‘Oh, forbear, forbear,’ cried I, ‘is this language proper for a sister? are we not reciprocally bound to each other?——Will you not suffer me to expect from you all the good offices in your power? – But tell me, where is our father at present?’
‘At the Hotwell, Madam; he arrived there yesterday morning.’
I would have proceeded with further questions, but the entrance of Lord Orville prevented me. The moment he saw us, he started, and would have retreated; but, drawing my hand from Mr Macartney’s, I begged him to come in.
For a few moments we were all silent, and, I believe, all in equal confusion. Mr Macartney, however, recollecting himself, said, ‘I hope your Lordship will forgive the liberty I have taken in making use of your name?’
Lord Orville, rather coldly, bowed, but, said nothing.
Again we were all silent, and then Mr Macartney took leave.
‘I fancy,’ said Lord Orville, when he was gone, ‘I have shortened Mr Macartney’s visit?’
‘No, my Lord, not at all.’
‘I had presumed,’ said he, with some hesitation, ‘I should have seen Miss Anville in the garden; – but I knew not she was so much better engaged.’
Before I could answer, a servant came to tell me the chaise was ready, and that Mrs Selwyn was enquiring for me.
‘I will wait on her immediately,’ cried I, and away I was running; but Lord Orville, stopping me, said, with great emotion, ‘Is it thus, Miss Anville, you leave me?’
‘My Lord,’ cried I, ‘how can I help it? – perhaps, soon, some better opportunity may offer – ’
‘Good Heaven!’ cried he, ‘do you indeed take me for a Stoic? What better opportunity may I hope for? – is not the chaise come? – are you not going? have you even deigned to tell me whither?’
‘My journey, my Lord, will now be deferred. Mr Macartney has brought me intelligence which renders it, at present, unnecessary.’
‘Mr Macartney,’ said he, gravely, ‘seems to have great influence, – yet he is a very young counsellor.’
‘Is it possible, my Lord, Mr Macartney can give you the least uneasiness?’
‘My dearest Miss Anville,’ said he, taking my hand, ‘I see, and I adore the purity of your mind, superior as it is to all little arts, and all apprehensions of suspicion; and I should do myself, as well as you, injustice, if I were capable of harbouring the smallest doubts of that goodness which makes you mine for ever: nevertheless, pardon me, if I own myself surprised, – nay, alarmed, at these frequent meetings with so young a man as Mr Macartney.’
‘My Lord,’ cried I, eager to clear myself, ‘Mr Macartney is my brother!’
‘Your brother! you amaze me! – What strange mystery, then, makes his relationship a secret?’
Just then, Mrs Selwyn opened the door. ‘O, you are here!’ cried she; ‘Pray is my Lord so kind as to assist you in preparing for your journey, – or in retarding it?’
‘I should be most happy,’ said Lord Orville, smiling, ‘if it were in my power to do the latter.’
I then acquainted her with Mr Macartney’s communication.
She immediately ordered the chaise away, and then took me into her own room, to consider what should be done.
A few minutes sufficed to determine her, and she wrote the following note.
To Sir John Belmont, Bart.
Mrs Selwyn presents her compliments to Sir John Belmont, and, if he is at leisure, will be glad to wait on him this morning, upon business of importance.
She then ordered her man to enquire at the Pump-room for a direction; and went herself to Mrs Beaumont to apologize for deferring her journey.
An answer was presently returned, that he would be glad to see her.
She would have had me immediately accompany her to the Hotwells; but I entreated her to spare me the distress of so abrupt an introduction, and to pave the way for my reception. She consented rather reluctantly, and, attended only by her servant, walked to the Wells.
She was not absent two hours, yet so miserably did time seem to linger, that I thought a thousand accidents had happened, and feared she would never return. I passed the whole time in my own room, for I was too much agitated even to converse with Lord Orville.
The instant that, from my window, I saw her returning, I flew down stairs, and met her in the garden.
We both walked to the arbour.
