V I C I S S I T U D E S

 

I N

 

G E N T E E L L I F E.

 

 

 

V I C I S S I T U D E S

 

 

I N

 

 

G E N T E E L   L I F E

 

 

 

In FOUR VOLUMES.

 

 

VOL. I.

 

 

Faded Ideas float in the Fancy like half-forgotten Dreams;

and Imagination, in its fullest enjoyments, becomes

suspicious of its Offspring, and doubts

whether it has created or adopted.

SHERIDAN.

 

 

 

S T A F F O R D:

 

 

PRINTED BY ARTHUR MORGAN.

 

 

AND SOLD BY

 

 

T.N. LONGMAN,

 

 

PATER-NOSTER-ROW, LONDON.

 

 

M. DCC. XCIV.

 

V I C C I S I T U D E S

 

I N

 

G E N T E E L L I F E.

 

 

LETTER, I.

 

 

MR. STANLEY, TO SIR CHARLES CONWAY.

Alverston Park, Feb. 5th. 1789.

 

THE merits of a cause which can survive injudicious arguments in its favor, must, as a wiser man than myself has observed, be singularly strong; as every weak and erroneous sentiment advanced in its support, will have a tendency to lesson its consequence, and we shall be sedulous to find fresh reasons for our partiality to any previously-adopted contrary opinion; which, therefore, from its having been unfairly and foolishly attacked, will, in the end, be more firmly established.

 

            Need I say any thing farther to show you what must be the fate of the cause, so absurd, so unjust in its nature, as that which you, most unaccountably, have been led to espouse; or to convince you that my darling system has received additional strength from the opposition with which it has lately encountered?

 

            Your letter, which was put into my hands as soon as I alighted, is written in a style unusually serious; else, I should have imagined you had been ridiculing, rather than supporting, my Godfather's foolish proposal, as the arguments you advance upon the occasion, are diametrically opposite to each other; being at once expressive of a respect for, and a contempt of, riches. The contempt arises naturally in your heart; the respect is spurious: for is not the texture of your soul generosity itself? It is; or I have been mistaken in every idea I ever formed of you. Yet how is this persuasion consistent with your wishing me to sacrifice all my happiness to interest, as it is called, by determining to obey this positive old Slayton's mandate?

 

   

            “If I will marry, ACCORDING TO HIS LIKING,” mind ye, within the next twelve months, he will give me down Fifty Thousand Pounds, and secure to me Fifty Thousand more to be paid at his death. If I refuse to comply, he will adopt a more distant, and almost unknown relation; who will,” he says, “oblige him without hesitation.”

 

            Marry within the next twelve months, when I know not the woman with whom I wish to live three weeks; much less one to whom I should like to be fettered for life! absurd! ridiculous! am I to hunt round the island?—for she must be an english woman. Or am I to advertise for a female of such and such descriptions; and when she appears, though she answers all the required expressed particulars, find her intirely deficient in that nameless something, which alone can filch my heart from its native home, for any length of time.

 

            For any length of time, let me repeat; it being in vain to deny that the vagrant has often over-leaped the bounds within which dame prudence would confine it. But it never staid long away. Some kind folly—some obliging weakness in its temporary queen, soon gave it its freedom, and it returned to me uninjured.

 

            But to be a little more serious about this foolish business—I am really concerned that my father and mother enter so deeply into Mr. Slayton's plan. Good; wise; excellent as they both are, they deserve almost implicit obedience from their children. But, indeed, Charles, I cannot bring myself to comply with the sacrifice they now require. They urge the great obligations they were under in my tyrant-grandfather's days, to this whimsical, though, I will allow, well-meaning veteran. What then! must I, to pay their debt of gratitude, overwhelm myself with inevitable destruction? no: the expectation is unreasonable. They urge, that his only view is my happiness. Pray who can judge so well as myself in what my happiness consists? they urge—in short, they urge as you do, so many unadmittable reasons for my compliance, that I am now determined upon a downright refusal to all that any of you can urge farther. You, I doubt not, have been drawn in to promise the exertion of the influence it is well known you ever had with me. There is no other solution to the enigma of your attempting arguments against your own native sentiments. But you have, likewise, promised to me that your last letter shall close your remonstrances upon the irksome subject. I am heartily glad of it, because I shall now again break your seals with pleasure.

 

            I am all impatience to see you at Alverston. Come immediately. What the plague can be the matter with my sister? I am convinced there is something more in the wind than you will tell me. Why this reserve? why this unusual absence? I insist upon knowing every particular. Emma, I will answer for it, is in fault, and that it is your tenderness for her which incites you to spare her to me. Excellent as I must own I think her, upon the whole, she has her errors: errors into which she is led by the vivacity of her disposition: but that her heart is yours, is incontrovertible. She is my sister, and must be capable of distinguishing such—but confound you for a blockheadly puppy, as my god-father says, I do not want to increase the vanity from which you cannot be exempt. A handsome fellow with a handsome estate and title, does not want to be told he has fifty other recommendations. Besides, are you not my chosen friend? and is not that alone, sufficient to give you consequence with the women? I tell you, Charles, to come soon to Alverston.

 

GEORGE STANLEY.

 

 

LETTER, II.

 

SIR CHARLES CONWAY, TO GEORGE

STANLEY, ESQ.

 

            Hawthorn Grove, Feb. 5th.

 

YOUR messenger must not, he says, return without an answer. What can I say to you! why go to Alverston! Sir Edward and Lady Stanley have a just claim to my esteem and reverence. You, and you know it, are possessed of my most fervent friendship; and your sister—what is it that she does not command! all the foregoing sentiments of my soul connected and heightened into the most ardent and, I think, refined affection that a mortal is capable to conceive, I boast to entertain for Emma Stanley. But her late treatment of me is more than I can bear: more than I ought to bear. Flatter me not with an idea of her partiality. If ever I was blest with the least degree of it, I have forfeited it; though by what means I know not; it being impossible for a woman of her very superior understanding to treat with such caprice any man whom she thinks of as her future husband.

 

            The rest of your letter I cannot now reply to; nor can I, in the present situation of circumstances, go to Alverston.

Yours, ever cordially

CHARLES CONWAY.

 

 

LETTER, III.

 

MR. STANLEY, TO SIR CHARLES CONWAY.

 

Alverston, Friday, Feb. 13th.

 

FIRE and fury! distraction! destruction! and death!—with all the unmeaning exclamations of frenzical exclaimers!—what is now to be done? where can I be secure from the effect of enchantment?

She is an angel, Charles! absolutely an angel! at least, as to all my eyes can judge by; and that, perhaps, is all that with my views—with my views, did I say! what are my views? by all my hopes of happiness, I know not. I have no views; not one, that my eyes take pleasure in, save those in which I may possibly catch a glympse of her. To the very sound of her steps, I listen with the greatest avidity. Charles! you never beheld any thing half so handsome. Her lips!—I never saw such a pair of beautiful lips in my life. Her eyes, it would be madness to talk about, and very dangerous to mention either her hair or complexion. As to her form—her air—her manner!—so betwitchingly genteel; so exquisitely graceful; so perfectly elegant—but what an idiot am I to endeavour to describe this undescribable beauty!

 

            “Who in the name of amazement! is he in such raptures about!? you have, I suppose, before reading thus far, half a score times exclaimingly queried. Take a laconic answer. I do not know.

 

            “Not know, George! and yet thus madly in love!” not know, Charles, and yet thus madly [madly indeed] in love. And now what farther have you to say?

 

            You probably think it will be in vain to attempt talking rationally with a fellow who just now gives such proof of insanity; and if you do, you think right; for I have never had anything to do with rationality since I first saw her and heard her speak. And here, full in my view, comes the enchantress. She has this instant entered the gate at the end of the long elm walk. I hasten to meet her as if by accident.

Farewel. More her's than my own or yours.

G.S.

 

            Ah! my poor godfather! thy plans are now effectually crushed indeed.

 

 

 

LETTER, IV.

SIR CHARLES CONWAY, TO GEORGE

STANLEY, ESQ.

Hawthorn Grove, Feb. 14th.

 

HITHERTO I have set you down as a strange kind of a wild fellow with some sobriety; but your last letter puts sobriety out of the question and leaves me to conclude you absolutely mad. Have I not, think you, vexation enough from that too volatile yet too charming sister of yours? Add not, my dear George, to my anxiety; for anxious I must be on every occasion which threatens the disturbance of your family; and that the subject of your last, if you are really serious in what you write, is of that tendency, is too evident from the postscript. But I am willing to believe the whole to be an effusion of your wild immagination; founded, perhaps, upon the slight circumstance of your having accidentally seen a pretty girl.

 

            My spirits are extremely low at this time. I have been giving the finishing directions to the improvements at the bottom of my garden which were began with the sole view of rendering it agreeable to your sister's taste, and the idea that she, probably, will never see it, has cast a gloom over my mind which I cannot shake off.

 

            I mean to write to her by the servant who is to carry this. Possibly her answer, if she will deign to give one, will fix my doom. If it’s contrary to my wishes—say what you will, George—Hawthorn Grove shall not long be my residence; for I cannot, with any degree of patience, think of remaining so near my dearest friend, as I trust you ever will continue under all circumstances, and be debarred an intercourse; and as to going to Alverston—it would be next to an impossibility. I will, therefore, at least, for a time, remove from a spot that I once thought was one of the most beautiful situations in the kingdom, and will visit the Eastern Coast, which I have often had a wish to see. Never again tell me of my being a philosopher; I find the conquest of myself much more difficult than I imagined it would have been. While your sister’s heart was the expected reward, the task was pleasant; but now my hope is clouded, the natural warmth of my temper gets the lead, and I am half as impetuous as you are. I would, if I could, write with a smile, but I cannot. It will not continue a moment. Am I, I often ask myself, the gay, the high-spirited fellow who used to dispute the palm in all companies, and generally carried it, too, against every opposer but yourself? and shall I, at twenty-four, turn a mope—a melancholy recluse, because one woman frowns! no; I pronounce with an emphasis, I will not thus give way; and then determine to exert a power which I still cannot but think we shall find ourselves to be endued with, if we will but resolutely endeavour for victory. I then, for some time, go on calmly, and fancy I shall be successful; but one trick, one manoeuvre of Emma Stanley’s, entirely destroys all ideas of my fancied wisdom, and I, at once, fall from the imaginary height I had gained. We all I suppose, are ready to believe there is no task so hard to perform as that which is allotted to ourselves; and this, I confess, is my opinion with regard to your sister. Were she not exactly the woman she is, I think I could shut my heart against her. But a creature so perfect in all other respects—face and form so faultless—understanding so exalted—disposition so sweet, till of late, and that still unaltered to all but me—how, my friend, can I drive such a woman from my wishes! I even seem unjust when I accuse her, and, sometimes, endeavour to seek for faults in myself, respecting my conduct to her, that she may be acquitted. What scenes of domestic felicity have I thought were almost at hand! How fondly have I believed that she was to be the means of perfecting a reformation which I ardently wish to have effected! My future, as well as my present happiness, seemed to have been delegated to her. But I must fly from the subject. This sudden destruction of my best hopes leaves such a horrid vacuity in my soul, that I can scarce tell to what to turn my thoughts. Perhaps when all is absolutely at an end—when she shall have given her final determination, which I now mean to press for—I may, in time, arrive to a sullen kind of negative-happiness, which will very likely, take the name of tranquillity: to which name, however, it will have but small pretensions, till I can drop all thoughts of sublunary bliss, and entirely look to a coming world: for while earthly felicity holds any place in my idea, she will always present herself to me in the form of Emma Stanley.

 

            You desire me to be more explicit upon this head and to give you particulars. What can I say? of what can I accuse her? the retrospection, necessary to comply with your injunction, is painful, and will not furnish any thing conclusive. In all my late visits to Alverston Park, her looks and her words have been at variance; the latter having expressed the most perplexing indifference, while the former have led me to hope her heart silently pleaded in my favor.

 

            At first, I did not dare to enquire pressingly into the cause; but the last time I went, the change was too great to allow of my being silent, with any propriety, after the flattering reception she had so lately given my professions of affection. In reply to my entreaties to know the cause of this distressing alteration, she, assuming the utmost gaiety of manner, begged me not to be disturbed at such a trifle as her good and bad humours; that it was a matter of but small consequence in general, and no concern of mine. I could not then say any more, as you that instant interrupted us. Since my return I have written to her thrice, but have only received one answer; and that was to my last; the purport of it is similar to her reply in the park-avenue.

 

            Hitherto, I have been unwilling to give you even this explanation, because I flattered myself with its being only the effect of that vivacity which, in my eyes, always added to her charms; and though I did not approve of her late exertion of it, I endeavoured to excuse her. When I began to apprehend there was too much of reality in her apparent indifference, I had another motive for my being rather silent on the subject. Sure of your attachment to my interest, I was afraid of your exerting your influence in my favor; on a double account afraid of it; for first, I love her too sincerely to endure the thought of occasioning her any irksome solicitation; and secondly, that love is too delicate to consent to owe the possession of even, your sister, to any one but herself.

 

            From the hitherto unlimited confidence between you, it is probable, as I shall press for an explanation, that she may consult you upon her answer. Now I do request—nay I insist upon it—that you leave her entirely to her own determination; for if I ever, hereafter, should have reason to suppose that her sentiments were biased by your prejudice in my favor, I should be miserable in having been gifted with her hand. Her heart is the prize to which I aspire: to be satisfied with less, would be to be unworthy of her. It would but ill suit with the delicacy of my affection, or, allow me to say, with the dignity of my sentiments respecting her, to receive her consent, were she to give it with the least reluctance; for what would that be doing but endeavouring to secure my own happiness at the expence of her’s? which, after all, it would be impossible to do, as mine can only be perfected when her’s is compleat. I, therefore, should accept her with reluctance, even from herself, could I know that, reason, more than affection, prompted her compliance; much less could I endure to believe it the effect of persuasion from any other. You, I am convinced, will not think me over nice in these particulars, because they are such we have always exactly agreed in: to the rectitude of which I now request you minutely to attend, lest, on the present occasion, your well-known affection to both your sister and myself, should make your wish for our union lessen the force of those sentiments which must ever oppose it, but upon the terms of mutual affection.

 

            The substance of your frenzical letter, I wish to pass slightly over; being willing to believe it was not written with any sober meaning. Yet you are so precipitant, that I tremble at the possibility of your being seriously engaged in some wild pursuit.

 

            Do, my dear George, do be upon your guard. If you cannot bend your heart to oblige the best father and mother in the universe, do not let it take a bias so diametrically opposite to their wishes as some expressions in your half-frantic scribble, leads me to apprehend your are in danger of doing.

 

            “Your eyes are all that with your views”—ah George! let me ask—what are your views? answer candidly, and if they are wrong ones, upon which point your own heart will soon decide, renounce them instantly.

 

            If any subject can draw my thoughts from that which, so greatly pains them, it must be one in which you are concerned. But till I know whether you are in jest, or in too much earnest, will forbear any further expostulations.

Farewel,

CHARLES CONWAY.

 

LETTER, V.

SIR CHARLES CONWAY, TO MISS STANLEY.

Hawthorn Grove, Feb. 14th. 1789.

 

I AM now, madam, set down with a determination to avoid, if possible, the incoherence with which I am apprehensive you were offended in my last. How I shall be able to carry that determination into effect, I know not; for the subject is, and I fear ever will be, too near my heart to permit my treating it with that calmness—more properly termed indifference—which you seem to expect, and of which, it must be confessed, you set me so striking an example. Pardon me: I do not mean to offend you; but my soul is so filled with vexation, that my utmost efforts are insufficient to suppress, entirely, the appearance of it.

 

            It is now, Miss Stanley, ten years since I was first introduced into your family, in the advantageous light of your brother’s most favored friend. I was then fourteen; he only one year older; and I believe a more firm friendship was never cemented between two boys of that age. You were a lovely girl of eleven, and, young as I was, I found my attachment to the brother, increase with my knowledge of the sister; though I was not sensible of the occasion of the influence. When you were permitted to join in the amusements of the evening, how, entirely were all my faculties absorbed! And how sedulous I was to place myself near you! “now Emma is here”, would your brother, sometimes, exclaim, “Charles Conway will not speak to me!” and I am still sensible of the sudden glow, which, on such occasions, suffused my cheeks; while Sir Edward and Lady Stanley, upon whom I have turned an almost conscious eye, have smiled upon each other at the innocent attachment. What exquisite felicity was I then surrounded with! how pure, how unmixed were my delights! but I must fly from the retrospection of these truely blissful scenes; yet I could wish to draw them to your recollection. You need not be afraid of their effect.

 

            When Mr. Stanley and I had finished our studies and our travels, and the death of my father and uncle enabled me to purchase this spot (which, beautiful in itself, as it is generally said to be, derived its greatest beauty, in my eye, from its situation with respect to Alverston Park) and when your brother had prevailed upon you to attend to the approbation with which Sir Edward and Lady Stanley honored my proposals, I thought my happiness drawing near to perfection: and in this blest hope, the idea every day gathering strength from that amiable; that delicate, yet frank mode of conduct which ever distinguished you, have I lived, uninterrupted, for the last sixteen months; the very last, only excepted. Shall I draw the alternative! shall I endeavour to paint the confusion—the distress—the almost distraction—which reigns within me at this unexpected—this most unaccountable of all changes! I cannot. It is impossible. What I endure is not to be expressed. My opinion unchanged; my affection unabated; my wishes, consequently, as ardent as ever—my hopes almost annihilated!!! Think not, madam, that I study for a language to affect you. I do not. If I express myself with any force, it is because my heart conveys its feelings to my pen. But I will be as concise as possible.

 

            What, Miss Stanley, is the occasion of this alteration? What—yet I tremble to ask it—is to be my destiny? let me intreat a candid, and an immediate reply. Shorten the torments of this suspence, though you thereby fix my despair. I would not live such another month as the last, for any reward independent of yourself. Tell me why I have forfeited the confidence I once dared to think myself secure of for ever. Tell me—in short, tell me what I am to be in future; whether ranked amongst those whose existence is wretchedness; or numbered with the happiest of human beings.

 

            I dare not use the language of former days, lest it should now offend you: else would I conclude with saying, that I am my dearest Emma's ever faithful and affectionate

CHARLES CONWAY.

 

LETTER, VI.

MR. STANLEY, TO SIR CHARLES CONWAY.

 

Alverston, Feb. 16th.

 

CHARLES! my dear Charles! I have not been able to obey your injunctions. Your letter transported me into a fury; and I am still in a rage. What the plague can ail this girl! I never saw such a metamorphosis in my life. My father and mother, in whose presence I read your letter, are distressed beyond conception; for, as you may suppose, I was too much affected to conceal the cause from them. After a little consultation, it was proposed to send to my sister to go down; but my mother, who has tenderness and delicacy always alive, said she would go up to her, first, by herself; which she did, leaving my father and me together. We sat, I believe, a quarter of an hour, endeavouring to conjecture what could have occasioned this change: for that her heart was undisguisedly yours—in short—that she loved you with the most genuine affection, is as I have before said, incontrovertible, if there is one atom of truth in one individual of that vexing; tormenting; fascinating, sex.

 

            By my soul I am out of humour with all of the feminine gender, and am almost angry with even my mother, good as she is, because she is a woman. But my heart reproaches me. Admirable! charming! unequalled Lady Stanley! forgive a son, who can one moment forget the excellencies of such a parent. My whole heart is vexed; and in the same breath, I love, hate, admire, despise, my sister. When my mother returned, her fine countenance was more overclouded than I ever remember to have seen it before. My father looked alarmed, but tenderly enquired the result of her visit. I sat aghast with impatience while she related it, which she did in the following words.

 

            “I am pained, my dear Sir Edward, to be under the necessity of repeating to you and George the conversation which has passed above stairs, because I am apprehensive it will add to the perplexity which you both are, already, under.” My father spoke not but with his eyes. I, likewise, sat mute, with enquiring looks; my mother hesitated, and at length went on. “Some very singular alteration has taken place in the mind of our dear Emma. She is, I am sure, greatly distressed, though she endeavours to appear as calm as possible. All that I can get from her, is, a disinclination, which she cannot surmount, to change her state; and that with her present sentiments, which she believes will never alter, it would be a crime to think of being the wife of any man breathing.” Astonishing! amazing! I exclaimed, scarce knowing what I said. “Unaccountable, indeed” said my father, “but how long—” “I asked her,” interrupted my mother, “when it was that her sentiments first took such a turn, at which she blushed and said it had been coming on some time; and repeated that she believed it would continue through life. My mother said, she then expostulated with her in very close terms, and used the strongest arguments she could collect to convince her of the impropriety and injustice of her present conduct, and added that she ought not to have taken it upon herself to have given dismission to a man of such consequence as Sir Charles Conway, without, at least, consulting Sir Edward and herself.

