LETTER XIII. Miſs HARRIOT BEAUCLERK to Miſs LOUISA MILDMAY.

O! my ſweet friend, my deareſt Louiſa, are our ſorrows never to have an end; and is every day that ſhould mitigate the ſeverity of our for⯑tune, to bring us nothing but an aggra⯑vation of diſtreſs! Your poor brother—I cannot keep it from you—was a few hours ago brought to us deſperately [2] wounded by that barbarous villain Harold, with whom he accidentally met at the Crown in Reading; and there, with more courage than diſcretion called to an account for his infamous be⯑haviour to the moſt beautiful and moſt worthy of her ſex. Piſtols were the curſed weapons they fought with, and your brother received a ſhot a little above the groin; the ball was extracted by an eminent ſurgeon at Reading, and the colonel was brought home in a litter, as the phyſicians judged it better to remove him even ſuch a number of miles, than to let him remain in any place where he could not have proper accommodations.

Your poor mother, when ſhe ſaw him borne in, fainted away, and was imme⯑diately removed to her own apartment; where, after applying the neceſſary re⯑ſtoratives, we happily recovered her; [3] ſhe then told me that this was nothing more than what ſhe expected, and that ſhe was the leſs affected at the ſhock as ſhe had rendered it continually familiar to her imagination—"Yet, Miſs Beauclerk," continued the venerable lady, ‘it is a ſevere ſtroke, though an expected one; but God's will be done.’ A large tear then rolled down her fine face, which ſhe endeavoured to reſtrain, as ſhe ſaw how much I was touched with the general misfortune; after this, ſhe ſent for the ſurgeon, and doctor, who attended the colonel, from Reading, and begged they would give her their candid opinion of his ſituation.— ‘Don't be afraid to tell me gentlemen,’ ſays ſhe, endeavouring at a ſmile; ‘for, though I have all the tenderneſs of a mother, I hope I alſo poſſeſs the reſignation of a Chriſtian.’ The gentlemen looked at one another in admiration both of her piety and her fortitude, and [4] very freely owned that the colonel was in ſome danger; but that they were ne⯑vertheleſs in hopes, if they could pre⯑vent a fever, to ſee him tolerably re⯑covered in a little time. The gentlemen then preparing to withdraw, I whiſpered the doctor to feel her own pulſe, which he did in a very reſpectful manner, and adviſed her to looſe a few ounces of blood: ſhe aſſented to the motion; and the doctor at going out gave me a look of benignity for my recollection, that indicated a goodneſs of heart in himſelf, which has raiſed him not a little in my eſtimation. After your mother had been bled, we prevailed upon her to lye down, and I left her juſt now in a ſweet doze, which I flatter myſelf will do her a world of benefit.

As my attention at your brother's firſt coming in was called off by your mo⯑ther's diſtreſs, I ſent for Butler, his Iriſh [5] ſervant, who is principally employed about his perſon, to be informed of par⯑ticulars—The poor fellow, though deep⯑ly affected for his maſter's accident, told me he ſhould ever love and honour his old maſter, for bearing up ſo like a man againſt the ſtroke of misfortune—"Madam," ſays he, ‘inſtead of ex⯑claiming, as the generality of father's would have done on ſuch an occaſion, and cenſuring the raſhneſs of his ſon, he took hold of my maſter's hand, kiſſed it with an air of inconceiveable ſatisfaction, and praiſed him for the attention which he had ſhewn to the honour of his family: the only regret he teſtified, was at hearing that the perſon who had injured his honour was not hurt in the engagement; for, had he fallen, ſays my old maſter, that would have been a great ſatisfac⯑tion—And ſo it would you know madam,’ continued the honeſt Hi⯑bernian, [6] — ‘The honour of a good family is a very nice affair; I am come of as good a family myſelf as any in Ireland, and know how to feel for ſuch a misfortune as has happened to my maſter's.’

