Coverley; ‘for egad I’d as soon see a woman chop wood, as hear her chop logic.’
‘So would every man in his senses,’ said Lord Merton; ‘for a woman wants nothing to recommend her but beauty and good-nature; in every thing else she is either impertinent or unnatural. For my part, deuce take me if ever I wish to hear a word of sense from a woman as long as I live!’
‘It has always been agreed,’ said Mrs Selwyn, looking round her with the utmost contempt, ‘that no man ought to be connected with a woman whose understanding is superior to his own. Now I very much fear, that to accommodate all this good company, according to such a rule, would be utterly impracticable, unless we should chuse subjects from Swift’s hospital of ideots.’
How many enemies, my dear Sir, does this unbounded severity excite! Lord Merton, however, only whistled; Mr Coverley sang; and Mr Lovel, after biting his lips some time, said, ‘’Pon honour, that lady – if she was not a lady, – I should be half tempted to observe, – that there is something, – in such severity, – that is rather, I must say, – rather – oddish.’
Just then, a servant brought Lady Louisa a note, upon a waiter, which is a ceremony always used to her Ladyship; and I took the opportunity of this interruption to the conversation, to steal out of the room.
I went immediately to the parlour, which I found quite empty; for I did not dare walk in the garden after what Mrs Selwyn had said.
In a few minutes, a servant announced Mr Macartney, saying, as he entered the room, that he would acquaint Lord Orville he was there.
Mr Macartney rejoiced much at finding me alone. He told me he had taken the liberty to enquire fo
r Lord Orville, by way of pretext for coming to the house.
I then very eagerly enquired if he had seen his father.
‘I have, Madam,’ said he; ‘and the generous compassion you have shewn made me hasten to acquaint you, that upon reading my unhappy mother’s letter, he did not hesitate to acknowledge me.’
‘Good God,’ cried I, with no little emotion, ‘how similar are our circumstances! And did he receive you kindly?’
‘I could not, Madam, expect that he would: the cruel transaction which obliged me to fly Paris, was too recent in his memory.’
‘And, – have you seen the young lady?’
‘No, Madam,’ said he mournfully, ‘I was forbid her sight.’
‘Forbid her sight! – and why?’
‘Partly, perhaps, from prudence, – and partly from the remains of a resentment which will not easily subside. I only requested leave to acquaint her with my relationship, and be allowed to call her sister; – but it was denied me! – You have no sister, said Sir John, you must forget her existence. Hard, and vain command!’
‘You have, you have a sister!’ cried I, from an impulse of pity which I could not repress, ‘a sister who is most warmly interested in your welfare, and who only wants opportunity to manifest her friendship and regard.’
‘Gracious Heaven!’ cried he, ‘what does Miss Anville mean?’
‘Anville,’ said I, ‘is not my real name; Sir John Belmont is my father, – he is your’s, – and I am your sister! – You see, therefore, the claim we mutually have to each other’s regard; we are not merely bound by the ties of friendship, but by those of blood. I feel for you, already, all the affection of a sister, – I felt it, indeed, before I knew I was one. – Why, my dear brother, do you not speak? – do you hesitate to acknowledge me?’
‘I am so lost in astonishment,’ cried he, ‘that I know not if I hear right!’ –
‘I have then found a brother,’ cried I, holding out my hand, ‘and he will not own me!’
‘Own you! – Oh, Madam,’ cried he, accepting my offered hand, ‘is it, indeed, possible you can own me? – a poor, wretched adventurer! who so lately had no support but from your generosity? – whom your benevolence snatched from utter destruction? – Can you, – Oh Madam, can you indeed, and without a blush, condescend to own such an outcast for a brother?’
Evelina Page 42