 

            Here my mother put her handkerchief to her eyes and we again continued silent, till, at length, my father asked what followed. “The dear girl,” replied my mother, “distressed me beyond imagination; she threw her arms round my neck and rested her cheek upon my bosom; begged me not to think she had one undutiful idea; that she did not intend to proceed so far as to dismiss Sir Charles, but only to give him room, by her manner, to expect what must follow; and this she did from a principle not ungenerous, as she believed he was too earnest in his wish for an alliance with this family, to be told of the impossibility of its ever taking place, without concern.” My mother then re-urged all that prudence and wisdom could dictate, but without the wished-for effect.

 

            What can be done! so faultless, I may almost say, hitherto! so obliging, so very—but what avails it to enumerate her past perfections! she is now perverse, unpersuadable, and totally unlike that sister of whom I used to be so proud as well as truly fond.

 

            I will not, Charles, plague you with any more particulars. The result was, for upon what else could we determine, that she must previously endeavour to reason with herself upon all which had been laid before her, and, if possible, oblige us by a compliance with our very earnest wishes; but that if she could not satisfy herself in so doing, she must be left at liberty, so important is the matter, to pursue the dictates of her own conscience.

 

            The enclosed letter, which I have sealed in a blank cover, that you might not be so likely to open it till you had perused this, as you would have been, had you seen upon it her direction, will speak, I doubt, too plainly her determination.

 

            My dear Charles, farewel. I mean to see you, in a day or two, at Hawthorn Grove. My sister will set out to-morrow for Lady Davison’s; from whence she will go into Oxfordshire, upon a visit to Miss Lawson.

 

            This, my father, fond as he is of her, has insisted upon on your account; and my mother has complied from similar considerations. As to myself—I hardly care where she goes. I am excessively out of humour with her, and shall not attend her to Lady Davison’s; for our being much together, at this juncture, will, probably, occasion our first quarrel; indeed, my friend, the best wishes of my heart are yours.

 

            My own affairs, pressing as they are, are, at times, almost erased from my memory by the lively concern I am under on your account. However, as I know you are not without anxiety upon the subject of my last, which, foolishly flighty as I then was in my expressions, has too solid a foundation, I will, to-morrow, if I can, give you the particulars; for upon recollection, I cannot leave Alverston till after next Thursday, on account of the promise the two Beauchamps gave us of staying here one night on their way to Liverpool; which place they must reach, if possible, on Friday evening; consequently, I expect they will be here Wednesday and Thursday. But for this confounded affair, I would not have excused your giving them the meeting; as it is, though Emma will be set off, it will not, I know, be pleasant for you to come; therefore I shall make some apology for you.

Cordially yours,

GEORGE STANLEY.

 

LETTER, VII.

MISS STANLEY, TO SIR CHARLES CONWAY.

Enclosed in the preceding.

Alverston Park, Feb. 16th. 1789.

 

SIR.

 

AS I have been accustomed to give some credit to your professions of regard, I have endeavored to defer speaking decisively till I had, in some measure, led you to expect what my decision would be. Perhaps my reasons for this measure were founded in vanity. Be that as it may, delay is no longer practicable. I am pressed on all sides, and must give you my final answer, which is that I never can; never ought to be yours. Ask me not for an explanation. Ask, rather—But ask nothing. Perhaps I wish to obliterate the remembrance of former scenes as much as you do. Remonstrance, let me add, will be in vain; for which reason it is that I venture to request your interest with my brother, to prevent my being distressed by unavailing arguments to alter this my firm determination. I wish you happy. I wish you very happy. May the rectitude of your heart, lead you to oblige with your hand, a woman who will receive it with gratitude.

EMMA STANLEY.

 

LETTER, VIII.

 

Miss STANLEY, TO Miss CHARLOTTE LAWSON.

 

Alverston Park, Monday Night, Feb. 16th. 1789.

 

IT is done, my dear Charlotte! the task is over! but what the effect will be, I know not. My spirits are lost; my happiness entirely destroyed. My health, surely, must give way: it can never, I think, stem such a torrent of distress. Oh Charlotte! why did Sir Charles Conway appear to be so exactly formed to my wishes! or why did I not know this one great failing before I so entirely gave up my heart to him! the contest which I have had with my father, mother, and brother, was even greater than I expected it would be. My resolution, when they so warmly pressed for the reason of my conduct, was nearly giving way, and it was with the utmost difficulty that I kept the sacred promise I had made of not divulging the cause to any one but you, whose secrecy I engaged for. My inward conflict was so violent that it almost overpowered my senses.

 

            When I came to myself, I was frightened at the danger I had been in of betraying the fatal secret; for had I not promised, I would have endured almost the greatest tortures ere it should have been divulged. The idea of the additional distress, never to be remedied, with which it must, have overwhelmed Sir Charles, was more than I could support. Charlotte—faulty as he is, I love him better than I love myself, and feel a pleasure in having suffered in the opinion of my dear friends here, to save him from being lessened in their affection or esteem. Is this, I sometimes ask myself, strictly right? If he is culpable, ought he not to be let to sink in their opinion? and if he was not culpable, I should not have occasion to run the hazard of their displeasure on his account. These soliloquizing reasonings I should, perhaps, be unable to answer, but the recollection of my promise comes to my aid, and I find that I could not have acted otherwise than as I have done, without being criminal.

 

            With regard to Sir Charles himself, I have surely obeyed the dictates of—what?—of conscience, I hope: and yet I do not find that inward satisfaction resulting from what I have done which I expected; and which a perfect obedience to conscience generally brings with it. Something seems wrong; yet I know not what. Reason, applauds me, and commends the sacrifice; but a secret something lurks at the bottom, as if in opposition. Probably it is compassion; or, Charlotte, more probably a much stronger sentiment than pity can raise. It surely must be so: for that small, still, voice, which, when carefully and cautiously attended to, will lighten the soul in darkness, cannot oppose the dictates of true reason and equity. Were there a possibility of my having been deceived, I should be ready enough to suspect the imposition. But the evidence is too, too strong to admit a ray of doubt. Have I not seen the poor deluded, injured Matilda! have I not seen her in an agony of distress; while (the relief of tears being denied) grief, shame, and affection struggled in her countenance! and, oh Charlotte! have I not seen the poor orphan-infant, as it may justly be termed, setting on its mothers knee, and turning its little eyes upon first one and then another, as if to ask for pity for her! The scene still hangs before my view. My heart is still sensible of the excruciating pain which then ran through it.

 

            She called the baby Charles—Charles Conway Charlotte, and I transiently thought I observed some little affinity in feature. But I cannot dwell upon the recollection. Let me strike it, if possible, for ever from my idea.

 

            Its over, never to return, and my heart fortified against every other endeavour to prepossess it. I told my dear mother, and I told her true, that with my present sentiments, it would be a crime to think of being the wife of any man breathing. And would it not? can I ever think of any other as I ought to think of a husband? ah! no; no! and I must, never again, think of him. Charlotte—justice forbids it—I must never again think of Sir Charles Conway!!! That he loved me my dear I cannot ever doubt. Then—why!—why! But I must instantly quit this subject, and with it, for a short time, my pen.

 

            To morrow I am to set off for Lady Davison’s. If you have no engagement in view, which your last leads me to hope you have not, I have permission to visit Woodstock. The reason of this sudden intention it is not difficult to guess.

 

            Your reply, my dearest girl, will, probably, find me at Lady Davison's; direct for me at her house, Litchfield.

 

            Your sister will not now complain of my being too volatile. I am no longer the high-spirited girl who will distract her with “incessant chearfulness.” It was an odd expression my dear; but what can be expected from so unhappy a disposition as Miss Rachel's always was, more than ill-natured criticism!

 

            Present to her, however, my respects: she is your sister. To Mrs. Lawson and Mrs. Eleanor, remember me still more affectionately. I hope they will consent to be troubled with me a few weeks. My father, mother, and brother desire their affectionate compliments may be duly distributed. They expect me to be more particular than I have now spirits to be; therefore must leave it to my dearest friend to make the distribution with propriety and warmth.

 

            I have just received a letter from Mrs. Digby. It is meant, I believe, to be a consolitary one; The style is whimsically solemn. She professes to be sorry for being the occasion of the rupture between Sir Charles and me, which she hears is likely to be the effect of the intelligence I gained by means of her unhappy mistake; Then inconsistently congratulates herself on being the cause, though as she industriously repeats, the involuntary one, of saving me from—a wretch—she thinks proper to stile him—who is so utterly unworthy of me; adding a multiplicity of highly-strained encomiums, and finishing with extraordinary professions of affection: she officiously brings in a repetition of her pity for the poor pineing lost Matilda, as she calls Miss Barlowe.

 

            I cannot say that I ever very greatly liked Mrs. Digby, but I now like her so much less than I used to do, that I am afraid I am unjust enough to be displeased with her, because she happened to be the means of my, perhaps, ever having any knowledge of what, doubtless, I ought to know. Be that as it may, I never can rank her amongst my favorites; admired as, it seems, she is, by the world in general. She has, to be sure, a handsome face; fine form, and a good understanding; but there is an enquiring, artful turn in her conversation, which displeases me. Descended from a noble family, and married into one still more distinguished; left a widow at twenty three, with the sole command of immence wealth—no wonder she is admired, followed and courted: but, in my opinion, her wit seems pertness, and her good-nature, affected. I was told, the other day, that she was determined to have the man of her heart, though it cost her two thirds of her fortune. Who, I wonder, is this happy man! and what circumstances can he be under, that she needs think of buying him at such a price!

 

            But Charlotte! I am ashamed of myself. What has Mrs. Digby done to draw thus upon herself my severity? Pity, me my beloved friend; and let your pity excuse me. My whole soul is vexed. I write, because I dare not think; and Mrs. Digby, is, in some measure, relative to the only subject upon which I can employ my pen. But the night is far advanced, and as this must go early in the morning, I will now conclude it. Perhaps I may get a little rest, for I seem very heavy.

 

            May that Great Power, which only can soften my sorrows and render them supportable, assist my weakness. In this is placed my only hope; and, at times, a gleam seems to break through the cloud, and promise future brightness.

Ever, my dear Charlotte,

your affectionate

EMMA STANLEY.

 

LETTER, IX.

COLONEL GREVILLE TO THE HONOURABLE

MRS. DIGBY.

 

London, Feb. 16th. 1789.

My dear confederate.

IT is not more than two hours since I landed; nor above two minutes since I was set down in Pall-Mall. My first business is to enquire the success of your manoeuvrings, during my absence, which nothing but absolute necessity could have occasioned, at the juncture at which I was commanded abroad. My only consolation was, that I left my most pressing affairs in the hands of one whose abilities were equal to any undertaking, and whose concern in their succeeding, was as great as my own; for I think, my lovely cousin, your penchant for Sir Charles Conway, is not a whit inferior to mine for the fair Emma.

 

            Hasten, I beseech you, an account of particulars. Be as minute as possible, that I may know all my cues. I would bowl down to Harborough, could my absence from court be dispensed with: but as I am liable to be called upon every hour, I cannot, till after the second of next month, leave London. This will reach you in the morning about eleven o’clock. Permit my requesting you to write by the return of the mail, and I shall then have the honor to receive the consecreted paper on the morning following.

 

            You will, I know, excuse my thus hurrying you, when you recollect that cupid and plutus are the masters under whom I serve; and they are furious drivers. Venus is my queen; and to you, her own express image, she has, of late, delegated her share of sovereignty over my destiny; which is, I think a very gallant conclusion from cousin to cousin; especially when I add that I am, my dear madam, your most affectionate and most devoted slave,

ARCHIBALD GREVILLE.

 

            I shall take care to avoid Miss Fenton, till you tell me how far she is acquainted with the extent of our plan; for as the subject will unavoidably occur in my first interview with her, I shall wish to be guarded in my questions and replies.

 

 

LETTER, X.

 

MRS. DIGBY, TO COLONEL GREVILLE.

 

Harborough, Feb. 17th.

 

“COURAGE my noble Colonel!” The day will be our own. I have been successful beyond my most sanguine expectations. The lovers will, doubtless, soon be separated: never, I hope, to meet again, till even destiny cannot unite them. Proud of my own adroitness, I am equally as impatient as you are, till you know all my manoeuvrings, as you rightly term them. Where shall I begin? To which page of the book shall I first turn? I am glad that your absence from the Kingdom has been necessary during this great period; for now, the glory of the Campaign belongs solely to me.

 

            To me the great Arabella Digby, of Harborough, widow!!!

 

            And now for the story of all stories—for I cannot spare time to congratulate you on your return, nor even to echo your compliments, therefore begin with telling you, it being a grand movement, that I have effectually secured a very useful ally in Sir Charles’ man, who is conveniently in love with my Benson; and she is very obligingly inclined to favor his passion. By this fortunate connexion, which commenced last autumn at Matlock, I have as early an account as possible, of the enemies motions; though I cannot boast much of knowing them before hand; as Mr. Joseph is not a confidential secretary.

 

            Soon after you sailed, Miss Stanley parted with her servant, which gave me the pretence, I was endeavouring to find, of forming a kind of correspondence with her, by requesting the particulars of that servants character; whom, I told her, I wanted for an elderly friend of mine in London; for you will pre-conceive I was obliged, pretty largely, to sacrifice to the goddess Fabula. Little frivolous circumstances, occasioned by the whimsicalness of my supposed old Lady, kept us in play for some time; she answered; I replied, &c. &c. At last, I thought proper to have discovered that the young woman was too young to be confined to the whimsey’s of an old one. I was, therefore, obliged to write, in great haste, to Miss Stanley and to my sister; to the first, to beg pardon for the trouble which, to no purpose, I had occasioned her; to the other, to request her to enquire about the person which she mentioned in her last as a fit servant for my old madam in London. Now, as the letters were both written in the same half hour, and as they were folded up and laid upon the table together, I, by some dire mistake, directed Miss Stanley’s to my sister, and my sister’s—mistake still more direful than the former—to Miss Stanley. This, you will allow, was a very terrible accident, for, unfortunately, the contents of the letter, addressed to my sister, were to the following purpose. I began with the affair about the servant which I wished her to procure, and after having settled every thing relative to that subject, I lamented my having engaged to do any thing about it, because I had been obliged, so often, to pester Miss Stanley with letters on the occasion; that, however, I was then going to write the final one to her on that subject, as the old lady [Mrs. Bradbury her name] objected to the person, who had been the cause of my troubling her, on account of her youth, &c. &c. As to the vexation I had had about it, it was, I told my sister, greatly, indeed, overbalanced, by the inexpressible pleasure I had received in a correspondence with one of the most amiable young women upon earth. I then launched out into some pretty high, though not much overstrained encomiums, upon my fair correspondent; ending, with the inexpressible concern I was under on her account, about a strange dark affair, upon which I had lately been led to form unpleasant conjectures: and couched my tale in such ambiguous language as could not but fail of engaging Miss Stanley's attention; having, in a round-about way, brought in the name of Sir Charles Conway, that the delicacy of her affection might prevent her taking any notice to any body of this part of the letter, in particular; but here, I was somewhat too sanguine; for her most intimate friend, Miss Lawson, was, at that time, upon a visit to Alverston, and to her, she communicated the whole; not much, I will assure you, to my liking; for I was apprehensive the one might help the other to suspect. I wanted to have had her kept the matter entirely to herself; as, I will engage for it, from the method I pursued, she would have done, had it not happened that Miss Lawson had been there.

 

            You will, perhaps, think this was a very bold and hazardous beginning. Bold, I will allow it to be; but not so hazardous as you may imagine; for if, contrary to my reasonable expectations, she had made this part of the letter public, and had made a public explanation necessary, I was provided with an incomparable story, and a true one too, to which every word I had written would bear an allusion, and absorb all the intimations within its own vortex. Besides all this—for you men are so dull of apprehension that one must explain to you every little particular—could it not be almost depended upon that a lady of her extreme delicacy of sentiment would make it a point of honor to keep sacred the contents of a letter so accidentally put into her power; especially as it was against the interest of her affection to divulge it! for had it been the contrary, I would not [judging I confess by myself] have trusted the most delicate pretendress to honor and principle, existing. I finished my supposed letter to my sister with the mention of some bonds which I intended to take up, as I suspected the goodness of the security; and advised her to be cautious of engaging too far with the person who wanted the five hundred pounds on some land; as I had had a hint that that land was previously, but secretly, settled on his wife.

 

            This I did, not only to make the letter appear natural and real, but to engage, still farther, her delicacy to secrecy. Here was contrivance! here was management! pause awhile, at this place, for I am not half through yet, and admire me.

 

            That I was perfectly right in my presupposings, must be confessed, because the exact consequences followed which I expected. Folks in this age are so cunningly-wise as to judge by events; therefore, were all the story to be known, I should, by the major part of the world [for doubtless fools of this description have the majority] be fully justified.

 

            With regard to the rectitude of the business—if the very particular ones should, hereafter, scrutinize a little too closely, it is but setting a good face upon the matter, and, fortified by success and security, turn it off with a laugh and one of the following sentences. “Every one for himself.” “Charity begins at home.” “In love and war, all stratagems and advantages are allowable, &c. &c:” and depend upon it, that, with a good estate and a good assurance on your side, the generality of the world will be so too, and applaud your ingenuity.

 

            Carry this with you, cousin Archibald, through life.

 

            But to return to my tale—you have, before you, a summary of the letter supposed to be written to my sister; which letter, as I before told you, I, by a fatal mistake, directed to Miss Stanley. It was a sad blunder, to be sure; but, as honest Patrick says in the play, “Faith! it was as natural a “one as if I had made it on purpose.”

 

            Well then—after I knew that she must, if at home, have received and read it, I sent off, in a violent hurry, an express to Alverston: but I ordered the messenger, previous to his going to the house, to enquire in the neighbourhood [as the motions of these your benevolent people are generally known] if the lady had been from home for any length of time, and if she had, to return immediately; if not, to go on with my orders. All happened to my wish. She had not been out.

 

            The letter I wrote to her was as follows.

 

Harborough, Friday Night, 10 o'Clock.

 

“I AM, my dear madam, distressed beyond immagination; having, this instant, received a note, by a special messenger, from my sister, who is, at this time, upon a visit to Mrs. Montgomery at Coventry, to tell me, that I must certainly have made a great mistake, for that the letter which she had just received from me, directed on the cover to herself, was addressed within, to you.

 

            “Indeed, madam, I am greatly embarrassed by this strange—this really unaccountable accident. That I am too careless in general, I cannot but acknowledge; but on this occasion, I was, or endeavoured to be, more particular than usual. For some time I have been trying to give some probable cause for the vexatious mistake, and recollect that when I had written the two letters, which I did at the same time, I folded them and laid them on the stand ready for the seal and address; that before I had finished them, Miss Letty Vernon, attended by Major Osbourne and Captain Pennant, called upon me to accompany them to Stanford Hall. I requested their alighting for a moment, as I had some letters to dispatch which could not be delayed; but they excused themselves, as being in haste, and said they would wait in the carriage. I, therefore, in a great hurry, sealed and directed them: yet I thought I was very sure I had made no mistake, as, to be the more certain, I unfolded that to you; at which instant Miss Vernon came hurrying into the library and begged me to be expeditious, as it was beyond the time of appointment; consequently, I was a little fluttered, and in the flutter must have committed the mistake—a mistake which has made me wretched beyond idea; for I very much fear the punctuality of the post, has, before this can reach you, conveyed that letter to your hands, and it is, my dear Miss Stanley, such a one as I should not wish any person, but my sister, to peruse. If absence from home, or any other incident has prevented your breaking the seal, I know the request of your returning it by the messenger, would be an unnecessary one. If you have read it, let me intreat you to forget the contents; or rather, to think them of no consequence. Consider them as unguarded expressions—hasty surmises—rash censures. Blame me; condemn me; do any thing; think any thing, rather than be one moment anxious about what is, really, in itself, a trifle, but which I cannot now explain to you.

“In the greatest haste,

I am, my dear madam,

your obedient

and very affectionate friend,

ARABELLA DIGBY.

 

“P.S. “I enclose the letter which my sister returned me, directed to her, but intended for you.”