Though I could not help ſmiling at the egotiſm of poor Butler, I nevertheleſs deſired him to anſwer my queſtions, and not teaze me with his reflections: he therefore proceeded to inform me that your father and brother were both more than ever incenſed againſt Harold, and that your brother had ſolemnly ſwore to call him to a ſecond account the moment he recovered from the pre⯑ſent accident; that your father, however, had been forced out of the room from the colonel, as talking did much injury to the latter; and that the old gentleman, upon withdrawing, ſaid ſomething about altering his will; Butler added, that [7] your brother deſired a viſit from me above all things, and he believed would requeſt a favour of that kind if he was any way better in the morning.

You conjure me by all our friendſhip, my deareſt Louiſa, to give you a minute account of every thing; to mitigate no deſcription, and to conceal no diſtreſs; I obey you, though againſt my inclina⯑nation, as I know how a ſenſibility like your's muſt be wounded by a repetition of ſome circumſtances; but my ſweet, my ever amiable friend, exert your ut⯑moſt reſolution, and prepare to meet thoſe evils with fortitude, which are impoſſible to be avoided—True mag⯑nanimity is never ſeen till the day of diſtreſs, and thoſe have naturally the nobleſt minds who make the firmeſt ſtand againſt affliction.

[8]From ſome things which have eſcaped your brother ſince I wrote the foregoing part of this letter, I have reaſon to imagine that Sir Robert Harold was not altogether ſo much in fault, in the late rencounter, as we were inclined to imagine: colonel Mildmay himſelf acknowledges, that he uſed every provocation before he could prevail upon the baronet to engage; and he even intimates, that Sir Robert was actually going to town with an intention of throwing himſelf at your feet, and imploring your forgiveneſs—If this was the caſe, it was certainly raſh in the colonel to carry matters to ſuch an ex⯑tremity; he ought to conſider that the happineſs of more people than one is dependent upon his welfare, and that the hazarding of his life may increaſe the general misfortune, but can never have the ſmalleſt tendency to remove it: but he has too nice a ſenſibility for his own eaſe, and is frequently running [9] into real ills to avoid imaginary miſ⯑fortunes. You know, my dear, my par⯑tiality for your brother; and you alſo know that, on the preſent occaſion, pru⯑dence will not allow me to give ſuch a looſe to my feelings as I ſhould naturally ſhew, were we on ſuch a footing as you have frequently wiſhed us—Perhaps, it may be ſomething of this very parti⯑ality which induces me to wiſh, that, in the courſe of the recent tranſaction, he had made uſe of a little leſs ſpirit, and a little more underſtanding. You cannot conceive, my deareſt Louiſa, how it diſtreſſes me to think of his ſituation, to find myſelf in the ſame houſe with him, and yet to be under a neceſſity of ſeeming only a friendly partaker in the common calamity—This cruel con⯑ſtraint is too much, and I pine, I ſicken, I die, for an interview with him, though I am ſenſible ſuch a circumſtance in his preſent condition muſt fill me with the [10] moſt poignant affliction; hitherto he has never ſaid a ſingle ſyllable that could furniſh a reaſonable hope of his conſi⯑dering me with any tenderneſs of pre⯑poſſeſſion; but he has nevertheleſs been ſtudious to gain my good opinion, though he has declined to ſolicit for my love; and I have a ſtrong notion that he intends to be particular the very firſt opportunity: my heart at leaſt interprets things in that ſenſe, and who knows—But my ſweet Louiſa forgive me; how could I poſſibly indulge the moſt diſtant thought of happineſs, while you are ſinking under the deepeſt diſtreſs, and while the life of the dear youth is at ſtake, on whom my whole happineſs ſo materially depends! O! Louiſa, excuſe the woman at my heart, which, in ſpite of my beſt efforts, would talk about your brother, though the ſhare which you know I partake in his danger muſt add in a very conſiderable [11] degree to your anxiety. If poſſible, I will forbear to mention him with regard, that I may avoid wounding ſo nice a part of your ſenſibility, ſince I am con⯑ſcious with what a generous concern you feel for your Harriot, and am but too apprehenſive that this concern will lead you into ſome ſelf accuſations equally injurious to the recovery of your own peace, and the ſtability of her friendſhip.