Her looks, in which disappointment and anger were expressed, presently announced to me the failure of her embassy. Finding that she did not speak, I asked her, in a faultering voice, Whether or not I had a father?
‘You have not, my dear!’ said she, abruptly.
‘Very well, Madam,’ said I, with tolerable calmness, ‘let the chaise, then, be ordered again, – I will go to Berry Hill, – and there, I trust, I shall still find one!’
It was some time ere she could give, or I could hear, the account of her visit; and then she related it in a hasty manner; yet I believe I can recollect every word.
‘I found Sir John alone. He received me with the utmost politeness. I did not keep him a moment in suspence as to the purport of my visit. But I had no sooner made it known, than, with a supercilious smile, he said, “And have you, Madam, been prevailed upon to revive that ridiculous old story?” Ridiculous, I told him, was a term which he would find no one else do him the favour to make use of, in speaking of the horrible actions belonging to the old story he made so light of; “actions,” continued I, “which would dye still deeper the black annals of Nero or Caligula.” He attempted in vain to rally, for I pursued him with all the severity in my power, and ceased not painting the enormity of his crime, till I stung him to the quick, and in a voice of passion and impatience, he said, “No more, Madam, – this is not a subject upon which I need a monitor.” “Make then,” cried I, “the only reparation in your power. – Your daughter is now at Clifton; send for her hither, and, in the face of the world, proclaim the legitimacy of her birth, and clear the reputation of your injured wife.” “Madam,” said he, “you are much mistaken, if you suppose I waited for the honour of this visit, before I did what little justice now depends upon me, to the memory of that unfortunate woman: her daughter has been my care from her infancy; I have taken her into my house; she bears my name, and she will be my sole heiress.” For some time this assertion appeared so absurd, that I only laughed at it; but at last, he assured me, I had myself been imposed upon, for that the very woman who attended Lady Belmont in her last illness, conveyed the child to him while he was in London, before she was a year old. “Unwilling,” he added, “at that time to confirm the rumour of my being married, I sent the woman with the child to France; as soon as she was old enough, I put her into a convent, where she has been properly educated; and now I have taken her home. I have acknowledged her for my lawful child, and paid, at length, to the memory of her unhappy mother, a tribute of fame, which has made me wish to hide myself hereafter from all the world.” This whole story sounded so improbable, that I did not scruple to tell him I discredited every word. He then rung his bell, and enquiring if his hair-dresser was come, said he was sorry to leave me, but that, if I would favour him with my company to-morrow, he would do himself the honour of introducing Miss Belmont to me, instead of troubling me to introduce her to him. I rose in great indignation, and assuring him I would make his conduct as public as it was infamous, I left the house.’
Good Heaven, how strange the recital! how incomprehensible an affair! The Miss Belmont, then, who is actually at Bristol, passes for the daughter of my unhappy mother! – passes, in short, for your Evelina! Who she can be, or what this tale can mean, I have not any idea.
Mrs Selwyn soon after left me to my own reflections. Indeed they were not very pleasant. Quietly as I had borne her relation, the moment I was alone I felt most bitterly both the disgrace and the sorrow of a rejection so cruelly inexplicable.
I know not how long I might have continued in this situation, had I not been awakened from my melancholy reverie by th
e voice of Lord Orville. ‘May I come in,’ cried he, ‘or shall I interrupt you?’
I was silent, and he seated himself next me.
‘I fear,’ he continued, ‘Miss Anville will think I persecute her; yet so much as I have to say, and so much as I wish to hear, with so few opportunities for either, she cannot wonder, – and I hope she will not be offended, – that I seize with such avidity every moment in my power to converse with her. You are grave,’ added he, taking my hand; ‘I hope you do not regret the delay of your journey? – I hope the pleasure it gives to me, will not be a subject of pain to you? – You are silent? – Something, I am sure, has afflicted you: – Would to Heaven I were able to console you! – Would to Heaven I were worthy to participate in your sorrows!’