 

            What think you of this, “my noble Colonel” what think you of this! was it not a master-stroke? It is easy to imagine the manner in which she answered me. The letter had been received the evening before; she had nearly read it through ere she could tell to whom it was addressed [which, by the bye, I contrived that she must do, least her delicacy should stop her too soon] but the moment she did discover it, which was not till I mentioned something about some bonds, she folded it up, and had never since opened it, and intended to have returned it by the next post. She confessed, that being heavily pained by that part which too evidently related to herself, she had, in the strictest confidence, communicated it to her friend Miss Lawson, who had then been, some time at Alverston. She said that Lady Stanley was acquainted with her having received my letter, but that she never enquired into her correspondencies, as she held such a proceeding to be injurious to the genius of a young person, by its suppressing the genuine effusions of the rising mind: which opinion of her Ladyship’s, I was, before, perfectly acquainted with, or I should have pursued a different method when I opened the business. Miss Stanley then began her earnest entreaties that I would give her an explanation, as soon as possible, of that part in which she was concerned. She begged; she supplicated, in the most anxious terms, that I would not refuse her, but be candid and tell her all I knew, or even suspected; as, though, she had the highest confidence in the person whom she must suppose was meant, she was sure I would not have written what I did to my sister, but from a strong foundation. She asked pardon for taking hold of any intelligence which my mistake had thrown in her way, but hoped I would let the consequence, which the subject of it was to her, amply excuse her. She assured me of her inviolable secrecy and answered for Miss Lawson’s; not only, she said, from a point of honor, but in compliance with her own inclination.

 

            She concluded with requesting an immediate answer, and said she was fatigued, dispirited and unwell.

 

            My answer to this letter was, in effect, no answer at all. I evaded the questions; made light of every circumstance; took blame to myself, by laying the whole on my own unguarded way of writing, and begged her, therefore, not to be one moment uneasy at a matter which might be without the least foundation. This, as I expected [for do I not pretty well know the world! and do I not, still better, know my own sex,] brought on redoubled entreaties to be made acquainted with every circumstance, however minute, which could possibly give rise to the distant intimations in my mis-directed letter; repeatedly expressing her sense of my delicate and generous unwillingness to enter upon the subject, and again begging my pardon for so taking advantage of my mistake.

 

            To cut the matter short—after many letters on both sides, she wrote to tell me Miss Lawson was near leaving Alverston, and that, as it was agreed upon for her to convey her friend to Coventry, where she expected Mrs. Lawson’s carriage to meet her, she would, with my permission, propose to Sir Edward and Lady Stanley to accept the invitation I had often so obligingly given her, to spend a day or two at Harborough; acknowledging herself to be stimulated by her wish for an explanation on the subject of her late anxiety. This, though the point against, which my whole artillery was bent, was so far beyond my hopes, that I could scarce believe it to be real. I immediately wrote her as polite an answer as I could dictate, mixed with an expressed draw-back on the expected pleasure of receiving her, from a consideration of the occasion, and begged to know when I was to expect the favor of her company; earnestly requesting Miss Lawson to oblige me at the same time: but this, from the nature of their plan, I did not expect would be accepted, or I should have been more sparing of warmth in the invitation: for they are both exceedingly clever; exceedingly lively; and exceedingly quick-sighted; so that had they been together, each helping the other to conjecture, they might have been too much for me to manage. Miss Stanley alone, and totally engrossed by anxiety and apprehension, I thought, so well had I settled all my plans, I could entangle with tolerable dexterity. I soon received an answer that my Alverston Lady expected to be with me ten days after her date; but that Miss Lawson, with acknowledgements for my friendly politeness, must decline the obliging invitation, as they could not, on account of company, leave the Park sooner than the time proposed, and she must, if possible, reach Woodstock by the end of the week.

 

            So far, so good. All to my wish; except Miss Lawson’s being in the secret.

 

            I now pursued the execution of our grand plan, which I must, though not without reluctance, give you credit for having first suggested; but remember, all the fine movements—all the wire-drawn works were entirely my own. As soon as I had dispatched another letter to Miss Stanley acknowledging the receipt of her’s which had just reached me, &c. &c. I wrote, according to your directions, to your Polly Fenton, requesting her to come down as soon as possible, and bring with her Betsey Mason’s little boy. I, likewise, desired her to hire a country-looking girl, if she could meet with one, to attend her; bidding her not to hesitate at any expence; gave her particular directions about every minutiae, and ordered her to drive directly to John Dakin’s, my tenant at the Brook-end Farm; where she would find private and comfortable lodgings, ready for her reception; desiring her to be careful that her attendant knew her by no other name than that of Barlowe: and summed up my injunctions with bidding her remember that your fortune, consequently her future maintenance, depended on the proper execution of the plan in hand; of which, I told her, she might, in time, know more; but of which, by the bye, I did not intend she ever should be told any thing that was not absolutely necessary for the proper performance of the part allotted to her. I ordered her to buy a pap-boat; spoon, and coral, and to have them marked with a very large C.C.

 

            To own the truth Colonel, I was, at times, most horridly ashamed of this my associate, as I could not but, in my heart, acknowledge, she must truly be termed; though my pride endeavoured to consider her as a mere tool. To what, said I, in a soliloquy, have I descended! I have entered into a concert with a kept mistress! with one, too, of the baser sort, who has so little distinction in, what she calls, her love, that she will even join to help her keeper to a wife, in expectation that he will thereby be more able to support her extravagance: according to which expectation, I since find you have given her a note for a handsome sum upon your marriage; wisely, however, concealing Miss Stanley’s name under a fictitious one. What, (have I asked myself) does this creature do, but act in character with her avowed occupation! she might, at first, have been betrayed into her present situation; might have continued in it through what she thought, a necessity, till habit so perfectly reconciled her to it, that all sense of wrong was obliterated from her ideas. There is, to be sure, a force in truth which will, now and then, obtrude upon our sentiments, and it requires a considerable degree of silent oratory to out-argue its suggestions. A something like compunction I believe, took a seat in my mind, after I had sent off my letter to Polly Fenton; and now I am come to put the matter into black and white, as the phrase is, I cannot but say that it has not quite so fair an appearance as one might wish it to have. But my reply to the troublesome monitor within, is, that I am now too far engaged to make a retreat; that, indeed, there is no possibility of going back, without falling into utter disgrace; that, therefore, it is in vain to think about it; that nothing bad has yet been, nor I hope ever will be, the consequence, and that, in the end, after a few more struggles, it may, probably, make for the happiness of all the parties concerned, &c. &c.

 

            When this silent guest invaded me in the height of my career, as I just now confessed it did with considerable force upon my writing to Polly Fenton, I had such a powerful army of arguments against it, that it very soon gave up its own cause and quietly quitted the field; for what could stand out against the following advanced matters of fact!—that I had, from an act of duty, when I was very young, married, to oblige my father and mother, a man, whom, in my heart, I detested, and continued to detest through his whole future life; that I had, thereby, acquired a right to please myself in my next engagement; that I never could be happy without Sir Charles Conway; having had a predilection for him ever since my wedding day; upon which he introduced himself to Mr. Digby; that it was by no means certain there was such an affection between Sir Charles and Miss Stanley, as I was now possessed with: on the contrary, it was reasonable to conjecture, that the intended union was merely a matter of convenience to all parties; and almost a matter of course, from the intimacy between the two families: that the noble fortune, of which Miss Stanley was in possession, by the will of her mother’s uncle, and over which, therefore, Sir Edward could not have any equitable authority, would be vastly convenient to the deranged state of my Cousin Greville's affairs, who, being immediately descended from noble ancestors, had a right to expect such a lady; and, moreover, I believed that he had a real affection for her person, and might, perhaps, be miserable without her; that, as to myself, I must, by every one, be acquitted of having any lucrative motives; as though Sir Charles Conway had a fine estate, my fortune would answer that, or a still larger; that upon the whole, I did not see how any one of the four could be a looser, as I had no doubt but the Colonel would make Miss Stanley a good husband, and as I was determined to be to Sir Charles, one of the most exemplary wives in the universe.

 

            Thus it appeared to be quite a benevolent undertaking; as four people might, thereby, be rendered happy instead of two; whereas if this scheme was not pursued, two of the four must inevitably be wretched. These reasonings, when summed up together, perfectly quieted, at that time, the objections of my conscience; and, upon my word, now I take a review of them, I think they are, a good comfortable string of palliatives.

 

            When, indeed, upon my further proceedings I found Miss Stanley to be more attached than I had thought proper to suppose she was, why, then, I must own, I could not but allow there was some little—not that even then—that is, no great—however, I will not tire you by a needless repetition of these self-argumentations, but own that I was somewhat puzzled to reconcile this part of the story, to my benevolent system. At length, the consideration that my own attachment was, at least, as strong as hers; that had I been at liberty when Sir Charles first saw me, I, probably, might have been his choice; as he seemed, then to regard me with particular attention, and has, ever since, treated me with great distinction; and that, therefore, she and I might be pretty equally concerned—set all straight again; as I, justly, I think, concluded I had a right to pursue my own happiness first: and so, I once more, and I hope finally, settled the matter between my conscience and myself.

 

            I have been led, into a long harangue upon sentiment, when I intended to pursue my narrative, and have, thereby, made it impossible to finish the whole in time for the post, as, when I began, I positively intended to do. I will, therefore, instantly dispatch what I have written, and immediately begin again, lest I should not, to-morrow, have such an opportunity for writing as the present time affords.                                                                           Adieu.

ARABELLA DIGBY.

 

 

 

LETTER, XII.

MRS. DIGBY, TO COLONEL GREVILLE.

 

IN CONTINUATION.

 

Late, very late, Tuesday Night.

 

AS soon after I wrote to Polly Fenton as the post could bring it, I received her answer of ready compliance. She had found a girl just fitted for her purpose, and would be at Dakin’s on the Thursday following; at which time she actually did arrive there, accompanied by her new servant and Betsey Mason’s child; highly pleasing its mother by bringing it into the country. Upon my honor, the boy’s features are not very much unlike Sir Charles’ at a side view. Is not this assisting circumstance somewhat singular! as I did not intend to seem to know much of your Miss Fenton, not chusing, on my own account, to be familiar with her, I told Dakin’s people, it was to oblige a friend, that I proposed their taking her, &c. &c. easily settling the matter with them; and when she arrived, soon instructed her in her part of the comedy, as I hope it will prove. All which particulars I will pass over, and proceed to the Day of Miss Stanley’s arrival. I cannot but acknowledge that I received her with considerable perturbation; trembling with apprehension, lest we should be ruined by some unfortunate discovery. However, I endeavoured to compose myself, and was tollerably successful; the more so, as she, likewise, was pretty much fluttered. The ladies had slept at Coventry, where they were met by Mrs. Lawson’s carriage and servants: they parted about ten in the morning, and at three, Miss Stanley was driven into my coach-yard.

 

            You cannot imagine how aukward—consciously aukward, I suppose—I seemed during the time of dining, notwithstanding the presence of the servants prevented any particular conversation from occurring.

 

            As soon as the cloth was removed, I felt my perturbation increase, for she immediately began the subject. “I must now, my dear madam, request you to ease the anxiety under which I too evidently labour”—were her first words. I could not conceal the confusion I was in; however, I endeavoured to give it a serviceable turn, by leading her to suppose I was affected from a concern for her; which idea, my reply was calculated to increase.

 

            It would fill a volume to tell you all that passed. Suffice it to say, that, after a great many intreaties on her side, and a great many denials on mine—denials adapted to raise her curiosity, and which grew more and more weak, I told her, with the greatest appearance of the strongest reluctance, the following particulars; or rather, if you please, the following story; beginning with—Well then, madam, if nothing else will serve—if you will so perseveringly insist upon knowing the whole of what may possibly be groundless conjecture—you must be complied with; though no one can tell what a heavy task it is to me, to be obliged, so against every tender feeling, to communicate, what must inevitably, whether true or not, give pain to a heart to which I only wish to convey happiness.

 

            She, with quickness, urged me to proceed; which, after a little more hesitation, I did; informing her that the morning after my return from a visit of a few days to Leicester, which was just before I wrote to my sister, I took a walk, as I frequently did, to the house of one of my tenants, which was situated in a retired, pleasant part of the farm, at the distance of about three quarters of a mile from my park: that the family consisted of the farmer—Dakin his name—his wife; a son, and two daughters, of about sixteen or eighteen years of age: that when I looked into the parlour window, as I passed it, I saw a very genteel woman sitting by the fire; at which, when I went in, I expressed some surprise: whereupon, Mrs. Dakin, requesting me to step aside, told me she was just going to my house, to let me know she had got a boarder, and to ask my advice about keeping her; saying, she should have consulted me before she had taken her, had I not been from home: that a gentleman from London, whose name was Sympson, and who was their deputy landlord, till Mr. Digby bought that farm, went to their house a few days before, and asked if they could take a gentlewoman, with a child and maid-servant, to lodge and board for a few weeks, or longer, as they might agree; that he offered them very high payment, and that as he said the lady was a very decent person, and they had always thought him a very sober man, they agreed to accommodate her.

 

            Miss Stanley continued perfectly silent, while I went on informing her that I asked them the name of this their new boarder; which they could not tell me; saying that the servant only called her her lady; and they did not like to be inquisitive; that she seemed to be very low-spirited; was always sighing, and often in tears.

 

            You may think, my dear madam, said I to Miss Stanley, that this account raised my curiosity. I could not help being desirous—But [interrupting myself] O that you would permit me to stop here! that you would spare both yourself and me the pain—“Pray madam—I beg—pray madam go on”, said she, in the most pressing tone of voice: at which, I shaked my head, and sighing, said, in hesitating accents, well then madam—if I must—yet I wish—but I must obey you—as if I scarce knew what I said.

 

            But Colonel! here I am calling upon you to admire my fertile imagination and dexterity—or perhaps I should not be so minute—not considering that it is possible you may, at the time of reading, be comparing, to her advantage, the artless innocence of your Emma with my management. Yet I will not entertain an idea which would too much humble me, and represent you as ungrateful; for have I not, hitherto, been unceasingly labouring for your service? not more than for my own, you will, perhaps, retort. Granted: but I should not—nay I could not—have undertaken to conduct this business myself. Remember—for inconsistent creature that I am! I now wish to recollect and acknowledge it—that one of the grandest plots was all your own. What occasions me thus to recriminate, as it were! Am I not proud of my skill—of my ingenuity! yes, certainly: yet when one endeavors to recollect all that has passed, to give an account of it, there is a something which some people might think is rather too unpretty.

 

            But my motives—my motives!!! I will re-consider them and go on in triumph; and when every thing be successfully over, claim all the glory to myself. And so—as the story-telling gentry say—I told Miss Stanley she might well think that the account which Mrs. Dakin gave, raised in me, a degree of curiosity: that I prolonged my visit to the good people with some expectation of seeing the stranger; but to no purpose; that, at length, the servant, a tight-looking country girl, came out of the parlour, with the child, the similitude of whose features [thanks to kind chance, for this corroborating incident] with those of a person I had before seen, struck me at the first glance; that I went up to it; took it into my arms, and asked the young woman its name, and that she told me it was Charles. At this, Miss Stanley lifted up her eyes, which were surcharged with tears, with a look which expressed a mixture of contending passions. You are not, my dear madam, said I, taking her hand, more alarmed by what I see you apprehend, than I was, on your account, (for you were instantly in my idea) when, upon setting the child on my knee, I observed upon its coral, which was extremely elegant, a very large cypher of C.C. the mark, as I afterwards found, of his pap-boat and spoon.

 

            Miss Stanley, at this, hastily snatched her hand from mine; hid her face with her handkerchief, and holding it there with both her hands, stooped down till she rested her forehead upon the table; again begging me to proceed.

 

            These circumstances, my dear and amiable friend, said I, could only lead to suspicion; but one, still stronger, soon followed which almost convinced me I had not been too hasty in my conjectures. I then told her that after I returned the child to the servant, she took it into the garden; at which time young Dakin entered the room, with a couple of letters in his hand, saying the lady had given them to him the evening before, to put into the post-office, which he had forgotten to do, and asked what was to be done; that, upon being told they could only go in the morning, he laid them down, requesting his mother to take care of them, upon which, excited by curiosity, I moved to the window, where he had placed them, to look at them, when [said I, in a low and slow voice] I saw one was directed to a Miss Faucett, Piccadilly; and the other to a gentleman whom I dare not name.

 

            “It was to Sir Charles Conway madam” said Miss Stanley, suddenly lifting up her face covered with tears, while she looked at me with inexpressible earnestness, as if waiting for a confirmation of the dreadful suggestion.

 

            It was, madam, I faultringly replied, casting my eyes upon the ground.

 

            She ardently looked upward, and immediately fell from her chair.

 

            And now, Colonel, I must acknowledge that this was a scene for which not all my bravery was sufficient; I cannot help saying, that I never was more affected in my life. But what could I do! it was impossible to stop where I then was. I must either, at once, confess the whole truth, or go on. How could I think of doing the first? and if that was impracticable, the only alternative was a resolute and steady perseverance. Spare my describing what immediately followed. It was sometime before we could proceed, but as soon as she recovered, and had gained sufficient strength, she begged to know if this woman was still in the neighbourhood, and if I, ever after, saw her. To both questions, I gave an affirmative. She then enquired many other particulars; to which the substance of my reply was as follows—that I generally went once or twice in a week to the houses of such of my tenants as were within a walk; that Dakin’s was a favorite one; the people in it being all particularly decent and conversable; that my curiosity, or to give it a juster name, my solicitude, on her account, had increased, rather than diminished my visits there, since the event in question had taken place; that upon some enquiry about the conduct of this young person, I could not help feeling her to be an interesting subject, and that I had frequently been told she wished (but seemed to be too timid) to give me a meeting, as if by accident, in a little pleasant paddock near the house, through which I frequently walked; but that, till the last Monday, I had only seen her en passant. I said, that previous to this, I understood she had written, and received several letters; that some of the received ones were sealed with a cypher, like that upon the plate used for the child, the post-marks of which, were from Derby; and that all those she had sent, were directed like either the one or the other of those I before mentioned.

 

            At this, poor Emma sighed most heavily, but did not seem inclined to speak. I, therefore, proceeded to the interview, telling her that on the last Monday, just as I reached the paddock gate, I perceived this lady walking along the bank, on the opposite side; that having heard she wished to speak to me, and not knowing but she might be a pitiable object, I, in some measure, advanced that way to give her the opportunity; that upon her first seeing me, she quickened her steps, as if to meet me, and then stopped; seemingly irresolute: that, upon observing this, I bent my path towards her, and came up with her; at which, I said, she appeared to be covered with confusion, and hastily dropping me a courtesy, was about to retire; when I, in pity to her apparent distress, accosted her; that she then put her handkerchief to her face, and burst into tears; after which, being, by the encouragement I had endeavoured to give her, somewhat recovered, she said—“You see before you madam an unfortunate young woman, whose once brighter prospects—” at which, I said, she stopped and was utterly unable to proceed; whereupon, observing her to be seized with a universal tremor, I called to her attendant, and had her conveyed into the house; when seeing her so much affected, and believing my presence encreased her disorder I requested her to endeavor to compose herself; telling her, that I would then leave her, but would call upon her some other time, when I should hope to find her better &c. that she thanked me as warmly as she could, and seemed too sensible of what she called my humanity.

 

            I then said, that yesterday [it was on a Wednesday Miss Stanley came to Harborough] I sent an enquiry after her health; to which she returned for answer, that she was very much indisposed indeed, but hoped to be able to receive the honor of my visit as that morning, and should think my condescension the greatest proof of my benevolence: that I had sent to excuse my going to her at the time she had fixed, on account of company; but that I would take an early opportunity to see her.

 

            And now my dear, my amiable friend, said I, with a warmth of which I was almost sensible, from a consideration of the situation to which I had—necessarily, as matters stood—reduced her, you have before you every circumstance and even every conjecture, which I can furnish you with. But were you not, Miss Stanley, were you not to blame in so peremptorily insisting upon being thus distressed? for what advantage can the knowledge of these circumstances produce? I am, even now, sorry that I complied with you, as I ought to have refused a request which was so improper to be granted. Why, why did you so warmly press a disclosure of what, strong as the circumstances are which awakened my apprehension, may, at last, be proved to have been without foundation!

 

            ”My dear madam!”—exclaimed the weeping beauty: and was going on; but I interrupted her with saying, it is possible Sir Charles' concern about some friend may have made a correspondence with this lady necessary; or if, as the cypher on the plate—the child's name; features, &c. rather too strongly indicate, he should himself have been the cause of this retirement, even then—has he not a thousand good qualities—a thousand virtues to overbalance—“My dear dear Mrs. Digby!” said she with quickness, and considerable warmth, “do you think, do you once imagine—no madam: highly as I have ever—greatly as I will own—I know not what I say. Excuse me: pity me. I am indeed distressed. Good heavens! can it be possible! yet it must. Yet, again, it cannot, surely be, that Sir Charles Conway—Oh Mrs. Digby!—but you do pity me; and you soften the severity of your own sentiments, on these circumstances, in tenderness to my feelings. You wish to make more light of the matter, supposing the worst, than, were it your own case, you would allow others to make of it. Do you think that I would ever!—“NO;” said she with an emphasis, and stopped; turning away her face.