In my laſt, I told you that my mo⯑ther, upon hearing what an unexpected cloud had overcaſt the happineſs of your family, gave me permiſſion to ſtay for a few days with her dear Mrs. Mildmay, tenderly as well as wiſely conſidering, that, in the preſent ſtate of things, her venerable friend would naturally want ſomebody to ſooth the anguiſh of her mind, who was really intereſted in her diſtreſs. You cannot conceive how kind⯑ly the worthy lady, your mother, has [12] received this little inſtance of our attach⯑ment—She wept over me when I men⯑tioned my deſign to remain at Mildmay Hall till my attendance became unneceſ⯑ſary; and, ardently preſſing me to her boſom, condeſcended to kiſs my cheek, and called me her true Harriot, her other Louiſa—Ever ſince ſhe has ho⯑noured me with a more than common ſhare of her confidence; is deſirous of being alone with me upon every occa⯑ſion; and you may eaſily conjecture, my ever amiable girl, what ſubject princi⯑pally engroſſes our converſation.

Juſt this moment ſhe ſent for me to her bedſide: having been ſome minutes awake, and ſeeing my fingers marked with ink—"I ſuppoſe, my love," ſays ſhe, ‘you have been writing to poor Louiſa.’ I replied in the affirmative, and inſinuated what a conſolation it would be to you, if you were honoured [13] with her remembrance. ‘My dear Miſs Beauclerk,’ returned ſhe, ‘have not I already told you, that ſhe is ſtill my child; that ſhe even may write to me if ſhe pleaſes, and that I ſhall always conſider her unhappy fall with a much greater ſhare of pity than re⯑ſentment? To be candid with you, my obliging love,’ continued the dear lady, ‘I am more to be blamed for leaving Sir Robert Harold and Louiſa ſo frequently together, than either is for abuſing the confidence which I repoſed in their diſcretion. Young people, where they tenderly love each other, and where a day is ſet apart for their marriage, are very dangerous companions; the woman loſes all her fear, and the man all his veneration; they become inſenſibly more and more familiar, till their imaginations are intenſely heated, and their recollection totally loſt—In ſuch [14] a ſituation, the conſequence is but too obvious; the woman wakes into di⯑ſtraction, and the man into doubt or diſguſt—She trembles for his con⯑ſtancy, and he fears for her virtue; recriminations naturally enſue, and they either go to the altar with ſenti⯑ments very little calculated to preſerve their future felicity, or break off in ſuch a manner as draws a general diſgrace upon the woman and her fa⯑mily. O! Miſs Beauclerk, why did'nt I conſider this matter with propri⯑ety, when ſuch a conſideration would have been eſſential to my happineſs! Why would I expoſe the darling of my heart to dangers which it was ſcarcely poſſible for her to avoid; or enſnare the inexperience of my child with uneceſſary temptations—But, alas, becauſe ſhe was my child, I muſt fooliſhly ſuppoſe her above the reach of human infirmities, and be guilty [15] of an inattention in my own conduct, which I would have ſeverely cenſured in the mother of any body elſe. O! my ſweet Louiſa, your doating mo⯑ther's extravagant fondneſs has been the cauſe of all our calamities; and your indiſcretion was nothing more than the natural reſult of her miſtaken partiality.’

In this manner, my beautiful friend, did the generous minded lady proceed, while my tears could only teſtify the warmth of my approbation. She was pleaſed to ſee me touched; and, more than once kiſſing away the drops from my cheeks, declared ſhe was never ſorry to ſee a young lady miſerable at a ſcene of diſtreſs, becauſe thoſe only could con⯑tinue unmov'd, who were utterly deſti⯑tute of humanity and underſtanding—Your father came in about this time; and ſeeing both our eyes red, aſſigned, [16] in the fury of his reſentment, a very dif⯑ferent cauſe from the real one.— ‘What do you cry for, my dear?’ ſays he to your venerable mother, ‘If the villain, who has brought all this affliction upon our heads is not yet ſacrificed, be ſatisfied that juſtice ſhall overtake him in the end; for I have a gallant boy ſtill living, who ſhall purſue him with unceaſing vengeance till he has waſhed away the diſgrace of our family in his blood: O! had the inhoſpitable mon⯑ſter but fallen to day, how light ſhould I have made of my ſon's misfortune; but he ſhall yet feel me—By the great God of heaven and earth he ſhall; and ſo, my dear, be pacified.’