My heart was too full to bear this kindness, and I could only answer by my tears. ‘Good Heaven,’ cried he, ‘how you alarm me! – My love, my sweet Miss Anville, deny me no longer to be the sharer of your griefs! – tell me, at least, that you have not withdrawn your esteem! – that you do not repent the goodness you have shewn me! – that you still think me the same grateful Orville whose heart you have deigned to accept!’
‘Oh, my Lord,’ cried I, ‘your generosity overpowers me!’ And I wept like an infant. For now that all my hopes of being acknowledged seemed finally crushed, I felt the nobleness of his disinterested regard so forcibly, that I could scarce breathe under the weight of gratitude which oppressed me.
He seemed greatly shocked, and in terms the most flattering, the most respectfully tender, he at once soothed my distress, and urged me to tell him its cause.
‘My Lord,’ said I, when I was able to speak, ‘you little know what an outcast you have honoured with your choice! – a child of bounty, – an orphan from infancy, – dependent, even for subsistence dependent, upon the kindness of compassion! – Rejected by my natural friends, – disowned for ever by my nearest relation, – Oh, my Lord, so circumstanced, can I deserve the distinction with which you honour me? No, no, I feel the inequality too painfully; – you must leave me, my Lord, you must suffer me to return to obscurity, – and there, in the bosom of my first, best, my only friend, – I will pour forth all the grief of my heart! – while you, my Lord, must seek elsewhere – ’
I could not proceed; my whole soul recoiled against the charge I would have given, and my voice refused to utter it.
‘Never!’ cried he, warmly; ‘my heart is yours, and I swear to you an attachment eternal! – You prepare me, indeed, for a tale of horror, and I am almost breathless with expectation, – but so firm is my conviction, that, whatever are your misfortunes, to have merited them is not of the number, that I feel myself more strongly, more invincibly devoted to you than ever! – Tell me but where I may find this noble friend, whose virtues you have already taught me to reverence, – and I will fly to obtain his consent and intercession, that henceforward our fates may be indissolubly united, – and then shall it be the sole study of my life to endeavour to soften your past, – and guard you from future misfortunes!’
I had just raised my eyes, to answer this most generous of men, when the first object they met was Mrs Selwyn!
‘So, my dear,’ cried she, ‘what, still courting the rural shades! – I thought ere now you would have been satiated with this retired seat, and I have been seeking you all over the house. But I find the only way to meet with you, – is to enquire for Lord Orville. However, don’t let me disturb your meditations; you are possibly planning some pastoral dialogue.’
And, with this provoking speech, she walked on.
In the greatest confusion, I was quitting the arbour, when Lord Orville said, ‘Permit me to follow Mrs Selwyn, – it is time to put an end to all impertinent conjectures; will you allow me to speak to her openly?’
I assented in silence, and he left me.
I then went to my own room, where I continued till I was summoned to dinner; after which, Mrs Selwyn invited me to hers.
The moment she had shut the door, ‘Your Ladyship,’ said she, ‘will, I hope, be seated.’
‘Ma’am!’ cried I, staring.
‘O the sweet innocent! So you don’t know what I mean? – but, my dear, my sole view is to accustom you a little to your dignity elect, lest, when you are addressed by your title, you should look another way, from an apprehension of listening to a discourse not meant for you to hear.’
Having, in this manner, diverted herself with my confusion, till her raillery was almost exhausted, she congratulated me very seriously upon the partiality of Lord Orville, and painted to me, in the strongest terms, his disinterested desire of being married to me immediately. She had told him, she said, my whole story; and yet he was willing, nay eager, that our union should take place of any further application to my family. ‘Now, my dear,’ continued she, ‘I advise you by all means to marry him directly; nothing can be more precarious than our success with Sir John; and the young men of this age are not to be trusted with too much time for deliberation, where their interests are concerned.’
‘Good God, Madam,’ cried I, ‘do, you think I would hurry Lord Orville?’
‘Well, do as you will,’ said she; ‘luckily you have an excellent subject for Quixotism; – otherwise, this delay might prove your ruin; but Lord Orville is almost as romantic as if he had been born and bred at Berry Hill.’