 

            Why, to be sure, said I, I must acknowledge that if the circumstances—but, perhaps, it is not so. We ought to suppose the best, till the contrary is confirmed.

 

            “I am never officious,” replied she, “to look at the dark side of a prospect; on the contrary, my hopes are, usually, stronger than my fears; but ought we to lull ourselves asleep upon a precipice? or to let a barbed sting rankle in a wound till life, itself, be in danger? besides, when justice is concerned, as who knows but it is in the present case, may I ever obey the most minute of its dictates, though the effects of its commands should be destructive of my dearest sublunary views. How, else, can I ever know any real peace of mind!”

 

            I was struck with the dignity of her manner; and, perhaps, not a little with her sentiments, which were so opposite to my own practice. Something angelic seemed to irradiate her whole form, and made me, for a moment, sensible of a kind of awe. I was, again, half sorry that I had so entangled myself, and verily think had the crooked business, as I fancy I must call it, been then only in embryo, I should have been easily persuaded to have quietly relinquished it. However, I endeavored to collect myself, and was going to speak, but after a short silence, as if from deep contemplation, she suddenly broke out with—”Dear madam, assist my researches. Manage for me that I may see this person. Do pray, Mrs. Digby, manage that I may see her. If possible, let me know the whole truth.”

 

            Here again, though brought within view of compassing one of my grand points, did my conscience make a coward of me, and, almost as much from apprehension, as from policy, I formed numberless objections to the request; but she over-ruled them all, and I was obliged to comply with her proposal of writing a note to the lady, telling her that I had with me, upon a visit, a particular friend who, if she would give leave, would accompany me in my call upon her the morning following; to which I received a handsome return, implying that the very high opinion which she had formed of my character, form both report and observation, was a full security to her that she should not meet with any thing from me that was either improper or unpleasant; that, therefore, she should prepare herself to receive the honor we intended her; but begged to be permitted to intimate that some unhappy circumstances in her situation, made it necessary for her to request our observing the greatest secrecy in every thing in which she was concerned.

 

            This note, my good cousin, you will easily conceive I sent her a copy of. When it was brought, we settled it to make our visit about eleven the next morning; and I then earnestly requested that the subject might be dropped for that evening; as I was, I told her, extremely desirous of her regaining a little composure.

 

            “Ah madam!”—said she and shaked her head; while her eyes betrayed the utmost sensibility: from which, upon my endeavoring to sooth her, we proceeded to a sentimental conversation on the instability of human happiness; and, upon my word, her understanding, clouded and deranged, as it must, at that period, have been, displayed a brilliancy which was astonishing.

 

            I have, many years, been slightly acquainted with Miss Stanley, and (as every one must think) have always thought her possessed of uncommon abilities, but the extreme vivacity of her temper would, sometimes, be too rapid to permit a full display of her judgment, which, at that time, was, if I may use the expression, softer and yet more strong, than when her spirits have been higher: and I think I never, before, saw her look so beautiful. Her fine eyes, whose natural lustre is almost dazzling had a languor in them which was inexpressibly pleasing.

 

            Do not you admire the impartiality with which I speak of a rival? of a rival-beauty too, if you men are, at all, to be believed. However I will own that though I do not love Miss Stanley, I admire her. Love her, I cannot. For is she not in possession of the heart, to obtain which, I would sacrifice almost every thing dear to women!

 

            The scene of the following morning will lead you to observe that if I was unmoved by it, I must have been composed of adamant.

 

            I was not unmoved; which is all I will own: for were I to give you an account of all the little prickings at my heart, during the exhibition, I should, perhaps, lead you to express—your admiration of my courage. That is all.

 

            Expect, therefore, no more confessions of compunction, but conclude, from what I have already acknowledged, that the restless monitor, with whom I have had so many encounters, was extremely busy upon the occasion.

 

            But, really, I am quite fatigued. When I began, I had not the least idea of running to such a length. My vanity, I believe, led me on; for I might have told you all the necessary particulars in half the time. Without, indeed, your knowing the minutiae, you could not but have concluded that your Emma must, in this point, have been a very weak, credulous girl; whereas, in fact, the wisest, must have been deceived under the same circumstances. However, I will confess her reputation had no place in my thoughts; for she is abundantly too good for my approbation; and I do not know but it might have been a piece of charity to you to have taken her down in your opinion; as it would enliven your hopes, were you to expect an easy conquest.

 

            I mean to sleep an hour or two and rise in the morning soon enough to finish, and send this by the post-coach; which will reach London to-morrow evening.

 

            Can you conjecture what occasions this extraordinary diligence in me? perhaps you imagine it is from the kind motive of shortening your durance; as you intend and wisely too, to desist from visiting your Dulcinea till you shall have received from me all particulars.

 

            No such matter, my dear cousin; for, believe me, I do not regard your absence from her, as a circumstance deserving so much consideration. The truth is, that as from my last intelligence, I have reason to expect, every day, an account of the actual separation of the parties, I want you to hold yourself in readiness to begin your overtures to Alverston, by writing, if it is impossible for you to go, the very first moment it can be done with propriety; which, in my opinion, will be immediately after the confirmation of the expected rupture: as your long acquaintance in their family—your descent—your connexions; person; abilities and accomplishments, independent of your having saved the lady’s life at the great hazard of your own, authorise you to expect acceptance. And, indeed, I make no doubt but that, had she been disengaged when that affair happened, the father, mother, and brother, all so famous for generosity, would have joined in offering you the fair hand of the rescued sufferer; for a temporary sufferer she certainly was, in having been so dreadfully scorched. When I was first told of your gallant action in darting through the flames, I could help—excuse me, Greville—I could not help having in my idea the devil upon crutches, when he took upon him the form of the Spanish Student to save the beautiful Seraphina.

 

            It was a shocking conflagration, to be sure, and poor Mr. Symonds was greatly to be pitied, but you remember the old saying—”It is a bad wind that blows “nobody good”—of which, the case in question may be an instance; it being possible and indeed probable, that the destruction of the lodge may eventually prove to be the foundation of your fortress.

 

            If I am not mistaken, young man, your modesty was not proof against the lively expressions of the fair one’s gratitude; you certainly construed her sense of your heroism into sensations of a more tender kind; and notwithstanding her entanglement, as I remember you emphatically called it, almost believed yourself first in her affection. Lately, I fancy, you have been rather less sanguine; which is the reason why, at this juncture, I am so kind as to revive your remembrance of all these circumstances. I want to stimulate your hopes, and to encourage you to set this matter on foot as soon as possible, that the report of it, may prevent Sir Charles Conway from seeking, or expecting a reconciliatory eclaircissement, which he may else be willing and ready to believe, time and occasion may lead to. And then, you know, the lady’s mind will be in a softened condition from her late distresses, &c. &c. all which matters, you, Colonel, exactly understand. Therefore, as I before said, I want you to have every thing under your eye, in perfect readiness.

 

            And now—to end this sheet as I began my first—“Courage my noble Colonel! “the day must be our own” for are not the grand impediments going to be removed! and are not we, in ourselves, irresistible!

ARABELLA DIGBY.

 

 

LETTER, XIII.

MRS. DIGBY, TO COLONEL GREVILLE.

IN CONTINUATION.

 

Wednesday Morning. I am ashamed to say how early.

 

WHAT can either lead or drive a woman so fast as inclination?

 

            A pretty deal might be said upon this subject; but I have no leisure for any other than the one which just now awakened me; therefore, to piece my narrative where I, last night, broke off—

 

            I arose, in the morning, with the sun; that is to say, about half past six; yet early as it was, I found Miss Stanley had been still earlier. Hearing her moving, I sent Benson (as she did not bring her own maid) to assist her; but she was ready dressed. We met about nine; and had an almost silent breakfasting.

 

            I will not dignify her by a repetition of that little which she did say.

 

            At eleven, we sat out for Dakin’s. When we arrived there, we found every thing in perfect order for our reception. You may imagine we were not, at first, very talkative. The pleasantness of the situation, for some minutes, engrossed the conversation. At length, I thought it was necessary to begin something more interesting. But it is needless to give you the particulars of the first opening, or the round-abouts which were used to induce the unhappy young lady to repose a confidence in us. After some proper entreaties, she sighed very deeply and said—”I am, surely, one amongst the most wretched of my sex; and almost ashamed to say, my family is ancient; my situation, was genteel; my education and subsequent conduct, such as promised an example not unworthy of imitation.”

 

            I really Colonel was astonished at your Polly’s docility. She repeated, almost word for word, the lessons I had previously given her.

 

            Let me stop to say, that I pursued your hint of concealing Miss Stanley’s real name under that of Elmy; which, by the bye, I should not have thought of doing, had not I catched it from your conditional promissary note to Miss Fenton, which she proudly let me have a sight of.

 

            I wonder you did not acquaint me with that circumstance. My not knowing it might have been productive of aukward consequences.

 

            After the above opening—I told the lady that I had some reason to believe she had wished for an opportunity of speaking to me; that if I could be of any service to her, I should be happy in exerting my power; as, from what I had heard, and observed, she seemed to be an object meriting the compassion of the more fortunate. I then begged her to confide in us, as I could answer for the benevolent intentions and secrecy of my friend, as much as for my own.

 

            I should have told you that to make the scene the more interesting, she all the time kept the child, who is really a very pleasant lovely boy, upon her knee. His eyes are blue and full of fire, like Sir Charles’; with the same beautiful flaxen hair, which, from his fair complexion, you might suppose the Baronet’s to have been at that age. Miss Stanley’s attention was divided between him and his supposed mother; and the mark on the coral was, I observed, not unregarded.

 

            As soon as I had made the above speech, Mrs. Polly thought it a proper manoeuvre to throw her handkerchief over her face, and lean her head against the back of her chair: but the duce a bit of a tear could she produce; for which I could have beat her.

 

            I thought her profession had made her a better actress. However, it might easily be supposed she was too much affected to cry. To which observation, for I afterwards advanced it, Miss Stanley readily acquiesced. When she recovered herself she said—“I repeat, ladies, that I am the most miserable of women; which you will join with me in believing, when I tell you that my heart too justly accuses me of being a parricide.”

 

            “Bless me!” exclaimed Miss Stanley, and started.

 

            “You may well be surprised madam,” said Miss Fenton, “at such an intimation, but, thank heaven, the matter is not so bad as you, probably, suppose from what I have said. Indeed I have too much reason to fear that my unhappy conduct shortened the days of my dear, kind, indulgent father; but I was not any other way, accessary to one of the greatest losses I have ever yet lived to experience. But ladies, sensible as I am of the great condescension, and of the still greater benevolence, which led you to visit so unhappy a creature as myself; and being no less convinced that I may safely trust you with my secret, yet, pardon me, so extremely peculiar is my situation, that I must not—I dare not—acquaint you with any particulars, except you will be so very good as to condescend to give me an explicit promise that you never will divulge what I shall tell you; nor ever make use of my name, or that of any other person which I shall have occasion to mention, without my consent. This, my dear ladies, may seem a presumptious request, and presumptiously worded; but I was not always what I am now, and if justice be done me, I may, in time, appear like what I have been.”

 

            I instantly saw Miss Stanley was surprised at this; therefore expressed my own wonder by saying, indeed madam this must, to us, who are unacquainted with your very particular reasons, appear extraordinary; not that I hesitate to make the promise you request, and I dare say my friend—“Allow me my dear Mrs. Digby”—interrupted Miss Stanley—“allow me to speak three words to you”—motioning to go to the window; which, being at the extremity of the room, was at a considerable distance from the fire. I followed her, though with reluctance; for my aim, as you may have supposed, was to get her bound in a promise of absolute secrecy; which, when once given, she would, I was sure, keep most religiously.

 

            “I have told you madam”, said she, speaking in a whisper, “that when I first read your letter, Miss Lawson was with me, and that, to her, I communicated the part which, too assuredly, was of deep concern to myself. She was (as any real friend must have been) exceedingly anxious to know the result, which I gave her my word she should do, the first moment I was acquainted with it myself; and I would not, on any account, disappoint her, as it would be leaving her friendly heart in the most cruel anxiety, and preventing my being benefited by her counsel.”

 

            I was going to interrupt her, but she continued—“rather than engage to exclude Miss Lawson from the knowledge of what I am to be informed of, I would give up the present opportunity of gaining intelligence, and, by her assistance, with the clue which already has been given me, endeavour, by some other method, to come at the knowledge of the whole.”

 

            Here was a stoke! I was almost frightened out of my wits. My presence of mind—my policy—my courage—were all at once called upon to be exerted; and they were altogether, barely sufficient to parry this unexpected assault. However, I immediately saw that nothing was to be done by argument. She was determined, and it was necessary for me to determine, likewise; Wherefore, I stepped immediately to Miss Fenton, who, as it was intended, was too ill to rise from an easy chair in which she sat, still keeping the child; though she seemed as if hardly able to hold it.

 

            This lady madam, said I, as Miss Stanley advanced towards us, has a friend with whom she is so particularly united, that she would think it almost criminal to engage to keep from her knowledge any thing with which she herself is acquainted; the more criminal, as were she so to engage, she doubts her own ability to keep her promise; the habit of communication between them, being so strong, that she fears she should involuntarily divulge the secret: but this absent lady—stopping Miss Fenton, who was going to speak, and looking at her with meaning—is of a character so perfectly great and good, that no mischief can possibly accrue from the manner, and with the restrictions, with which this my friend, if she does mention the circumstances to her, will relate them.

 

            Miss Fenton did not understand my looks; for this was a dilemma to which we did not expect to be reduced—[as who could conjecture that the girl would have been so obstinate—so scrupulous—so, I do not know what to call it—in such a case as this!] therefore we had not made any provision for it.

 

            Polly, as I before said, not understanding me, made so many objections, and raised so many scruples, that I was again in tremors; for had Emma’s curiosity only been engaged, her politeness would, at once, have given up the point; and she would have declined a communication which, as it must appear, it required so much persuasion to draw; and which was, evidently, to be given with so much reluctance. However, much more than her curiosity was concerned; which made her wish to see Miss Fenton’s objections in the weakest light, and gave my assiduity, which, under other circumstances, would have appeared to her like an unpolite, and even a prying inquisitiveness, the colour of a friendly solicitude to procure her full satisfaction: therefore, upon my saying that I would answer both for the absent and the present lady, as absolutely as for myself, and asking Polly, with a show of being hurt, if she doubted my honor, she immediately complied; we having, at my proposal, given her a very deliberate and clearly expressed assurance, that whatever she thought proper to communicate, with an expectation of being relieved in her mind, or otherwise benefited, should never be divulged, on any consideration, to any person existing, by any one of the three stipulated to be in the secret: again answering for the absent lady, as far as one human being could answer for another, without presumption.

 

            I want much to get to the end of my tale, as I expect the coach to pass the gate within little more than an hour; and if I miss that, I must wait for the next mail; therefore, I now will be as concise, as from the nature of the subject, I can be.

 

            Emma, expecting, I fancy, to be too much affected for observation, drew her chair half behind Miss Fenton’s, and leaned her head against its side; requesting she might be permitted that situation, on account of the extreme heat she felt from the fire.

 

            When we were all fixed, Miss Fenton (again vainly endeavoring to add tears to her seeming distress) began with telling us that her real name was Matilda Barlowe; that her father was descended from the female line of the ancient family of the Montagues, and that her mother’s ancestry was not less noble. She then gave a pretty circumstantial account of their supposed manner of living; her own education, &c. &c. which she made to appear were all extremely genteel; said that her father’s fortune was rather small, but that a handsome annuity which was settled upon her mother, by one of her uncles, enabled them to cut a considerable figure in the polite circles: that they were obliged to live almost constantly in London, as her father had a place at court which required his frequent attendance; which place he lost upon a quarrel with the minister, just about the time of her mother’s sudden death, which threw them into a most disagreeable situation; but that her mother’s sister, who was a rich widow, without children, promised to provide for her: she being the only child her mother ever had. And now ladies, said she, comes the tragic part of my story. At this she fell back in her chair, and I thought Miss Stanley, who looked pale as death, would have sunk from hers. She requested to be led for a moment into the air; imputing her indisposition to the warmth of the room, which, though it is extremely large, was much heated by an enormous fire. I attended Emma into the garden, where drinking a little water, she soon recovered. When we returned, Miss Fenton was requested to proceed, which she did with saying, that as they were obliged to live so much in London, her father, in consideration of her mother’s weak health, removed a few years back, from St. James’s Street, to Portland Place, on account of its salutary situation; that the house which joined theirs, was occupied by the late Sir John Conway.

 

            And now Colonel could you have seen your poor Emma!—but I wont interrupt myself by any observations, if I can avoid it; which, sometimes, I cannot do; as, on these woeful occasions, they seem to occur so naturally that I know not how to pass them over. My comedy, it must be owned, has had a little sprinkling of the tragic; but I hope the last act will crown the whole with general joy, and justify the title of the happy four.

 

Miss Fenton went on.

 

            “His son, ladies, the present Sir Charles, is in every respect, calculated to win the heart of a woman. Were I to describe him, such as he is, my fault, great as it has been, would be so extenuated, that pity would in time soften justice, till I was entirely exculpated.”

 

            This was so capital a speech of your Polly’s that I could not forbear to give it verbatim, though I have not time to relate her tale in the first words. She added—“perhaps, I am all this time talking to those who know him. If I am, what a hazzard do I—but no; I have your promise: pardon, me ladies, if I remind you of my having your promise.”

 

            I had previously directed Miss Fenton to insist pretty much upon this promise; which I had expected would have been, unlimitedly obtained; as upon its observance the safety of my plot depended.

 

            We neither of us made any reply to the foregoing flourish. I would not speak. Miss Stanley, I dare say, could not. Her naturally elegant complexion was changed to almost an ash-colour.

 

            Polly, at this period, called for the servant to take the child, which began to be uneasy, and then proceeded to the particulars of her destruction, as she termed it; the most interesting of which were—that soon after she lost her mother, Sir Charles, then Mr. Conway, found means to introduce himself into the company and, indeed, high esteem of her father; who thought him one of the finest characters in the world; that his sole aim, as he afterwards confessed, of cultivating this intimacy, was, to have the opportunity of often seeing her; whom, by accident, he had, two or three times been in company with at public places; which she, generally attended under the protection of the Dowager Lady Lumley: and that her heart, till then her own, was, at last, his conquest. She then again was more particular, than I need to be in the repetition.

 

            A thousand tender incidents were related, which the poor Emma, to keep up the character of a disinterested hearer, was obliged quietly to attend to: common humanity, however, allowing her being affected with the tale; which the girl, with wondrous invention, made very pathetic.

 

            We listened to many interesting circumstances which led to the promise given her, by Mr. Conway, of publicly marrying her after the death of his father; a private, but solemn engagement of mutual fidelity, having previously taken place, which she owned she was not weak enough to think binding; but that she trusted to his honor.

 

            She then informed us that upon the death of Sir John, which happened soon after, the young Baronet went into the country; but that receiving from her an account of her finding strong symptoms of the effects of her indiscretion, he returned, and having had a previous negociation with those in power, for that purpose, soon procured her father the appointment of settling a treaty with the States of Barbary; which they thought would detain him till she was delivered; but in this, they were mistaken; as she being young and unexperienced and not having, near her, any body in whom she could confide, had deceived herself in calculating the expected time of her indisposition.

 

            She said we might easily believe his not proposing to make, what she called his marriage, public, gave her the most poignant affliction, but that she—partly from being awed by an alteration which she observed in his manner, and partly lulled by her own fond hopes—could never assume sufficient courage to press it much upon him. She then informed us that her father took this opportunity of endeavoring to increase, on her account, his fortune, by laying out the whole of his property, which was all in money, in different kind of merchandise, to take with him on his voyage; leaving her in possession of the house in Portland-Place till his return; the lease not being expired; intending then to remove to one of less rent. What she said of their parting scene, &c. &c. I shall omit.

 

            She told us that her aunt proposed her living with her during her father’s absence, but that she, fearful of a discovery of her situation, excused herself on account of being obliged to stay in Portland-Place to take care of the furniture, which was very valuable; that she believed the confusion she was in on this occasion, led her aunt to suspect that all was not right, which, she had since heard, caused her to keep so strict a watch over her conduct, as soon led to a discovery. She then told us of her aunts high resentment, and of the miserable life she led during her pregnancy, Sir Charles being generally in the country, and of the horrors she underwent when she received a letter from her father informing her that his voyage and negociation had been beyond measure successful, and that, full six weeks before it could have been expected, he was landed at Falmouth; but that having, by a fall, a few days before, dislocated his shoulder, he probably should not be able, though it was mending very fast, to reach London till ten or twelve days after his date; the surgeon not thinking he could bear the motion of a carriage; that therefore he had sent to government to desire a courier might be dispatched to receive the particulars of his negociations, as they were of the utmost consequence and could neither be trusted to a common messenger, nor delayed. She said what she endured on that occasion was beyond description; that she immediately sent for Sir Charles, who was particularly employed in regulating his domestic affairs in Derbyshire, having since his fathers death, bought an estate there on account of its nearness to some of his intimate friends.