"O! Mr. Mildmay," replied your mother, ‘too much blood has been ſpilled already; and, if ſomething which I have caſually heard from Miſs Beauclerk, of Sir Robert's repentance, [17] be true, I muſt ſay that it would be much better to think of an accom⯑modation than to expoſe ourſelves to any additional ſhare of diſtreſs; lady Haverſham is an excellent woman, and I have ſtrong reaſon to imagine, that her influence will have every weight we could wiſh with the thoughtleſs young man, her brother; ſuffer me, therefore, my dear, to make an enquiry into the foundation of Miſs Beauclerk's intelligence, that if we find—’

"Find what, madam!" (interrupted your father, with an uncommon degree of vehemence) ‘You would not ſurely have the diſhonour of your family paſs unpuniſhed, nor think of receiv⯑ing a villain as your ſon-in-law, who has covered you with the moſt infa⯑mous diſgrace! Would you give your daughter to a ruffian, who has poſſibly [18] murdered your ſon; or would you baſely beg of lady Haverſham to ſpeak a good word for us to her ſcoundrel of a brother? Are we reduced at once ſo low as to kneel where we have been barbarouſly injured; and muſt we think of ſupplicating a monſter for compaſſion, whoſe hands have been equally ſteeped in our reputation and our blood? Fie, Mrs. Mildmay, fie! this is a language unworthy both of your character and your deſcent; and could I find a thought of ſo diſho⯑nourable a nature riſing in my boſom, I ſhould do inſtant juſtice on the traytor, and ſtab it to the heart.’

Your mother made no reply to this but by a ſhower of tears; which your father being utterly unable to withſtand, he flew out of the room, leaving me to give the dear lady what conſolation I could, which in fact was but very [19] trifling, as I ſtood in no little need of conſolation myſelf. Such, my ſweet friend, is the ſtate of matters at Mild⯑may Hall. Your brother, though his wounds pain him conſiderably, ſlept a full hour this evening, ſo Butler juſt now acquainted me, adding, that he and the ſurgeon were to ſit up all night with him; and aſſuring me that there ſhould be no want of attendance on ei⯑ther of their parts.—"As for myſelf," ſays Butler, ‘I ſhall have but little in⯑clination to ſleep while my poor maſter continues in any danger; and as for the ſurgeon, I will take care that he ſhall wake whenever there is the ſmalleſt neceſſity for his aſſiſtance.’ So ſaying, he gave a ſignificant look, as if he ſhould be angry with the gentleman in caſe of any neglect, and marched off to the houſekeeper for ſome old linen to cut up in bandages. You deſired me, at the concluſion of your letter, to inform [20] you, whether there is any other viſitor at the Hall—It is with pleaſure I can acquaint you that there is not. The morning after your departure, meſſen⯑gers were ſent to every body invited, but myſelf, to let them know that an unexpected circumſtance had happened, which muſt delay the wedding for ſome time; but that they ſhould receive early intelligence againſt the day of celebra⯑tion. And now, my deareſt Louiſa, let me again inſiſt that you will bear up with all your fortitude againſt the hand of adverſity—Fortune, believe me, will yet wear a propitious countenance, and we ſhall all experience a degree of happi⯑neſs in proportion to the ſeverity of our preſent diſtreſs. Your mother, my ſweet girl, on her reverend knees, with ſtream⯑ing eyes, and uplifted hands, is this moment bleſſing you; ſuch a woman's prayers to the Throne of Mercy muſt be effectual.—Providence looks with [21] delight upon all parental ſupplications; but where a parent is peculiarly diſtin⯑guiſhed for every virtue, the petition is ſanctified into a kind of claim, and is no ſooner pronounced than rewarded. Good night, ſiſter of my ſoul, my ever amiable Louiſa. By the next poſt you ſhall hear from me again, and I hope infinitely more to your ſatisfaction.