She then proposed, as no better expedient seemed likely to be suggested, that I should accompany her at once in her visit to the Hotwells to-morrow morning.
The very idea made me tremble; yet she represented so strongly the necessity of pursuing this unhappy affair with spirit, or giving it totally up, that, wanting her force of argument, I was almost obliged to yield to her proposal.
In the evening, we all walked in the garden: and Lord Orville, who never quitted my side, told me he had been listening to a tale, which, though it had removed the perplexities that had so long tormented him, had penetrated him with sorrow and compassion. I acquainted him with Mrs Selwyn’s plan for to-morrow, and confessed the extreme terror it gave me. He then, in a manner almost unanswerable, besought me to leave to him the conduct of the affair, by consenting to be his before an interview took place.
I could not but acknowledge my sense of his generosity; but I told him I was wholly dependent upon you, and that I was certain your opinion would be the same as mine, which was, that it would be highly improper I should dispose of myself for ever, so very near the time which must finally decide by whose authority I ought to be guided. The subject of this dreaded meeting, with the thousand conjectures and apprehensions to which it gives birth, employed all our conversation then, as it has all my thoughts since.
Heaven only knows how I shall support myself, when the long-expected, – the wished, – yet terrible moment arrives, that will prostrate me at the feet of the nearest, the most reverenced of all relations, whom my heart yearns to know, and longs to love!
Letter Seventeen
Evelina in continuation
Oct. 9
I could not write yesterday, so violent was the agitation of my mind, – but I will not, now, lose a moment till I have hastened to my best friend an account of the transactions of a day I can never recollect without emotion.
Mrs Selwyn determined upon sending no message, ‘Lest,’ said she, ‘Sir John, fatigued with the very idea of my reproaches, should endeavour to avoid a meeting: all we have to do, is to take him by surprise. He cannot but see who you are, whether he will do you justice or not.’
We went early, and in Mrs Beaumont’s chariot; into which, Lord Orville, uttering words of the kindest encouragement, handed us both.
My uneasiness, during the ride, was excessive, but, when we stopped at the door, I was almost senseless with terror! the meeting, at last, was not so dreadful as that moment! I believe I was carried into the house; but I scarce recollect what was done with me: however, I know we remained some time in the parlour, before Mrs Selwyn could send any message up stairs.
When I was somewha
t recovered, I entreated her to let me return home, assuring her I felt myself quite unequal to supporting the interview.
‘No,’ said she, ‘you must stay now; your fears will but gain strength by delay, and we must not have such a shock as this repeated.’ Then, turning to the servant, she sent up her name.
An answer was brought, that he was going out in great haste, but would attend her immediately. I turned so sick, that Mrs Selwyn was apprehensive I should have fainted; and opening a door which led to an inner apartment, she begged me to wait there till I was somewhat composed, and till she had prepared for my reception.
Glad of every moment’s reprieve, I willingly agreed to the proposal, and Mrs Selwyn had but just time to shut me in, before her presence was necessary.
The voice of a father – Oh dear and revered name! – which then, for the first time, struck my ears, affected me in a manner I cannot describe, though it was only employed in giving orders to a servant as he came down stairs.
Then, entering the parlour, I heard him say, ‘I am sorry, Madam, I made you wait, but I have an engagement which now calls me away: however, if you have any commands for me, I shall be glad of the honour of your company some other time.’
‘I am come, Sir,’ said Mrs Selwyn, ‘to introduce your daughter to you.’
‘I am infinitely obliged to you,’ answered he, ‘but I have just had the satisfaction of breakfasting with her. Ma’am, your most obedient.’
‘You refuse, then, to see her?’
‘I am much indebted to you, Madam, for this desire of encreasing my family, but you must excuse me if I decline taking advantage of it. I have already a daughter, to whom I owe every thing; and it is not three days since, that I had the pleasure of discovering a son; how many more sons and daughters may be brought to me, I am yet to learn, but I am, already, perfectly satisfied with the size of my family.’
Evelina Page 43