 

            Here, Colonel, was a fine stroke of policy! A perfectly true incident, with which Miss Stanley was well acquainted, brought in as a corroborator of the foregoing!

 

            Do not you think your Polly was an excellent fabricator? Doubtless you do; but she shall have no more of the merit of the day than her share.

 

            She remembered well; she described well, and she was shining in the pathetic; but be pleased to know that I, at her first coming to Harborough, penned all the heads of this tale for her continual perusal; however I will re-acknowledge that she was an admirable proficient, and excelled greatly in tender dialect. She told us that when Sir Charles arrived, he was excessively discomposed to hear of her father's being in Port, as she was then extremely large, though the Physicians, whom Sir Charles had ordered should diligently attend her, had convinced her that she, probably, would not be delivered before the end, or pretty near it, of an other month; that she then ventured to propose an immediate celebration, as the only possible method to save her from instant and utter destruction: that upon this, he seemed greatly disturbed, and with an air of displeasure, asked her how it was possible for her to think of his receiving for a wife, in the presence of any witnesses, one in her then situation; that he, thereupon, apparently endeavoured to soften himself; requesting her to make herself perfectly easy, as he would take every method to settle all matters in the best manner possible; that he then proposed to enquire who was to be sent to Falmouth; which he did; and luckily, as he thought, found it to be a gentleman over whom he had some degree of influence; that he laid before him such circumstances as he judged proper; requesting him to break the matter to her father with all possible tenderness; which as she was afterwards informed, he did; giving him some reason to suppose the marriage was to be solemnized, as soon as she was again able to go abroad; it being impossible to take place while she was in such a state, without making the whole business public. This, she said, might have passed with a man whose penetration was less quick than her fathers, or whose honor was less nice; but that he saw through every circumstance in a moment, and was transported into a violent rage, mixed with grief; that he made a resolution never again to see his daughter while her name continued to be Barlowe; that he likewise instantly resolved to set out for Bristol the moment he was able, as he was determined to turn all the money he brought with him from Barbary, which, as I before said, was all his property, into merchandise, and sail directly for the West-Indies; and that his return would entirely depend on the news he should receive from England: all which she said, she overheard in a conference between Sir Charles and the gentleman who went messenger to Falmouth; but that when they related it to her they suppressed the most bitter of the circumstances; telling her, her father was obliged to go, upon an affair of consequence, to Jamaica, without coming to London; and that he hoped to see her well and happy at his return. All this together, she told us, had a most violent effect upon her, she having always been excessively fond of both her parents, notwithstanding she had been unhappily led to fail so flagrantly in her duty; not only to them, but to herself and her maker.

 

            She here wiped her eyes, and I believe did absolutely shed tears. Perhaps she was just then sensible of her real faults; so that who knows but my project may be productive of more good than I even imagined.

 

            With all my heart; I have no objection to benefiting others, when, especially I can, at the same time, benefit myself; but “let every one take care of one,” is my motto, Colonel.

 

            Miss Fenton proceeded with telling us that her father put in practice his resolution of leaving the kingdom, and said, with eyes really swimming in tears (which were all lost upon Emma, as she sat half behind the easy chair; still leaning her face against its side) “And now ladies was I too severe upon myself in saying I was a parricide?—My father—my dear father perished three days after he left the shore; the ship, in consequence of a violent storm, having sprung a leak and all the crew was lost except the boatswain and two sailors; who having fastened themselves to a part of the wreck, were taken up by a pilot-boat.”

 

            She then said, that when this account reached her, she was entirely deprived of her senses, and continued in that state, with few intervals, till near the time of her delivery; that the period of her confinement was too miserable a one for her to touch upon any particulars attending it; and that therefore she would pass over everything till the time of her being able to be removed.

 

            Miss Stanley was here again obliged to request a little water. I observed she could hardly sit, but was, I suppose, determined to hear upon what footing the lady and Sir Charles then were.

 

            Polly now informed us that when she recovered, she found herself destitute of fortune, fame, and friends; her aunt positively refusing to have any connexion with her; that the sale of the furniture did not produce much more than sufficient to pay the rent which was due for the house; the servants wages, and some few debts which she had contracted, during the absence of her dear father; that Sir Charles settled all these affairs, and then hired lodgings for her; the child, and one servant, in Norfolk-street, in the Strand; where she continued sometime, but finding her health daily decline, was again obliged to call in a physician, who insisted upon her going into the country; that Sir Charles who had at that time been a few days in London, but was obliged, just then, suddenly to leave it, desired her to furnish herself with a situation, where the air was esteemed to be salutary, and, when she was fixed, to let him know the place of her residence; amply furnishing her with money. She then, she said, applied to a Mr. Sympson, who had been a great friend of her fathers [consistency observed here, Colonel] to procure her such a situation as she wanted, and that he recommended her to the family she was with; which place he confessed, was the more agreeable to her, on account of its being still nearer to Sir Charles' Country Seat; that as soon as she arrived, she wrote to inform him where she was, but received a most angry letter from him respecting her coming so far into the country; saying, that he had no idea of her going more than three or four miles from London, and peremptorily insisted upon her returning with all expedition; telling her that he cared not what expence she was at, provided she did but obey his injunctions. She said as this was the first time of his ever writing to her in a commanding stile, it had a great effect upon her spirits; that she then wrote again, to expostulate with him upon it, but received no other answer to her second letter than a re-injunction of his former orders, which, he said, could not be dispensed with; and that this arbitrary proceeding, joined to other circumstances of which she had lately come to the knowledge, made her apprehend there was some truth in the report she had heard, of his being shortly to be married to a lady with a large independent fortune; which she had reason to believe would at this crisis, be very convenient to his affairs.

 

            “And now ladies” said she “you have the whole of my story to the present moment: from the circumstances of which you will, I hope, think me more deserving of pity than of blame; though I pretend not to excuse my first criminal failing.

 

            “How little” continued she “do young women see the complicated distress, which—” She stopped; conscience, I believe, interrupted her. Then turning to me “excuse me madam” she said “that soon after my coming hither I dared to intimate a wish to be admitted into your presence. I am desolate—I am entirely desolate of every good; will it, therefore, be deemed an unpardonable presumption that I formed a hope from the distinguished rank you hold in life—but more from the exalted character you bear—that my aunt might possibly listen to my supplication for a pardon, the conditions of which she herself should prescribe, if a lady of such consequence and character as you are, would humanely condescend to represent to her my repentance? which indeed has long been very sincere.

 

            “My dear madam—and you my dear lady”—turning to Miss Stanley—she could say no more, for the poor Emma on this particular address, fainted and sunk upon the floor. We were all instantly in motion, vainly trying every method we could think of to recover her. She continued lifeless more than a quarter of an hour.

 

            But upon recollection, I do not think it is quite friendly thus to let you see the strength of her affection for the Baronet.

 

            I protest I did not consider of that before. However, what I have written must and shall go. I would not, for half the Globe, scribble it over again. Do you know that my pen never has been out of my fingers more than fifteen successive wakeful minutes since yesterday morning! ten, I am sure, served for my dinner; and five for drinking tea. Supper,—I eat none. Sleep, monopolized the most; in which I wasted almost two hours.

 

            How strangely this narrative-writing leads one forwards! absolutely I thought when I began, that two or three sheets of paper would serve for the whole account. Few people write more swift than I do; nor do many people better love the employment; but I begin to feel myself tired, and yet cannot help turning out of the road and parading in a path which will never bring me to my journeys end. The truth is (though I would not interrupt myself by mentioning it at the moment) the coach has passed my gate sometime; therefore, as I cannot send this till the evening, I may indulge the whimseys of my pen. But I will ease your impatience, and return to Miss Stanley; whom I have cruelly left in a deplorable condition.

 

            As I before said, our endeavours to recall her senses, were, for some time, ineffectual; whereupon, I dispatched a messenger to my people with orders to hasten, as much as possible, with a carriage; in which we conveyed her to my house, where Doctor Lansted instantly attended her. All that I will say more on the occasion is, that towards evening, she was considerably revived, and that the little she said was quite calm, and seemingly resigned. For the young lady with all her natural gaiety, is mighty religious; therefore much better suited to bear disappointments than we honest folks who do not pretend to be so wonderous good; however, I will acknowledge that she is not very ostentatious about the matter.

 

            The chief purport of our conversation was, first, a steady determination to a strict observance of her promise; because it was a promise; saying, however, that she should have been glad it had been dispensed with; as though she should not have made an ungenerous, or any otherwise improper use of the communication, she might have taken different measures. [A necessity of the promise, Archibald, was here evident.] Next she said she had formed a strong resolution, which she thought nothing could divert, to break the engagements she had entered into with Sir Charles Conway, as speedily as it could be done, without coming to an explanation; meaning that she intended to show, by degrees, an indifference, and then a dislike, to a continuance of the connexion; and to leave it to his own conscience to suggest the real, though secret cause; which resolve, she said, justice and her own happiness equally demanded.

 

            To keep her steady to this piece of heroism, I applauded it to the skies; saying I looked upon it as the noblest effort of a female mind, and that even if she failed in the practice, I should consider her only having intended it, as an honor to the sex.

 

            This brought on a more strongly expressed determination, which she hoped to be enabled—was her pious expression—firmly to adhere to; and we separated for the night: she, I suppose, to her prayers, and I to agreeable reveries in perspective.

 

            I ought to have told you, that she ardently wished if I would excuse her, to pursue her journey in the morning, provided she found her strength sufficiently returned; which I, after decent persuasions, with a proper show of reluctance, complied with. But, again, how incautiously I write to you about your future wife! However, my dear Greville, we perfectly understand each other, and agree too well in sentiments, to differ about a few careless expressions. One circumstance I insisted upon, for the appearance of the thing, which was, that Benson should go in the carriage with her, at least, as far as Loughborough, if not quite through, and return in one of the coaches which are continually passing this place; or, if she could not get room in any of them, take a postchaise back. It was likewise settled that I should comply with Miss Barlowes request of writing to her aunt, and give Miss Stanley the result: therefore, as soon after her departure, as it was feasible, I wrote to tell her that I had twice seen the fair sufferer, and had taken her direction how and where to address her aunt; that when I came from her the last time, I found my coach-yard filled with equipages, which unexpectedly brought the family of the Davenport's, my uncle being ordered to travel slowly from place to place, as the last remedy the physicians could advise; that as they staid with me two days, I could not directly write to Mrs. Bonner, which was the name of Miss Barlowes aunt, but that the morning they left me, I composed such a letter as I thought would be most likely to produce the effect desired, and was just going to send it to Dakin's for her perusal, when I received a note to inform me that the post had just then conveyed a letter to her hands from a Miss Faucett in Piccadilly; [Remember, Colonel, this is the name which it was told Miss Stanley, was upon one of the lady's first directed letters. I am afraid you should be blind to the merit of properly arranging these little heads.] that this Miss Faucett, who was one of her most intimate friends in the days of her innocence, had, without her knowledge, began a negociation with her aunt; in which she had been so successful that she had brought her to consent to have an interview with her niece at the house of this young lady's father; that she had informed her she doubted the conditions of perfect reconciliation would be deemed very severe ones, but that she requested her to be in London, if possible, within three days after the receipt of the letter.

 

            I then said that the poor Matilda, after thanking me in the warmest terms for the great honor and kindness, as she termed it, which she should ever acknowledge to have received from me, and asking pardon for supposing it could be necessary, begged, once more, to remind me, and through me the two ladies who were in the secret, of the great consequence it was to her future happiness (not knowing, as she said, how matters would terminate) that the promise we so kindly condescended to give her, should be observed with the utmost punctuality; that she then took her leave in very grateful terms, and the next day left Dakin's house, with the child and servant, in a chaise and four. And so friend Archibald, as the prim ones say, you see I have very fairly got rid of this business, without there being a possibility of discovery. For imagining the worst, that Sir Charles should ever get an inkling of the matter, cannot I turn the whole upon the girl herself? who was, I would dare to say (as I must then join to decry her) some vile imposter, set to work by some still viler employer—[I hope this is not true Colonel]—who knowing me to have been honored by some share of attention from both Sir Charles Conway and the family at Alverston, had thought proper to endeavour to work upon my credulity, hoping by that means to get the intelligence conveyed to Miss Stanley; as it must have been set on foot with a design to injure Sir Charles in the opinion of his best friends; that, however, they would have failed in their plan, if chance had not befriended them; as I must have had a very clear knowledge of very atrocious circumstances, ere I should have been industrious to have communicated any thing about the matter: that I had mentioned the word credulity, which, however, could not be any way applicable to me in the present case, as every one must have been deceived under the same appearances, every particular having been so artfully managed, that the greatest consistency, and even probability, was, through the whole, strikingly observable; that there was only one circumstance which I was puzzled to reconcile to the rest, which was, that of the pretended Miss Barlowe's requesting us to promise inviolable secrecy.

 

            I shall chuse to make this remark Colonel, lest it is made for me.

 

            It can only, I myself may answer, be accounted for by supposing that she concluded I had the attributed weakness of my sex, in being the more desirous of divulging a secret because a strong injunction had been laid upon me to the contrary; except it could be imagined she had a personal knowledge of Miss Stanley; for as I had thought it probable that she might be acquainted with her, from report I introduced her under a fictitious name.

 

            Again Greville, so far so good. Will not this effectually preserve me from the most distant suspicion; allowing the possibility, which I hardly do, of its ever entering any body's head that I could be concerned in such stratagems?

 

            “Well, but will not the Dakin's discover it?” No, Colonel, no; I have taken care about all that too; having told them that since the young woman had left Harborough, I had found her out to be a very bad person, and that I was ashamed to have it known I had been so taken in by compassion for one so little deserving; desiring them, therefore, not to let anybody, on any account, know that I was accessary to her going there, but to lay the fault entirely on one Mr. Sympson in London, who, though they did not know him, was their late landlords agent. I said that as he was the faulty person in having deceived me, the blame ought to be laid upon him; to which they all agreed. If it were ever asked what they knew about this Mr. Sympson, I told them they might say he was their late landlords deputy, and had been often in the country; which, to pacify their consciences, was, I assured them, really truth.

 

            These kind of people, Colonel, are terribly afraid of telling fibs, as they call them; while we freer souls know that the prime use of language is to procure our wants.

 

            They bowed and courtesied and promised to observe my orders.

 

            And now what think you? are we not secure from even the possibility of a development of these shades of night? of darkness—some would say, but I do not like the phrase.

 

            You may now, Colonel, visit your Polly as soon as you please: but remember this. She does not know, nor shall she ever, if I can help it, that I have any other interest in this business than what, as an affectionate relation, I take on your account. To get you married to an heiress of immense wealth, appears to her to have been the whole design of the plan; which heiress, she supposes had a strong penchant for Sir Charles Conway, and that the fabricated tale was to break (solely, as I before said, on your account) her attachment. It could not be concealed from her that the lady I introduced to her at Dakin’s, was the lady in question; but as I told you, I called her Miss Elmy, and she, I dare engage for it, knows her by no other name.

 

            I cannot forbear once more to express my wonder at your not giving me a caution upon this head. How could you be so remiss. Consider what a jumble it might have been the occasion of! I do desire you to be more careful in future, or, absolutely, I will renounce you.

 

            Every letter I see, I expect will give some intelligence, from one quarter or another, of this business. In my last to Miss Stanley, I forgot to press for an answer; and was unthinking enough to write in such a manner as left it at her option whether to reply to it or not: and between you and me, she does not seem officious to continue the correspondence.

 

            In that respect, she may do as she pleases after my points are all fairly gained. Perhaps she has a kind of involuntary dislike to the person who has been the means, though as she must think, the unwilling means, of conveying to her the infidelity of her dearee.

 

            Just as she likes about that, too, Colonel.

 

            When I am LADY CONWAY, I shall have a prodigious affection for Mrs. Greville, but Emma Stanley will never be harmony to the ears of—

ARABELLA DIGBY.

 

 

LETTER, XIV.

MR. STANLEY, TO SIR CHARLES CONWAY.

 

Alverston, Feb. 18th.

 

            My dear Charles,

WHEN I finished my letter of Monday evening, I intended to have written to you again as yesterday, but my concern for this girl—this Emma—who has so thoroughly vexed us all, prevented me. I told you of its having been agreed upon that she should go first to Lady Davison’s and then to Mrs. Lawson’s. The proposal was my father’s; Emma consented with thanks, and we all approved of it. Her intention was to have set out yesterday, but she was so much indisposed that my mother would not permit her going till she seemed better. I have not heard of her this morning. Indeed I believe she is not up yet; but as she was considerably mended last night, she will, probably, if she has had no relapse, begin her journey after breakfast. Yesterday we had a conversation of two hours; the particulars of which will not be any relief to you; therefore I will suppress them. She worked upon my tenderness till she moulded me to her wishes. In spite of my regard for you—in spite of the resentment I was pre-determined to show upon the occasion, I could not stand out against her softness. However I did not yield, till I had tried every argument I could possibly suggest, to conquer her in my own way. You may easily suppose I could write you half a volume, were I to give you our dialogue; but I will not, as I before said, plague you unnecessarily. Suffice it to say—that she brought me to promise I never would, on any account, hereafter mention this matter to her; nor speak of you in her hearing, otherwise than as my friend; in which light, the incongruous girl said, she should always rejoice to hear you were happy, to the extent of your wishes. At this I had no patience; and though my promise was then half given, I could not help once more warmly expostulating with her on the inconsistency of her conduct with her sentiments. But she interrupted me with—“Brother, say no more: I have told you—I again tell you—it never can be. My reasons (ask not for them) are all here,” laying her hand upon her breast. “Were I to change my resolve or tell you the cause, I should sin against myself and against Heaven.”

 

            Charles, what could I say! amazed—thunderstruck—I could only show my astonishment by a silent stare; till she so earnestly called upon my affection to endeavor to lessen the affliction with which she was evidently oppressed, and to leave the justification of her conduct to a future period, that I could not resist.

 

            I again gave her the promise she required, and we separated with more satisfaction on her side, I believe, than on mine. However, notwithstanding this reconciliation, if it can justly be called one; I shall not attend her to Lady Davisons, because of the expectation we are under of the Beauchamps coming to dinner.

 

            And now my earliest, and always dearest friend, I will quit this ungrateful subject, on both my own account and yours. What I have said I thought it necessary to say, and shall wish to know the present state of your mind on this unexpected—this, what-shall-I-call-it?—of a female mind. Write on the subject with your usual unreserve, and spare not my sister in your censures. The more severe you are upon her conduct, the more you will please me. I shall be happy to find you capable of forgetting her every perfection; if she indeed has one, which I now much question; and of letting your reason so master all former prejudices, that your heart may return to you uninjured.

 

            I greatly approve your resolution of visiting the Eastern Coast, and wish, with all my soul, I could attend you: but this cursed executorship-business of my mothers uncle will, I dare sware, employ us for these three months more. Confound the old fellow! why could not he make a more intelligible will! If he had not sense enough himself, he might have employed a lawyer. There is not any thing in it clearly expressed, but my sisters legacy, and the annuity to his old doxy. To say truth, I do not believe he cared a rush for any other human being. Myself, I know he hated; because, when I was a boy, I once pretty smartly abused his veteran wench for telling him that I robbed him of his favorite nectarines. From that time, ever after, he prophesied I should be finished by either a rope, a sword or a pistol; except somebody would kindly knock out my brains—was his brutal expression—with an oaken club, before the fated period. There was an old dog for you! did he, think you, deserve christian burial!

 

            I doubt I cannot be with you till Saturday. Write, therefore, by the return of the messenger. I am impatient to hear from you.

 

            And now, Charles, I will ease the anxiety which I know (if a thought can wander from your own torments) you have, since my letter of the twelfth instant, been under on my account. To confess the truth, I have not been very solicitous to inform you of this piece of business; as I know you will condemn me. But none of your grave monitions at present. I am not, just now, in the humour to bear them: therefore, let the candour with which, notwithstanding your half-feared reprehension, I am determined to observe, secure to me your lenity. How long is it, pray, since you were one of the gayest, and almost one of the wildest fellows upon earth! At an early period you took it into your head to grow wise all at once. The task, I have heard you say, was a confounded hard one, and you sometimes despaired of being able to pursue it. However, I will own your perseverance was, what some people would call a noble one, and you now are, I think, a tolerable proficient in the sober science.