LETTER XIV. Miſs MILDMAY to her Mother.

IF I have yet delayed paying my humbleſt duty to my ever revered mama; if I have yet denied myſelf the unſpeakable ſatisfaction of approaching her by letter, it was neither from a want of the deepeſt reſpect, nor the ſtrongeſt inclination.—But, alas! covered with confuſion and diſhonour, ſinking be⯑neath a conſciouſneſs of my guilt, and knowing myſelf utterly unworthy of her ſmalleſt conſideration, I wanted courage to addreſs her; and even bluſh⯑ed at my preſumption, when I ſuppoſed it might be poſſible for her to remem⯑ber a miſerable wretch like me, with any diſtant traces of pity or affection—And, O! my mama, did you really, on your reverend knees, condeſcend to beg [23] a bleſſing for your unfortunate daughter; did you really, with ſtreaming eyes, im⯑plore the Throne of Mercy in my fa⯑vour; and extend your benignant hands to pluck down comfort on my head? Could you pray for the reſtoration of her peace who has ſo barbarouſly de⯑ſtroyed your happineſs; and wiſh a length of proſperous years to an unna⯑tural monſter, whoſe infamy has ſhorten⯑ed your own date of days, and blackened the little remnant with affliction and diſgrace?—O! madam, where ſhall I hide myſelf from this exceſs of goodneſs!—Where ſhall I take refuge from this unbounded amplitude of generoſity! The ſeverity of reproach I could have borne, becauſe it is deſerved; and I could have withſtood the ſhock of in⯑dignation, becauſe it is merited. But this aſtoniſhing tenderneſs is inſupport⯑able—it overcomes—it deſtroys me—and at this moment I am forced to [24] make a full pauſe, being unable to bear up againſt the conflict of my own heart, which is no leſs torn with the keenneſs of my gratitude, than tortured by the pungency of my remorſe.

A few drops of hartſhorn having ſomewhat relieved a faintingneſs that came over me juſt then, I now endeavour to reſume my letter, though totally at a loſs in what manner to proceed: for, alas! my dear mama, can I poſſibly mention any ſubject that will not aggra⯑vate the nature of my guilt, and add to the greatneſs of your affliction? If I aſk after my ever honoured father, the pangs with which I have filled his vene⯑rable boſom immediately occur—If I mention the beſt beloved and nobleſt of brothers, I find him weltering in blood on my account; and if I even addreſs myſelf to you, who have treated me with ſuch an infinite degree of un⯑exampled [25] generoſity, do I not find you languiſhing on the bed of ſickneſs, and drooping at the infamy of a daughter, who ſhould have been the happy ſource of your conſolation?—O! my dear mama, revoke your gracious, your ineſti⯑mable bleſſing—Renounce me—curſe me—and deteſt me; for I am deteſtable in my own eyes, and am ready to commit ſome inſtant act of deſperation, when I recollect, what ruin I have brought upon you all—What a dreadful return have I made for all your unbounded tenderneſs and affection! Yet, madam, preſumptuous as it muſt be in me to name either you, my father, or my bro⯑ther, after what has paſt, ſtill I muſt take the liberty of offering up my prayers for the recovery of your peace; ſtill muſt I pray for the re-eſtabliſhment of my brother's health, who is ſo great an ornament to the family; if the [26] goodneſs of that God, who ſees into the bottom of my afflictions, would be pleaſed to reſtore him, and to take me ſpeedily out of the world, I ſhould hope it was yet poſſible for you to be happy together, notwithſtanding the miſconduct of a guilty wretch, who is now ſo juſt an object of your contempt and deteſtation.