 

            But what, pray, suppose I should take it upon me to follow your example, will “a reformation scheme” bring me in? I know your reply; but cannot, just now, give it any weight. Do not I intend, one day or other, to grow exceedingly good? Yes, to be sure; but I do not wish to be hurried out of my senses.

 

            This delay in beginning my tale, and this kind of preface to it, look so like a sneaking apprehension of your disapprobation, attended with something like a consciousness of the superiority of your mode of thinking, that I am ashamed of myself: therefore, once for all, I prohibit all preaching, at present, on the following particulars.

 

            The dying speech—though not the last I hope—and ingenuous confession of me George Stanley, male spinster—will that stand the test, Charles?—of Alverston Park, in the county of Derby.

 

            And now for it.

 

            You remember the bustle there was in our family, a few weeks back, on account of the discovery of the connexion between our tenant Baldwin's libertine son and my sister’s little waiting maid, Jenny Gibbens. You know, likewise, that this girl was early entrusted to my mother’s care, which made her doubly solicitous to save her, therefore kept her in a manner confined in the house, till she could fix her in some safer situation; and not finding a place of servitude for her, equal to her wishes, put her as a half-boarder to Mrs. Dykes, near Loughborough. By the bye, Mrs. Digby plagued my sister with half a score letters about her character, as she wanted her for an elderly friend of her’s in London; which was such a place as my mother wished to find for her; but for which, it was at last discovered, she was too young: so she still remains at school.

 

            After her dismission, several smart lasses offered themselves to supply her place [for my soul, Conway, I cannot forbear going a round about path to fetch up my story] but none were suitable; as her ladyship is very dainty in her choice of my sister’s attendants. At length, she had a letter from Mrs. Douglas, in Grosvenor Square, with a description, and recommendation, of the very exact female to suit both her’s and my sister’s taste; and had they searched through every clime on this terrestrial ball, they could not have found one more exactly consonant to mine.

 

            Now, Charles, you begin to see through all this business, and now read my other letter, and you will have the whole at once. But stop the lectures you are, I dare swear, notwithstanding my prohibition, already meditating, till you have particulars; and, likewise, till I protest, by all that can make protestations binding, that I never will give up my pursuit of this ignis-fatuus till—in short—till I can make something of it.

 

            Conway, I re-protest—and that with all due form and ceremony, and in the most solemn manner—that I never will think of any other woman, till I can get this—fairly out of my head.

 

            Be she kind or be she cruel—

            Every look will but add fuel

            To my passion, say what you will.

 

Rest satisfied that I will behave as well as I can in this matter; but I must have my whimsey out.

 

            Soon after my mother answered Mrs. Douglas' letter, the young woman she recommended arrived in the mail coach. I was then at Normanton, where I staid four or five days. When I returned, I heard Emma mention something of the extraordinary appearance and abilities of her new maid, but thought nothing of it; being, as you well know, always determined to guard myself against the allurements of every female in that capacity; especially if she should happen to be placed in our own family; and, till lately, I maintained that indifference to all so stationed, without encountering with any thing strong enough to be called a temptation.

 

            Near a week passed before I saw this truly wonderful production of nature. If, when I first met her, I had known who she was, it is possible—though barely possible—that the first view might have passed with different effects.

 

            Had you ever caught the least glance of her, description would be unnecessary, for the whole assemblage of her beauties would, at once, so strongly have flashed upon your senses, that you never would have lost the idea: and I, ever after, should have heard you talking of her incessantly; but I know, from the aukward situation of circumstances between you and Emma, since her arrival, that she was never in your way, as she generally—too generally for my approbation—confines herself to my sister’s apartments.

 

            A few days before I wrote what you were pleased to call—and I believe not unjustly—my half-frantic letter on the subject, I was sitting with a volume of Pope’s Homer in my hand, upon the bank of the little piece of pleasure-ground near the park-gate leading to the Derby road, when the noise which you know it always makes upon its being opened, occasioned my looking to see who entered it, and at that instant my eyes were struck with the finest form of which it is possible for mortals to entertain an idea.

 

            I had been reading that part of the Iliad where the introduction of Helen into the assembly of the princes, causes their breaking out into raptures upon her beauty, and had just ended the following lines.—

 

            “——No wonder such celestial charms,

            “For nine long years, have set the world in arms.”

 

            By my faith! thought I, here is Helen herself come to reward me for my assent to the verse.

 

            I instantly arose, pocketed the book, and hastened to meet her, concluding that if it was neither Helen, nor her patronizing Goddess Venus, it must be some terrestrial charmer lately come into the neighbourhood—to Derby perhaps—of whom I had never before either seen or heard; and so totally was I engrossed in contemplating the angelic vision, that the circumstance of her being unattended, never once entered my thoughts.

 

            I will endeavour to tell you, Charles, how she appeared upon my advancing within a few yards of her.

 

            To begin with her outlines—

 

            In her stature, neither tall nor low; but I think more nearly approaching the former than otherwise. I believe her height does not show itself to be so great as it really is, because she gathers much of it from her neck, which is long, and so elegantly united to her shoulders, that you cannot see where the one ends and the other begins. Her hair falls down her back in what I chuse to call a moderate abundance; a few elastic locks shading the sides of her neck and a part of her forehead. In its colour, it is neither flaxen nor auburn, but of a beautiful lively light brown between the two; and has that gloss upon it which answers for its being perfectly clean. Her limbs are so gracefully turned and united, that you at once observe firmness and flexibility. Absolutely, her feet and ankles are the best formed I ever beheld, and, since I have seen her with her gloves off, I pronounce her arms, hands, and fingers, to be the finest, both in shape and colour, which nature ever presented for the entertainment of my ocular organs. Her complexion is beyond description. I never before saw any one so lovely fair, and the true tincture of the pale rose of June renders it so beautiful, that imagination, in its greatest exertion, cannot reach the idea of the enchanting contrast between the pink and the white. Her lips are of a much deeper hue; and they receive an additional charm, whenever she separates them, from the appearance of a most regular set of small teeth. Her eyes, of celestial blue, are at the same time, of the brightest yet mildest lustre. Considerably darker than her hair, are her eye-brows, which are finely formed; and her nose, without one exception, is the prettiest nose I ever beheld in my life. I could go on this hour in my description, yet leave half her beauties and graces unnoticed. As she moved onwards, she seemed scarcely to press the grass, though she walked rather slow than otherwise. She was dressed in a neat white dimity gown: a figured scarf was carelessly twisted round her shoulders and waist, and a very pretty white bonnet, made either of silk, or what the ladies call tiffany, was simply yet elegantly ornamented with narrow pale pink ribband: All this, respecting her dress, I have since recollected; for, at the time, I did not know that I observed it.

 

            Charles, you are well acquainted with my taste for beauty. Could any thing be more exactly formed to fascinate my whole soul? She is the very image which my ever-active fancy has so often created. If you do not pity me, you are a Shylock. My heart was seized by main force. It was as impossible as it would have been unavailing, to endeavour to resist the arrest.

 

            When I approached her, which I did with the reverence due to royalty, and expressed, though I believe but in very unintelligible terms, the mixture of surprize and pleasure with which my meeting her had inspired me—I endeavoured to be very polite; but was, I am persuaded, more boobyish in that moment, than I ever was in any preceding one, throughout my existence. Upon my requesting to be permitted the honor of attending her up to the hall, whither, I told her, I presumed to hope she was going, she started, and seeming to recollect herself from some little appearance of embarrassment, interrupted the—I believe incongruous—speech I was making, by saying—“I perceive, sir, you are under a mistake, which I beg leave to remove as soon as possible. I am the person who lately came to Alverston to wait upon Miss Stanley,”—and was walking on.

 

            You come to wait upon my sister, madam! said I, in a tone expressive of the utmost astonishment; at the same time involuntarily impeding her path. It is not possible, I continued. Heavens and earth! how! when! from whence!—uttering unconnected monosyllables, which evinced the surprise her information, though I scarce could credit it, had given me: at which

 

            “She smiled a smile that would an Angel’s face

            “have ornamented.”

 

and appearing as if she suppressed something which she was going to say, moved onward. I requested, I begged her to stop. Madam—pray—but one moment, were my incoherent expressions, endeavouring to take her hand: but eluding my purpose—“Excuse me sir,” she said; and curtesying, went from me with quickened steps.

 

            Conway, I was transfixed. Folding my arms across me, I never changed place or posture till the laurel hedge of the upper pleasure-ground, hid her from my sight.

 

            I will leave you to guess how I passed the remainder of the day. You are too well acquainted with the restlessness and impetuosity of my temper to need the description. At dinner, my mother challenged me on my looks, being apprehensive I was not well. I confessed myself to be rather indisposed.

 

            A thousand schemes now arose in succession, in my idea; and all the thousand vanished one after another, as being poor, foolish, and insufficient to effect any material purpose. Two or three days following, every hour was devoted to the continually-disappointed endeavour of speaking to this lovely apparition. I could only meet her en passent. Once or twice after dinner, I made some distant enquiries of my sister about her new maid. The substance of her reply to my various questions, asked at different times, with seeming carelessness, was, “That she was the most extraordinary young woman she ever saw in such a situation; that her understanding, which she seemed modestly to suppress the appearance of, rather than officiously to display, was really brilliant; and her disposition, if she could judge properly in so short a time, one of the sweetest she ever knew; adding, that she could hardly bring herself to treat her as a servant.” My father, who was present, observed, “she was a modest pretty looking person.”

 

            A modest pretty looking person, Charles! This angel of a woman a modest pretty looking person only!!!

 

            Oh! for the ice which surrounds and fortifies the heart of threescore, to defend mine against the meridian charms of this scorching beauty! I fancy, my good Sir Edward, had you seen such a creature forty years back, you would have bestowed a different opinion of her, than that of her being “a modest pretty looking person.” I had scarce patience with my father for his insensibility. He passionately, it seems, admired my mother, who, though reckoned extremely handsome in her younger days (which, it must be allowed, her features still afford considerable proofs of) could never be equal to this irresistible—this all-fascinating—what shall I call her, Charles! Help me to an expression which never any other female merited, that I may devote it entirely to her. You will think I am mad in good earnest; and faith! I believe I am not much otherwise.

 

            The rest of my sister’s reply informed me that she was, as I before told you, recommended very warmly by Mrs. Douglass, who said, she was authorised to vouch for the integrity of her character; and that she doubted not but her abilities would answer every expectation.

 

            Her name is Maria Birtles.

 

            Now could I sit and expatiate half a score hours upon the wonderful perfections of this wonderful creature; however, as I suppose you will think you have already had enough of the rapturous—the extatic, &c. I will endeavour to keep to the moderate.

 

            But I am summoned to breakfast; for which I am not very sorry, being most confoundedly hungry.

 

            What a clever fellow should I be, were I always to employ, to wise purposes, all my waking hours! three deducted from each twenty-four, would, I verily believe, give me as much sleep as my nature requires. Of late, I do assure you, I have done with less.

 

            I am extremely impatient to see you. On Saturday, I hope I shall be with you at dinner. Previous to that time, I shall, perhaps, scratch over another sheet, as I wish you to chew the cud—a cleanly expression—upon all that relates to this little witch, before we meet, that you may regulate your animadversions accordingly.

Farewell,

GEORGE STANLEY.

 

LETTER, XV.

SIR CHARLES CONWAY, TO GEORGE

STANLEY, Esq.

 

Hawthorne Grove, Feb. 18th.

 

WHY, my dear friend, did not you write, as you said you would, yesterday? The post is gone by without leaving me any letter from you. I am excessively dejected, and want to have my ideas driven from tormenting recollections—from distracting comparisons, between the past and the present; which nothing will be so likely to do, as an account of your promised adventures; if, indeed, they are serious matters of fact; for I cannot, George, now attend to fiction, however entertaining the drapery; yet reality I fly from.

 

            Milton makes his Adam, when driven out of Paradise, an enviable being, in comparison with myself. His partner, still loved, though the cause of all his trouble (in that point, the case too similar with mine) was yet with him; partook of his affliction, and was sorry for her fault. Mine, surely, no less dear, renounces me. Without accusing me—without, I think, having cause to accuse me of one fault, respecting herself—without even deigning to give the least reason—renounces me, I fear, for ever!!! For say, George, is there hope? Is there the smallest ray of hope, that she may again change her sentiments? I did not mark the word, Again, to make it a reproachful one, though it has, I believe, given it that sense; for were she to make a second change—that second should entirely obliterate the remembrance of the first, beyond recall. I would receive the dear returning charmer without ever asking her why she had stepped aside. And yet as Emma Stanley cannot act without a motive, my curiosity would be—But ah, George! I may spare my confessions of what, in that case, I should wish to know! as I am sure you would have infused an idea of the possibility of her return, could you have done it with safety to my future peace: therefore answer me not; as you can only confirm a sentence which, to speak in moderate terms, makes me wish I could sleep out the remaining period of my existence.

 

            With all my soul I strive to check the dark torrent which seems to rush upon me like a deluge from every side. Yet all my plans to re-begin! all my prospects to replant!—I endeavour to recollect myself; then sit down tired and dispirited; ashamed to find my fortitude so slender.

 

            But I am not well. Come to me, my dear Stanley, as soon as you can; for I am determined not to write upon this distressing subject; yet I want to plague you with a thousand conjectures.

 

            As soon as you leave me, I intend to pursue my plan of going to the eastern coast. I am glad you think it an eligible one; for I feel myself like a babe in leading-strings, and am thankful to the friendly hand which helps to keep me up and guide my steps. First, I believe, I shall go to London; from thence to Harwich, Ipswich, Aldborough, Lowestoff, and Yarmouth.

 

            But more of this, amongst other subjects, when we meet.

 

            “The world is all before me, where to chuse

            “My place of rest, and Providence, I hope, my guide.”

 

            Indeed no one spot has now any preference with me. I did not think I had been so weak a mortal. Again this subject steals upon my pen. Were I to yield to my inclination, I should fill a quire of paper, without saying one thing to any purpose.

 

            I send my servant with this. He has orders to go on to Bartney Lodge, and as it must be late ere he can reach Alverston on his return, I will thank you to keep him all night. Send him off in the morning early, and with him, without fail, a letter.

 

Ever yours,

 

CHARLES CONWAY.

 

LETTER, XVI.

MR. STANLEY, TO SIR CHARLES CONWAY.

 

Wednesday night.

 

IT is now past eleven. The rational part of the family are retired to rest. I, only, am waking.

 

            About one o’clock, the two Beauchamps, with their uncle Fitz-Osborn, arrived at Alverston. We have had a very stupid day. My sister, who was not well enough for my mother to consent to her going to Litchfield, never appeared: my mother left us very soon after dinner; therefore the two old gentlemen, the two young ones and myself, spent the day just as, I dare say, you will imagine such an unconsonant party must do. My father was the most pleasant of the group; and as much the wisest.

 

            James Beauchamp brought me compliments from Colonel Greville; whom he grumblingly said, was one of the youngest colonels ever known in the army. He is, I find, returned with fresh laurels; landed last Monday, and will come to Alverston as soon as he has permission to leave London. I wonder he did not write.

 

            About seven I received your letter, and am now set down—not to answer it, for what can I say upon it!—but to give you the intelligence you require respecting myself, and which, you will find, was chiefly written many hours before the arrival of your man. I intended to have dispatched it, in the morning, by Jerry.

 

            Before I proceed with my story, I must just touch upon the contents of yours; though I know not what to say to them. I feared, yet was unwilling to expect, exactly such an account of yourself, as your letter has given. Time, my dear friend, with an exertion of the Christian fortitude which I know you to be possessed of, will, I am willing to believe, make you bear the inevitableness of this cursed affair [you cannot think how much, at times, it galls me] with the magnanimity which has hitherto distinguished you in arduous cases. You now think less of the powers of your mind, because they do not do every thing for you at once, than you ought to do. Were you unfeeling—insensible of pain on this occasion—I might admire the strength of your head, but the same strength in your heart I should hate you for, and with justice; because it would transform you into a being quite different from the friend I have so long loved—so long held in the highest estimation, for the too singular union of the great and tender which marks his character.

 

            Talk not to me of a fellow whose pack-thread-nerves secure him from being alive to the sense of his own, or another’s woe! Let all such, “as such there are,” be placed where they may possibly be of some little use to the humanized part of the creation. Make them bum-bailiffs, jack-ketches, negro-merchants, or something of their kind: They are no companions for honest folks. Give me the man who can first feel, and then surmount affliction. Him will I set down as something of an angel incarnate.

 

            Do not mistake me.—Some are not born with the tender susceptibilities which compose the souls of others; nor is it fit they should. The different occupations which must necessarily be followed to keep this world in order, require different dispositions to execute them properly. Some, therefore, are born fit for their employment; others rendered so by education; and these I respectively honor as proper means, in the Great Modelling Hand, to effect the good of the whole.

 

            The wretches I despise, are those whom the pride of riches—station—learning—philosophy (falsely so called), render callous to the distresses which, doubtless, are sent to humanize the heart, and create a sympathizing affection from one link to another of the great chain: not excluding even the brute creation.

 

            These cynics mis-style themselves great philosophers; great heroes; great men: fancying, because they despise a sensation which they have rendered themselves incapable of feeling, that they are elevated “above the heads of the people;” whereas they are, in many respects, sunk below the common level of mankind.

 

            But what an inversion is here! The pupil teaching his master! Will you not smile, my dear Charles, at my thus endeavouring to turn upon you your own sentiments! Yet who has a greater right to the benefit which may be gathered from them! I want to reconcile you to yourself; to convince you that you are acting consistently with the principles which nature gave you; which the wildness of youth, for a few years, overclouded, and which the truest and brightest wisdom revived into high lustre.

 

            I will not flatter you with the expectation of a counter-revolution; for I never saw any thing so perverse—so obstinate—so determined.

 

            But enough, I just now, purposely, used the word inevitableness.

 

            My heart is with you. I almost think I shall never again so well love my sister.

 

            And now for the sequel of my tale.

 

            I left off with telling you that the name of this girl, who has thus enchanted me, is Maria Birtles; and have said that I could not succeed in my endeavours for more than a transient meeting. I once saw her (it was just as I had finished my first letter to you on the subject) at the farther end of the elm-walk, and hastened to cross upon her path, by going (as I could, unseen, till within a few paces of the avenue) round the hawthorn-hedge on the canal bank; but the little gipsey eluded me, by turning out of the walk to meet the house-maid, who was going to Martin’s cottage; pretending, for I fancied it was a pretence, to ask her to fasten some ribband about her, which, she said, was got loose. I was quite up with her, but she trifled on so long that I could not, without making it too observable, wait her going forward; I therefore turned and went over the church-road gate.

 

            Soon after this, one morning at breakfast, the weather being remarkably fine and warm, my sister said she would take her maid and her work, and set an hour or two in the cyprus temple; in which, you know, on each side of the chimney, are large recesses generally filled with some favourite exotics. Nothing could resist the inclination I had (upon hearing her mention her design) of secreting myself in one of those places; which I knew I could do with ease; the net-work, which separates the recess from the inward part of the temple, being almost covered with foliage; therefore, without staying to ask myself what end my sitting in this place, unseen, could answer, hastened round by the wilderness, that my going thither might not be suspected, and arrived at the spot time enough to fix myself properly before they reached it; placing one of the stools close to the chimney, and surrounding it with tall plants, so that if they had even entered, I might possibly have escaped unobserved. Upon this stool I sat down with a book in my hand, that if by any accident a discovery should happen, I might look rather less foolish than I, else, should have done.

 

            I scarce know my inducement to this project. Had I given myself time for recollection, I should have despised and renounced it. Curiosity, as to the subject of their conversation, seemed not to have any share in the motive. My sole expectation, as far as I can judge, was to hear the voice of this little witch, and, if possible, to see her; which I very commodiously did, through a friendly kind of cove, formed by some large curling leaves, just about the height of my eye as I sat, which permitted my observing her very distinctly; but I was fixed in a most confounded uneasy posture, during the latter part of my concealment, and was afraid to change it, lest my moving should occasion an alarming rustling of the leaves around me.

 

            When I saw them ascend the flight of steps, you cannot imagine how much agitated I was. By my faith, I am even now ashamed to recollect with what an unusual palpitation my heart was seized.

 

            Pray is this any thing like being really in love? If it be, it is a plaguy disagreeable piece of business. In love—I have been in love, as the phrase is, scores of times, previous to this; but, never before, was I afraid to face a woman.

 

            To face her! no; that, now I recollect, was the very thing. I did not face her; and it was the creepingness of my situation which made me seem so much like a fool. Nothing else, I dare say; only a kind of an apprehension of being discovered in such a strange concealment.

 

            As they entered, the first words I heard my sister say, were—”Am I or am I not right, Maria, in the opinion I have formed?”

 

            “That opinion, madam,” returned the lovely girl, “does me too much honor to permit my subscribing to it; yet I hope you never will have any new cause to dismiss it.”

 

            “Every word you speak,” said my sister, “confirms my opinion, and I repeat that I never can think of treating you as a servant.”

 

            “Indeed, madam,” answered Maria, “I am sorry for it. It is the height of my present ambition to attend you in that capacity. Allow me therefore to request”—

 

            “Say no more,” interrupted Emma, “I have settled with myself the whole affair, and as soon as my mother’s approbation, which I doubt not of attaining, authorizes me, shall look out for some neat little country girl, capable of understanding the directions I shall request you to give her, and then I shall think myself singularly happy in being permitted to consider you as my companion and friend.”

 

            I was delighted with my sister; and could have flown and pressed her to my heart for her sentiments and conduct. Maria was going to speak—gratefully, I suppose, for she looked with extreme animation—when Emma again interrupted her with—”Not another word on the subject. I have determined upon every thing; and shall be less happy than I at present am, if any thing frustrates my design. Maria,” said she, instantly changing the subject, “were you ever in love?”

 

            Now, Conway, was I, indeed, agitated! For some moments I scarce dared to draw my breath, lest I should lose one syllable of her answer, so anxious was I to learn the state of her heart. Had Emma known the exact predicament in which I, in every respect, at that time stood, she could not have asked a more critical question.

 

            “Maria, were you ever in love?”

 

            Maria, as I evidently perceived, blushed, and hesitated. Her blush might be expected, but her hesitation tortured me beyond idea. By my soul! thought I, she cannot answer the question to my wishes. She loves another, and all my views (though I knew not that I had formed any) are chimerical. Quick as a ray of light, all the discordant passions took possession in my mind, and I sat like a statue listening for some reply. But my sister again spoke—“So, my good girl, you have been caught, I find, and are not frank enough to own it!”

 

            “Upon my word, madam,” answered the dear girl, turning pale, I thought. “I brought with me into Derbyshire a heart which had never known a tender prepossession.”

 

            At this declaration I felt the blood rush with rapidity into my face. But I will not interrupt myself by pointing out to you the different sensations which affected me, upon different parts of their conversation. You know enough of me, and by this time of the state of my heart, to form a tolerable guess, as I give you their dialogue verbatim.

 

            Emma. Into Derbyshire, Maria? And have you then lost your heart since your arrival?

 

            Maria. I think I have, madam: and the gratitude, to which you have so just a claim, will exempt me from being suspected of flattery, if I say that you have robbed me of it.

 

            Emma. My dear girl! you delight me. I am sure you are capable of friendship, and am willing to believe—gratitude, as you call it, out of the question—that you can, from genuine sympathy, allow me a place in your affection.

 

            Maria. Indeed I can. And permit me to have the pleasure of saying, that this is a truth which I could safely have affirmed very soon after I arrived at Alverston.

 

            But I must suppress my sentiments on this point, lest I draw upon myself the imputation—if not of flattery, of presumption, in daring to suppose I had met with a kindred mind.

 

            Emma. I cannot, Maria, express how greatly you charm me! The delicacy and the dignity of your sentiments and manners, from the first hour of my observing them, surprised me much.

 

            I soon grew uneasy at being obliged to employ you in offices of the station you had entered upon; and every subsequent day increased that uneasiness, as it added fresh proof of the superiority of your mind to your situation.

 

            Your aunt, whom Mrs. Douglass told me had had the care of your education, must not only have been a good woman, but a woman of great genius; as though your natural talents were, I am sure, very brilliant, they have received singular advantages from education.

 

            Maria. My aunt was, indeed, an excellent woman. I owe much to her. During her life all my days were sunshine.

 

            Emma. Some time or other I shall wish to be informed of all your adventures hitherto.

 

            Maria. My adventures, my dear madam, have been few. I lost my aunt, and thought myself happy in being received into your protection.

 

            Emma. And happy am I, my dear girl, in being able to afford that protection to you; for which I shall think myself amply repaid by a return of the friendship—of the affection which my heart impulsively feels for you. I, Maria, have distresses of my own [At that time I was surprised at my sister’s saying this]. But we will not touch upon them now. My natural spirits are good; yet, of late, the appearance of them has been somewhat forced. Amidst all the adversities of your fortune, for adverse it must have been, or you never would have visited Alverston in such a capacity—let me call upon you to rejoice that you know not the distresses arising from the tenderest, yet most irresistible of all passions. By your countenance, I judge you to be about eighteen. Were you older, I should wonder such a heart as yours, could always have parried the shafts of the, almost, universal tyrant.

 

            Maria. My countenance, madam, in this respect, I hope in no other, deceives you. I was twenty-two last month.

 

            Emma. Impossible surely!

 

            Maria. Indeed I was.

 

            Emma. Nay, then, I do wonder at the continuance of your insensibility till this period. By what means, child, have you preserved your heart? How have you resisted the attacks which must, often, have been made upon it?

 

            Maria. (blushing very deeply) Because, madam, I know of none—Because [in a hesitating tone] there are so few men, at least so few within the compass of my knowledge, capable of such an attachment as my heart can approve, and to which only, I think, it will ever be brought to surrender.

 

            Emma. You speak, my dear Maria, with a refinement which does honor to our sex. Describe the affection you expect to meet with from MORTAL MAN.

 

            Maria. Not a romantic one, madam: not an unreasonable one. Let me turn the prospect from myself to you, for I will not descend to such a character as would suit my present station, and I will endeavour to obey you.

 

            Emma. Ah, Maria!—But go on.

 

            Maria. And yet I could wish to be spared. My imperfect ideas—

 

            Emma. Well, I will spare you. Yet how can the subject be affecting to you. But I will spare myself. I wish to appear, to-day, as calm as possible. Mr. and Mrs. Tamworth are to dine here, and the lady has prying eyes, with an inquisitive temper, which at this crisis—Ah, Maria!

 

            Maria. I dare not press, madam, upon any subject which seems to affect you; yet I cannot forbear saying that I am pained by the bare apprehension—

 

            Emma. (interrupting her) Well, no matter. A consciousness of rectitude will carry one on to surmount seeming impossibilities [what could occasion my sister to talk thus!] Some time hence — But come, Maria, sing me a song; and let it be the same you gave me last evening.

 

            Maria. Will that, madam, be quitting the subject you seem to wish to get rid of?

 

            Emma. Why no; not altogether. However, never mind: sing away.

 

            Maria obeyed; and such a melodious pipe was never heard by mortal ears. She looked and spoke as if her voice was harmony, but her execution surpassed all the ideas I had formed. Madame Mara would have listened with jealousy. Can I give you a higher idea of her perfection in this science?

 

            “In love should you meet a fond pair”—was her song; and the words seemed to go from her heart.

 

            Let me now, Conway, sum up the particulars of this conversation, which so entirely compleated my inthralment.

 

            She brought her heart with her into Derbyshire! Yet she did not affirm it was now her own: she rather evaded the question! She would not endeavour to describe a man in her own station! “Because, madam, I know of none.”—She blushed; she hesitated; she changed the sentence—”Because I know of so few.”—So few, Charles! what did she—what could she—what may I not hope that she meant! Had I cause to believe that, since her coming into Derbyshire, she had seen one whom she thought capable of such an attachment as the delicacy and true sensibility of her own heart have a right to demand; that she, therefore saw that one with a preference never before allowed to any other, AND that that one, that happy one was ME—by Heavens! the Universe should not buy her from my arms, though every soul to whom I am allied, should rise to oppose the union!

 

            Let me, Charles, reason myself into this belief. She brought with her a whole heart into Derbyshire. And if a woman’s blushes, hesitating accent, and faultering tone of voice, speak any language—it is not, now, all her own. At the time I am talking of, she had scarce been at Alverston three weeks. At Derby, I should suppose, though she has once or twice been there, she is quite a stranger. Who, then, can she have seen, since her arrival, to cause that blush and hesitation? I was not deceived; for the light shone so strongly upon her face, and I sat with such advantage to observe her, that I could distinctly mark every change in her very expressive countenance; which, as my sister says, does not speak her to be more than eighteen.

 

            “Her blush was of a crimson dye,” and she cast her eyes down upon the ground. I know I was not mistaken in the symptoms: at the time she spoke, she thought of a favoured object; and now let me repeat my question; who can she have seen in Derbyshire, capable of stealing such a heart? If I here again express a hope that I am, indeed, that happy one, it may, after what I have said, bear the imputation of extreme vanity. Let it: it shall not deprive me of the exquisite pleasure such a hope imparts. She must have seen, upon every occasion which has offered, how much I have been struck with her exterior. She must, consciously, have believed that her character, of which it might naturally be supposed I had heard something from my sister, had its share in forming my evident prepossession in her favour. She must have observed that whenever I have accidentally met her, for a moment, I have accosted her with an air of respect, which, if it did not convey the most perfect admiration, but feebly expressed the sentiments by which it was inspired.

 

            Is it, then, very unreasonable—is it inexcusably vain to suppose (her heart having avowedly been free when she came) that she has observed this with some degree of approbation? and that, therefore, (my character, perhaps, not having been, in this respect, against me) she has allowed herself to have an idea of my being capable of such an affection as she was about to describe? And if this has been the case, will it be a crime if I go a little farther, and advance the possibility of her thinking herself less free to pronounce her absolute indifference to all the sex, than she was at her first arrival? This granted—what is it short of a prepossession in my favour?

 

            You will, perhaps, say that I am very ingenious in finding arguments to support my airy imaginations. I will allow the accusation of ingenuity, on condition you will, at the same time, confess that I am very modest.

 

            Prithee now, might I not have urged some other inducements for her to think favourably of me! Am I so despicable a fellow, as to make it a very wondrous circumstance for a woman to consider me with partiality?

 

            Pray, Sir Charles Conway, have a little pity on my diffidence and humility. I beseech your Worship not to discourage a poor wretch, whose modesty is so very oppressive to him, and which, in the subsequent scene, as you shall hear, was almost strong enough to overturn his hopes.

 

            Just as Maria had finished her song, and Emma given it her approbation, a servant entered to tell my sister Mrs. Biddel was come to try on a gown for Lady Stanley, and that her Ladyship requested her to go and give directions about it.

 

            My sister obeyed. Maria was left alone; and it was impossible for me, in that moment, to consult reason; propriety; prudence; or any thing allied to them. The wish of speaking to her—to what purpose I knew not—seemed to be in my power. It was all I thought about. I flew, absolutely flew from the place of my concealment; and, in my flight, overturned one of the large myrtles; then, without considering—fool that I was—how such a noise, and such an apparition, might affect the tender spirits of a delicate woman, immediately presented myself to the view of the dear astonished girl; who instantly gave a violent scream; turned pale as death, and burst into tears. Alarmed at the effect of my precipitate folly, I hastened, as I would have done to my sister, to catch her in my arms, lest she should fall; but she resisted my endeavour; darted me an angry look, and interrogated me with “What do you mean, sir?” and “How dare you?” speaking with a very peremptory emphasis.

 

            I endeavoured to appease her by the most respectful manner; assuring her, that, though I was induced by a wish to speak to her, to obtrude so precipitately into her presence, nothing could be farther from my intention than to give her the least offence: that she must have observed on every occasion—and was going on; but she interrupted me with a haughty, yet beautiful air; telling me that when she sought protection at Alverston, she expected, from the character which the family had universally obtained, to find herself exempt from insult. I earnestly requested her to hear me; but not one word would the obdurate charmer permit me to speak in my own vindication. ”She could assure me,” she said, with a most becoming resentment, [yet I thought her eye was not severe] “that if she must be subjected to such insolent familiarity, she should, happy as she thought herself with Miss Stanley, immediately quit Derbyshire;” insisting with warmth, upon my leaving her that moment; and because I did not directly obey her arbitrary mandate, endeavoured, for it was but an endeavour, Charles—to put on a forbidding countenance, saying “Such treatment she had not been used to,” and rushed out of the temple; leaving me standing like a fool—a timid fool; over head and ears in love! My wishes to convince her that I meant nothing by my intrusion, but to request her acceptance of my most respectful admiration, urged me to follow her, but the deuce a bit could I persuade myself to stir from the spot on which she left me, till I recollected my sister would soon return, and that if I continued there, a full explanation would probably be the consequence, which might be attended with unfavouring effects. I therefore sprang down the steps, hastening back the way I went, and just as I reached the aviary, saw through the glade lately cut from thence, Maria going again into the temple, to prevent, as I concluded, my sister from knowing any thing of what had passed.

 

            Since that time, I have never had one opportunity of seeing her alone, except at a distance. I often meet her with Emma, when she always puts upon her countenance as stern an air as the sweetness of her features will receive. You may be sure I endeavour to make the most of these opportunities; expressing, as much as possible, by my looks and manner, how distressed I am to be under her displeasure; and say what you will, I cannot help indulging the idea that there is a secret complaisance, at least, lurking in her bosom. I may be mistaken. It may be only the unrepressable appearance of her native sweetness: but this I admit for no other reason than to prevent your enforcing such a conclusion. And now take into the account, that I am, every day, tormented with hearing her praises reverberated, and you will have the whole of my deplorable case before you. But do not reply to it till I see you. I insist upon not having any quill-preaching. Cannot I tell what you would say as well as if I saw it? To be sure I can. You would begin with asking me what I meant to do. Then tell me that neither Sir Edward nor Lady Stanley would approve of my marrying a young woman in such a situation; that old Slayton—curse his hundred thousand pounds—would, particularly, object to it: that therefore; and therefore; and therefore: with a dozen more wise therefores superadded, it will be prudent to give up my foolish pursuit. I tell you I will not hear any such nonsense. Be moderate; be rational; or you will drive me to swear “by every saint in the kalendar,” that, one way or other, I am determined to have her.

 

            So now do your best or your worst. Tomorrow my sister will, doubtless, go to Litchfield. How long she will stay there, is not determined. Lady Davison continues very ill, and will, probably, from the extreme affection she bears to Emma, press her hastening to Woodstock, as she will be afraid of continuing her with her on account of injuring her health: and I query if, at this juncture, the girl will wish to stay there: for what the plague ails her I know not! but distressed she most certainly is, on some account or other.

 

            I could swear, most gloriously, for, at least, three hours, about this cursed inexplicable piece of business; which I believe torments me nearly as much as it does you. For are not your concerns almost as great to me as my own! They are, by Jupiter! perverse; provoking; preaching, and, what is worse, preventing dog as you sometimes are. Though you think proper to grow so wondrous wise, what the deuce is the reason that I may not continue to be a fool if I chuse it! you were once, remember that, a million times worse than ever I was. And I believe, from my heart, you owe half your reformation, as they call it, to some of my monitions. Your mad pranks are still “in my mind’s eye.”

 

            Well, but to finish my tale. Maria does not go with Emma. For, first, Miss Lawson and she are so much more than sister-like, that one room, and one maid, generally serve them when they meet. Secondly, Emma cannot bear the idea of carrying Maria with her as a servant; and, however much she is pleased with her, and determined upon treating her as a companion, she cannot introduce her to Mrs. Lawson as a guest. Thirdly and lastly, my mother’s Mrs. Moore, for whom you know she has a considerable regard, is very indifferent in her health; therefore Maria’s continuance at Alverston is most convenient to all the parties; and, I do assure you, fir, to me, most extremely agreeable.

 

            Friday morning, and not before, this old fellow and the boys leave us. I am bound to go with them a part of their journey; therefore cannot see you sooner than the time fixed; as on the Saturday morning, previous to my setting off, I must give audience to two or three of the most rascally lawyers under the starry canopy.

 

            Farewell. I am drowsy; and have burnt my candles down to their last half inch.

GEORGE STANLEY.

 

 

LETTER, XVII.

 

Thursday night, Feb. 19th.

 

JOSEPH PRATT, TO MRS. MARY BENSON.

 

Dear Molly,

THIS cums with my love to you and I have got sum news for you which is that I am just cum home from Alverston where I was forced to stay all night. But pray molly dont let it be sed that I ever opened my mouth about the matter for it was little betty the little darry maid that toud Me the whole of it which is that my maister and her young lady are all at odds and that it is not likely they should ever be at evens anny more betty say she hered her young maister storm and swear about it like any thing to Miss Stanley her own self and that miss cried and prayed him not to say no more but to hold his tonge for that she never coud and never woud have nothing more to say to him and so miss is a going to be sent away and we belike are going upon our travaills as well as she if now they should both go a round and meet at last twoud be good fun we are a going furst to London and then to Ipsich and then to Albrow and then to Yarmuth as I heard maister tell the stuart I knows all these places rite well as I often went to all of them when I lived with Sir Gerrard at the grate hall at Henningham I will rite to you Dear Molly from London and again when I get to Yarmuth where I hears we are to stay a good while as maister design to go into the see there to wash away his love I suppose but dear Molly dont be afraid I should wash away mine for not all the water in old England coud wash away my true love for you as you shall hear when we cums back as I hope we shall then be able to marry sumhow for I know maister is so good as to let me have a little land and my father learnt me before I went out to do taylor work all which together woud be a help but dear Molly I must leave of with my kind love to you and I am dear Molly your constant lover till death.

JOSEPH PRATT.

 

            Pray excuse blots and blurs as I forgot to ax the stuart to make me a new pen.

 

 

LETTER, XVIII.

MISS STANLEY, TO LADY STANLEY.

 

Litchfield, Friday morning, Feb. 20th, 1789.

 

THE hasty note, my dear madam, which I, last night, sent you, by the return of the chaise, gave you some idea of the very uncomfortable situation in which I found my poor cousin. She is so extremely lame, that she cannot any way remove herself without assistance. Mrs. Pritchard has relinquished her house at Burton, and is come to reside entirely with her; which, I hope, will be a considerable relief to them both. I have not yet received any letter from Woodstock. Probably, to-morrow morning’s post will bring me one.

 

            As you, my dear madam, prognosticated, Lady Davison affectionately solicits my hastening into Oxfordshire. I never knew a previous time in which I should, with so little reluctance, comply with such a request from her: being never yet frightened by gloomy ideas from a sick room: on the contrary, I generally feel a kind of pleasure whenever my attendance in one is accepted; resulting, I suppose, from the hope of being able to give some relief to the sufferer. At this time, I must confess it, my mind is much discomposed by the occasion of our present separation. I am almost afraid to venture upon the subject, yet cannot forbear to, again, request your believing that I did not act from caprice; that I did not determine upon the conduct which so much surprised, and, I fear, in some degree, offended you, my father and my brother, without the most pressing necessity. My own heart suffered more on the occasion than I can—than I dare tell you. Could I but have related to you the cause of my seemingly unwarrantable determination, my task had been easier; but I was bound by the most deliberately given, though rather extorted promise, not to divulge to any body but Miss Lawson (she having been previously acquainted with some of the leading circumstances, and whose secrecy it was, therefore, required I should engage for) the communication which compelled my conduct. This, my dear madam, I dared not to tell you before. Not that I was afraid of your pressing me, after the knowledge of it, to a disclosure; the strict integrity of your principles would, I well knew, have prevented that; but I feared my own steadiness. While freely conversing on such an affecting subject, with a mother ever so tenderly, so soothingly indulgent, I doubt—nay I am sure—my promise would have been effectually violated, had I forborne a verbal communication: my manner—my incautious distress, would have told you what I ought to conceal. Then I was afraid of my brother; inexpressibly dear to me as he is. His unlimited friendship for Sir Charles Conway [dare I own to you how much it pains me to write or speak his name! which, however, I must of necessity use myself to do] would have led him into measures dangerous to my given promise. You, my dear madam, so well know your Emma’s heart, that I trust, after what I have now affirmed, neither you nor my father, will ever encourage one idea more of my being actuated by any undue motive, to oppose your joint wishes, which were too, too consonant with my own, on the occasion in question.

 

            Oh! that I dare but tell you! But I must not trust myself, I find I must not, to even write upon the subject; for, will you believe it! though I seem to want to impart to you every circumstance, it would pain me, beyond expression, were you ever, by any means, to come at the knowledge of them. But ah! I shall say too much. Dear madam! do not try to guess my secret. I am afraid of your penetration, yet cannot restrain my hand—or rather my heart, from unfolding to you my distresses.