The good lady Haverſham, ever ſince my arrival in town, has been a conſtant viſitor at Mrs. Darnel's, and tries by every means in her power to alleviate the poignancy of my diſtreſs—She la⯑ments the behaviour of her brother with the ſincereſt concern, and has ſhewn me ſome letters from him, which give me reaſon to think he is very ſorry for it himſelf, and is deſirous of taking every poſſible ſtep to effect a reconcilia⯑tion; but that, madam, is a matter not to be thought of now—He has ſhewn [27] himſelf unworthy of being a ſon to you and my papa; and, for any thing that ſhould depend on my determination, could I gain the world by a union with him, or, what is more, could I recover my loſt peace of mind, I ſhould ſpurn him without heſitation, and think it an increaſe of my preſent infamy to retain him a moment in my remembrance—No, madam, though I have diſgraced my family by the madneſs of one guilty moment, my mind is yet incapable of a premeditated baſeneſs; and would ſcorn to vow duty and obedience, where it cannot look without an equal mixture of abhorrence and contempt. You do not know, my dear mama, how very ſcandalous a part he has acted. You do not know with how elaborate a meanneſs, with how ingenious a little⯑neſs, he has behaved in the courſe of this unfortunate tranſaction; but Miſs Beau⯑clerk, in a few days, will be able to [28] make you acquainted with the minuteſt circumſtance. I am writing out the whole melancholy ſtory at her requeſt; and I know it will give your generous boſom ſome ſatisfaction to find, that though I am guilty, I have not by any ſubſequent action rendered myſelf deſ⯑picable.

Lady Haverſham, madam, was this moment here; ſhe came to me in an abſolute ſtate of diſtraction, ſo that it was a full hour before Mrs. Darnel and I could reſtore her to any tollerable ſhare of tranquility—She had a letter in her hand directed to Mr. Melmoth, of whom you heard her brother ſpeak ſo very highly when he was down in the country. This letter, it ſeems, was a circumſtantial account of the unhappy quarrel between my brother and Sir Ro⯑bert; from which we learn, that the worthleſs man was coming after me in [29] a great hurry to London, to throw him⯑ſelf at my feet, and to implore my for⯑giveneſs for his barbarous behaviour. O! that my brother had not ſeen him at Reading; his life had then been en⯑tirely out of a danger; and I ſhould have the pleaſure at leaſt of mortifying his cruel antagoniſt with a repulſe.

The counteſs, when ſhe came a little to herſelf, entered into a long converſa⯑tion with me about the impropriety of refuſing her brother, ſince he was now brought to ſo happy a conviction of his errors, and was attached to me ſtill with ſo unabating an ardency of affection— ‘I am ſure, my dear Louiſa,’ argued ſhe, ‘notwithſtanding you have very great cauſe for being offended with him, you have not yet eraſed him from your heart; and it would, of conſequence, be puniſhing yourſelf, not to think of forgiving him in the end.’ I begged, [30] at laſt, that her ladyſhip would ſay no more on the ſubject; that it pained me exceſſively, and that I could never hear her brother's name without reflecting on my own diſgrace, and the general diſhonour of my family: ſhe then oblig⯑ingly waved the diſcourſe; but ſaid, that ſhe and Mr. Melmoth were to ſet off for Mildmay Hall in the morning; and that ſhe hoped to find you and my papa more propitious to her entreaties, than what the juſtice of my reſentment would at preſent ſuffer me to be; I then only ſaid, that I had diſobliged my papa and mama too much not to wiſh for ſome opportunity of making an at⯑tonement; but that the circumſtance ſhe hinted at was a method, which I was pretty ſure would not meet with their approbation: however, ſhe left me, after making ſome profeſſions of a nature ſo extremely generous, yet deli⯑cate, that I could not help lamenting, [31] after her departure, to find ſo very worthleſs a man as her brother engroſſed ſo great a ſhare of her affection. For my own part, I once loved him, once tenderly loved him; but why do I torture my recollection with his name; his baſeneſs has cured me of that paſſion, and I am now alive to nothing but the ſenſe of my diſhonour, and the afflictions of my family.