 

            It now strikes me—strange that it did not sooner—of my having done wrong in giving any promise which must necessarily deprive me of the benefit of your advice on such an important concern. I declare I have all along satisfied myself with thinking, that however severely I have been pained, I have, throughout the whole, been blameless. How apt young people are to deceive themselves! the conviction which I now feel, overwhelms me with confusion. Pity and pardon me, my dear madam, for I meant to do right. It was not owing—how could it!—to want of confidence in you. I was pressed—I was enjoined to promise, as the only condition upon which the intelligence I received could have been given me, and of which I thought it was my duty to endeavour to gain a distinct knowledge. Oh that I had duly considered! That I had refused the conditions, and acquainted you with the introductory information! Yet what, even then, could I have done that I have not done! What could you have advised me to, that I have not pursued! But I should, at least, have been freed from any censure on my conduct. Ah! but then your opinion—Oh madam! again let me ask for your pity and your pardon. It is over! It is useless to recriminate. Yet I must ever wish that I had not given so unwarrantable a promise; and now must hasten from the subject.

 

            I feel myself distressed beyond measure.

 

Friday evening.

 

            I am again got to my pen, for I scarce know how to forbear scribbling, though the subject most ready to occur, is painful almost beyond bearing. But should I, my dear mother, say this to you? No: for which reason I will determine to refuse its importunity for admittance.

 

            Lady Davison is, I think, rather better this evening. She kindly insists upon my frequently walking or riding into the air, therefore I mean to go to-morrow morning to Mrs. Dyke’s school, though it will be rather a long ride, to see how little Jenny settles. And I was thinking, if I find it agreeable to the parties, to fix her there as an under-teacher. I have no doubt of her being capable of such an office, and it may prove the foundation of a comfortable establishment for her hereafter.

 

            My time here will, probably, be short, or I would wait for your opinion on this matter. For, notwithstanding, I am certain of your approbation upon whatever may be beneficial to any individual, I am so sunk in my own idea, since my conviction in the morning of having done wrong, when I thought myself so perfectly sure of being right, that I believe, hereafter, I shall most distrust my own judgement when, at first, I see least against it: especially, if it accords with my inclination.

 

            Lady Davison commands me to convey her warmest salutations; and orders me to soften the account of her illness. Indeed I fear she suffers much more than she will acknowledge. Her patience is truly exemplary.

 

            Present to my dear indulgent father, and to my brother, the most affectionate wishes of an affectionate heart. And do you, my dearest madam, accept all that duty, gratitude and love, can offer, from Your

EMMA STANLEY.

 

Saturday morning.

            I break open my letter to tell you I have this instant received one from Miss Lawson, who has limited me to a very short time indeed, as she intends being at Lydbrook on Monday evening, with the expectation of meeting me there; to which place Mrs. Pritchard will accompany me in Lady Davison’s chaise.

 

            As soon as I reach Woodstock, which I hope will be on Tuesday afternoon, the first employ I contemplate is writing to Alverston.

 

           

LETTER, XIX.

MRS. DIGBY, TO COLONEL GREVILLE.

 

Harborough, Feb. 21st, 1789.

 

SING! Rejoice! Triumph! and own me for a Conqueress of seeming impossibilities. It is done. It is compleated. The way is open.

 

            Benson has received a letter from her humble servant Mr. Joseph Pratt, to tell her all I wish to know; which is, that our turtle-doves have cooed their last, and are going to take wing, each an opposite way. This fellow, you must understand, does not know I have any interest in the affair. All he supposes is, that I am fond of news; which he is perfectly welcome to suppose, as he, therefore, to put it in his true-love's power to oblige me, picks up all he can gather; especially on this head; as Benson, who is a cunning baggage, tells him I like particularly to hear about sweet-hearts.

 

            Miss Stanley is going from Alverston. To Woodstock probably; as Miss Lawson and she, sworn female friends, generally meet twice or thrice in a year. Therefore take your measures accordingly: only be expeditious. My plan is resolved upon. Sir Charles is going to the Eastern Coast. Yarmouth is to be the place of his longest stay. At least this is proposed. I mean to get more certain intelligence of it, and if I find it holds, to set off directly for the last mentioned place, that I may be fixed there before he reaches it; as he cannot then have any idea of my going on his account; which, if I am not cautious, some after-circumstances may, perhaps, lead him to suspect.

 

            As Yarmouth is a place of some note for sea-bathing, though this season of the year is not quite favourable to a design of that nature, the advantages it has, on that account, makes it a town of sufficient fashionable resort to justify the whim of an idle independent woman, living in a midland county, to take lodgings there. For, first, I am fond of the sea; and can, upon occasion, you know, be fond of it to an excess. Next, I am not well; may, perhaps, be worse; love-sick, probably; for I know the heart of my man. A braver, finer fellow, lives not. Intrepid; firm; manly; commanding: yet soft and tender to a woman’s utmost wishes.

 

            Let me indulge a little on my favourite theme.

 

            Sir Charles Conway justifies all the passion I can shew for him. His singular merits make rectitude of wrong, and entirely exonerate the little indirect measures I take to secure him my own. Your very precise ones might censure me. But what have your very precise ones and I to do with each other! Censure! Who shall ever presume to censure LADY CONWAY! Thanks to the spirited freedom of my education! my unlimited soul rises superior to the little brittle bonds by which the lifeless females of this conscience-tied nation suffer their geniuses to be fettered. At seventeen, I walked in trammels; and obeyed my parents, by accompanying to the altar the Honourable John Digby; but my mind had no share in the captivity of my person: that was free to range; and range it did, ere half the day was over, in contemplation of the happiness Sir Charles Conway’s wife must receive on a similar occasion; for we had not quitted the dining table when he was introduced. Imagine to yourself such a figure entering—dressed in the most becoming elegance of fashion!—Not knowing it was wedding-day, he came with a card of introduction to Mr. Digby, from his friend Major Boyne, with whom he had been intimate at Berlin. Heavens! how his approach struck me, when, with a countenance composed of dignity; politeness; spirit; modesty, all which were heightened by the most graceful—most attractive manner ever worn by man, he apologized for the time of day; and for his intruding on such a company! for we were indeed a comfortable collection of every relative the world allows. A sweet family party, from grandfathers and grandmothers, to second cousins: uncles, aunts, nieces and nephews by half hundreds: every one dressed in their best, to grace my happy nuptials. Had you not at that time been abroad, you most surely would have been doomed to have encreased this blessed group; for I remember our old aunt Montgomery lamented your distant situation, and observed you were the only absent sprig of the quality part of the family.

 

            When Sir Charles left us, which he did soon after tea, my heart went with him, and has continued with him ever since; for, as I have often confessed to you, my good cousin colonel, my honourable piece of sobriety—so still; so exemplary—never had any share of it. Sir Charles’ frequent visits to Mr. Digby after our marriage, could not but produce two effects: first, the more strongly fixing my attachment to him; secondly, giving me hope that I was the principal object which drew him so often to Harborough. The first was inevitable; for who can be with him without admiring the greatness — and loving the goodness which compose his character? An understanding clear; strong; bright: in the highest state of cultivation: familiarly acquainted with every learned and every fashionable science! His disposition—his temper—his manners; sweet and bewitching: and as to his person—where will you find me such another! I know, Archibald, you are exceedingly vain of yours; and you have often contended for the superiority of Mr. Stanley’s over every one within your knowledge; of which, perhaps, you think the more, because of the very great likeness between him and his sister; who I will (now I am not afraid of her) acknowledge to be one of the most unexceptionable beauties I ever yet had a sight of. The extreme easy gentility of her person, with the enchanting liveliness of her complexion and features, distinguish her in the brightest circles.

 

            I am in such good humour with her; with you, and with all the world, that I will gratify the affectionate part of your attachment, by observing that the mild sparkling of her coffee-brown eyes; her almost unparalleled small white teeth and damask-rose lips, must excite admiration from even an enemy. The Roman bend of her nose, likewise, particularly beautifies her face; and for colour—no carmine ever equalled that in her cheeks. Her hair and eyebrows give the finish to her beauty.

 

            There, Greville, do not you think I am very kind and very ingenuous, to give this praise to a sister-toast? Her brother [I am in the humour, I think, for describing beauties] is, as I before observed, extremely like her. It has been said that he is still more handsome for a man, than Emma for a woman: but I do not think so; not but I acknowledge that, next to Sir Charles Conway, he is one of the most compleat figures I know; and possibly, in the eyes of some people, may equal him; but if it can be said of any man that he has too much life and fire, it may of Mr. Stanley. His eyes are really so brilliant, there is scarce a possibility of looking at them. With regard to intellectual endowment—Sir Charles and he are allowed to be so much upon a par, that, different as they are in their excellencies, there is no knowing to which to give the preference; the impetuosity of Mr. Stanley’s temper receives, sometimes, an agreeable counter-balance from Sir Charles’ more deliberate judgement; and I have heard it observed, that the two friends reflect a lustre upon each other.

 

            As for you, colonel—we have been brought up together so much like brother and sister (the only reason, perhaps, why we did not fall in love with each other) that I should stand exempt from flattery, were I to give you my opinion of yourself; but as I think you have vanity sufficient, I will suppress my inclination to draw your picture; gratifying you, however, by saying that you are not unworthy to make a third with the other two.

 

            Having finished the first section of my discourse—that is to say [only I ran some little way from the subject] that it was impossible to be frequently in Sir Charles Conway’s company, with a heart not otherwise engaged, without finding a continual increase of attachment to him, I will proceed to my second head, which is, the probability of my being the principal object which drew him so often to Harborough. This I am so willing to believe, that I am ready to set it down as a fact ascertained. For what amusement could Mr. Digby's sober company be to a man of his spirit and vivacity! My help-mate was, to be sure, abundantly good, and tolerably wise; but so steady; so slow; so—in short—so unlike all I wished him to be, that I think he could not possibly be agreeable to any body else. Yet I have heard his praises echoed and re-echoed from a hundred mouths.

 

            Poor man! he did all he could to please me; and, at last, as the finishing stroke to the whole, made an obliging exit at the age of twenty-eight.

 

            Now, Greville, do not put on a queer phiz, and exclaim, as I think I hear you—“Too bad upon my soul!” I tell you I am all aether. Were I to breathe into a balloon, it would ascend without gas. The recollection of Sir Charles Conway’s polite attention to me whenever he visited Harborough; his assiduity to oblige me whenever we meet in any of the public places in London; the many flattering compliments he has paid me on various occasions; with a long train of et caeteras, so warm my ideas, and animate my hopes, that I cannot keep my vivacity within reasonable bounds.

 

            I tell you, Archibald, I shall, ere long, be Lady Conway! How can it be prevented! You see it is plain to a demonstration, that his visits were on my account, and I dare say, had he not been inthralled when my captivity ended, he would very soon have been my voluntary slave, and by that means have taken me prisoner, for life.

 

            Where was I before I was seized with the describing fit? O—I was telling you that I so well know the heart of my man, as to be assured nothing would so soon lure him into the net, as the idea of my having an affection for him. Such a belief, with nine fellows out of ten, would have the direct contrary effect; but Sir Charles Conway has true tenderness of heart. He would not despise the appearance of such an amiable weakness. It would awaken his pity. It would do more: for, as I am sure, he would never marry a woman whom he could not inspire with affection, the idea of her susceptibility, when directed to him, would create an attachment on his side, if there were no previous symptoms of it: much more would it increase a prepossession before existing; which, I tell you, I think proper to take for granted is the case in the present business. How I shall begin the siege, it is impossible to say. My measures must be directed by occasions as they offer. That we shall be old acquaintance in a new place, will be a singular advantage. Of course, we shall be intimate. The good gossips of the neighbourhood will, of course, likewise, set us down as sweethearts; which a few timely blushes of mine, corroborated by a few hints from Benson, (who, though by no means an absolute confidant, is a very necessary aid-de-camp) will so effectually settle into a certainty, that we shall always be included in the same parties, and so treated, that we ourselves shall be insensibly led to coincide with the public opinion.

 

            Many a jarring couple, I dare say, owe the origin of their wretchedness to such circumstances as these. I can point out two or three, within the compass of my knowledge. Mr. and Mrs. Wrighten; Mr. and Mrs. Sayland; Sir James and Lady Wootton, were all talked into a belief of their being, respectively, in love with each other; were married accordingly; and accordingly, I am pretty confident, curse the tattling gossips who betrayed them into so false an idea.

 

            Do you know that your letters, written since your return, particularly the last, disappointed me very considerably? “It must be confessed you are mistress of manoeuvring.” “The whole plot was exceedingly well constructed and executed.” “I admire, my adroit cousin, your skill and industry.”—would be very decent compliments on common occasions: but for such artillery as mine!—the expressions are weak; sickly; spiritless.

 

            I pretty well know your heart, or I should suspect your conscience to be hurt at the means used to gain the end you wish to compass. Pray now, colonel, where is the difference?—But no matter: we will discuss that point when we meet.

 

            Before I thought about going to Yarmouth, I invited my sister to come to Harborough for a month or two; and as my servants are not the most governable ones in the world, I mean to have her stay here during my absence; that is to say, if she will condescend to oblige me; for let me tell you—Miss Howard, though not very rich, is very high; or, as those who admire her, say, very great in mind. I cannot but own that she has a fine understanding, and, what the good folks call a good heart: but her appearance is so prepossessing, though she is not a beauty, that, probably, she gets credit for more than she deserves. I do not much like to acknowledge it, but I really am half afraid of her; which, notwithstanding I was separated from her upon the death of my mother, is not to be wondered at, when it be considered that she is nearly eleven years my senior. I cannot deny her having been hardly used by my father. The unaccountable dislike he took to her from her birth, because he was disappointed in his expectation of having a son, was really farcical. Poor Matilda! He did use to treat her cruelly; but, I believe, would have left her a provision more suitable to her education, had she not formed such an unfortunate attachment to Henry Egerton, whose whole family he so inveterately hated. However, it must be allowed that old Egerton’s conduct was, at least, as bad as my father’s, in using such unjustifiable means to oblige the young man to marry Miss Athow, who, though she was esteemed a very amiable woman, could not be the object of his choice; his heart having been so long devoted to my sister. The last time Matilda was with me, she gave me more particulars of that history than she had ever done before; for she is not very fond of talking it over. I believe her view then was to draw some wholesome lessons, from it, for my future conduct; I being then just about to lay aside my dismal widow-weeds. She, at that time, told me that old Mr. Egerton encouraged the affair till my father died; but that when he found her fortune so inadequate to the expectations he had formed, he took the most outrageous measures to crush, at once, the whole business. Miss Howard professes the warmest friendship for the woman who is married to her Henry; but she must excuse me for doubting, a little, of its fervency: yet there certainly is a very singular intimacy between the three. Mrs. Egerton, it seems, never knew (or says she never knew — for I do not always credit these very pious folks) of the connexion between my sister and her husband, or, as she professes, she never would have been married to him, though she owns her previous prepossession in his favour. Do you believe this, Archibald? If you do, you have more credulity in your composition than your cousin Arabella. Antiquated stuff! It would be ridiculous, in such an age as this, to adopt such sentiments. Matilda did not—could not—at the time of her telling me this, know the plan which was then rumbling in my upper-room, or I should have thought she had framed that ornament to the tale on purpose to relate it to me. She says Egerton and his wife are very happy, and that he has long had that real affection for her, which she so well merits. They want my sister, it seems, to live continually with them; or, at least, near their habitation; which she declines from motives of propriety. However they all correspond, and their eldest girl generally attends Miss Howard in her excursions to water-drinking places, &c. &c. It has been pretty broadly hinted to me by that old bear, Doctor Middleton, that as I received such an enormous property (as he terms it) from my father, in prejudice to my eldest sister, to which Mr. Digby’s fondness so immensely added, I ought to put it into the power of my sister’s liberal heart, to diffuse the good she is so much inclined to do to every human creature. The wise doctor and I happen to be very different in our opinions on this subject. Matilda is now, more than I wish, my superior. Were I to place her in certain affluence, she, perhaps, might assume, in a still higher degree, the monitor. By making her occasional handsome presents, I hope to keep her down a little; which, by the bye, I cannot do by even that measure; for she still, upon fancied occasions, will reprove rather too freely.

 

            In reply to the doctor’s impertinence, I told him I was not so rich as many people supposed me to be: that my sister, though, perhaps, not quite situated according to her birth and expectations, had a handsome independency; that a great part of the real estate my father left me, went, if I died without will or heirs [which, believe me colonel, I do not intend to do] to my cousin Archibald Greville; that I had great expences which people seemed to think nothing about; schools; annuities to old tenants, and such other whimsical particulars in Mr. Digby’s will, sinking deep into estates so highly taxed; and that, moreover, my sister must be very ungrateful if he did not know her income to be considerably bettered, every year, out of the profits of mine; and that she had reason to think herself as secure in the certain continuance of my affection, as she would be by a deed of gift: upon which the old preacher darted at me a look of displeasure; shrugged his shoulders, and made his theological bow. I like now and then to hear him in the pulpit, because his language is novel to me; but I will dispense with his preaching any where else, in my presence.

 

            What a scribbler I am! Looking back on my sheets, I am surprised at their number. You urge me to write long letters, and, upon occasions, make tolerable returns; but, sometimes, I think must be almost tired with the ramblings of my pen. Men of some business and great pleasure, as you are, have always a wonderful deal to do.

 

            Answer this directly, and let me know when you intend to write to Alverston.

 

            I am impatient till you make a beginning.

 

            Adieu.

 

            Tell Clarkson I detest him heartily.

ARABELLA DIGBY.

 

 

 

LETTER, XX.

LADY STANLEY, TO MRS. LAWSON.

 

Alverston, Saturday night, Feb. 21st, 1789.

 

THE post, my dear madam, has just now brought me a letter from my Emma, dated Litchfield, which has filled me with great apprehensions on account both of her peace of mind and her health. Sir Edward is, if possible, more alarmed about her than I am.

 

            You, doubtless, know how much the dear girl has lately disappointed us in almost suddenly dissolving the engagements we had entered into with Sir Charles Conway: a man so highly meritorious, that any parents might think themselves happy in the prospect of consigning a daughter to his protection; especially, when she herself tenderly, though delicately, returned an affection so apparently fervent and sincere. I must own I have contemplated the felicity which the idea of such a union gave in prospect, with a satisfaction, perhaps, too compleat; hardly admitting the possibility of a disappointment.

 

            Strange that I, who have lived upwards of fifty years in this world, should not continually—habitually—remember that its Creator's wisdom, constantly employed for our present and future felicity, has made sublunary happiness but as a passing gale, when fixed upon any thing independent of the state to which we are hastening!

 

            I will enclose, my good friend, that part of Emma’s letter which relates to the subject in question; well knowing that your kindness and prudence, with that of Mrs. Eleanor Lawson, will lead you to take every proper measure to develope the dark folds which, at present, seem to cloud my girl’s felicity.

 

            Read, if you please, at the following space, the piece of the letter I enclose, that I may offer to you my sentiments upon it.

 

*          *          *          *

            You will, I presume, when you reach this part, have the whole of Emma’s situation, as far as I can give it, before you. What can be done? What must be our first step? It is easy to collect, though she was not aware how much she unfolded it, that some person, or persons, have been relating to the two young friends a tale injurious to Sir Charles Conway. What the circumstances are, and how far they are to be relied upon, are the two grand questions. If Charlotte thinks herself bound by her friend’s engagement, I would not, even to make Emma happy, endeavour to draw the smallest communication; but if she has not ratified her part of the promise, and if it was, till then, only conditional, I think it would not, in such a case, be any breach—But I dare not trust myself. I am too much interested to be a proper counsellor. Investigate and consider, my dear Mrs. Lawson, every minutiae, as well as every greater circumstance, and then determine for me according to your judgement; and, as I before said, that of your excellent sister.

 

            I need not observe that we must be careful not to convey to the young people a slight idea of a promise given. Be not, therefore, too solicitous for me; for you will believe I had much rather trust to time for relief, than receive it from one indirect measure.

 

            Excuse me that I repeat this. I am convinced of its being your own principle, but I feared your tenderness on my account might beyond, due bounds, increase your anxiety. That there is a time for all things—an occasion for every purpose, we have too often agreed in, to render my saying any more on the subject necessary.

 

            Sir Edward desires his most affectionate respects to you and Mrs. Eleanor Lawson. George is this morning gone to Hawthorn Grove, to make a stay of some days. You know what an extreme affection he has for his sister: but on the present occasion he could not, at first, forbear to resent very highly—so fervent is his friendship for Sir Charles, likewise—what he called Emma’s caprice. They were upon pretty good terms before they parted; but he is not, nor, indeed, are any of us, the least reconciled to the termination, as it at present stands, of this interesting event.

 

            How many incidents daily occur to ruffle the tranquillity of even those whom the generality of the people look up to with envy, upon a supposition that they are exempt from