That theſe afflictions may be ſpeedily removed, my deareſt mama, is my in⯑ceſſant prayer; life has now no other charm but the hope of ſeeing your happineſs, the happineſs of my papa, and the happineſs of my brother, re⯑eſtabliſhed; could I once ſee theſe deſir⯑able events, I ſhould ſink contented into my grave; for, though I ſhall never know a moment's peace in this world, I ſhall not enter upon the next with any ſatisfaction, if I have but the ſmalleſt [32] cauſe to think that you remember me with regret. Do not, therefore, my ever⯑to-be-revered mama, ſuffer yourſelf to feel any uneaſineſs on my account. Do not let the recollection of a guilty creature like me prey upon your health, and render the family misfortune irre⯑parable. My dear brother, madam, de⯑ſerves all your tenderneſs; and, could a union be brought about between him and my amiable Miſs Beauclerk, ſhe would ſupply every thing which I once endeavoured to be—before I was un⯑worthy to be called your dutiful daughter,

LETTER XV. Mr. MELMOTH, to Sir ROBERT HAROLD.

YOU are certainly one of the hap⯑pieſt fellows in the world: every thing is in a fair way of being adjuſted to your wiſhes; and, before the end of ſix weeks, I am in hopes to give you joy on your marriage with the amiable Miſs Mildmay.

The moment I received your laſt let⯑ter I went to lady Haverſham with it; and you may eaſily judge how much that excellent woman was affected at the contents. Tremblingly attentive to your ſafety, it was with the greateſt dif⯑ficulty ſhe could go through your ac⯑count of the duel; and, generouſly ſen⯑ſible to the diſtreſſes of the Mildmay [34] family, ſhe felt very ſeverely for the misfortune of the colonel— ‘O! Mr. Melmoth,’ cried ſhe, ‘what muſt poor Louiſa ſuffer, what muſt the good Mrs. Mildmay ſuffer, on this ſhocking occaſion! My brother, con⯑ſcious of his guilt, ſhould have borne every thing; and yet, upon the whole, he has acted with more temper than I expected—See Sir,’ continued ſhe, ‘how wide, how general a ruin may be occaſioned by one bad action! Did young fellows conſider what a number of evils may poſſibly ſpring from the commiſſion of a ſingle crime, a moment's recollection would be ſufficient to deter them from their moſt favourite purſuits; but, alas! totally regardleſs of conſequences in the progreſs of their licentious de⯑ſigns, they think the young lady is the only perſon to be injured, without con⯑ſidering that there is a mother to die at [35] her deſtruction; and a father, or a brother, to madden at her diſgrace.’

After lady Haverſham had given way for ſome time to her emotion, I aſked her if it would not be the moſt prudent ſtep that could be taken, for her lady⯑ſhip to ſet out inſtantly to Mildmay Hall with your letter in her hand, and fairly ſhew the father and mother how little you were to be blamed in your ren⯑counter with the colonel. I obſerved, that, notwithſtanding their reſentment againſt you, they had every reaſon to treat her with the moſt unreſerved af⯑fection; and I offered my ſervice as an eſcorte, if ſhe imagined I could accom⯑pany her with any degree of propriety. The motion met her approbation, and ſhe accepted of my offer with great ſa⯑tisfaction; ſaying, that, as Miſs Mild⯑may's misfortune could not poſſibly remain a ſecret, the preſence of a man [36] ſo intimate with your family could by no means be indelicate. She, however, put off the expedition till the morning, being firſt of all deſirous to ſee Louiſa, whom ſhe had not viſited that day.—And here I muſt inform you, Harold, that your ſiſter has bought a very elegant chariot, and ſettled matters juſt as you could wiſh with Mrs. Darnel. When lady Haverſham came to that part of your letter which mentions ſuch a proviſion—it was too much for her, ſhe laid the paper down, and burſting into a flood of tears, exclaimed— ‘Why, this is well thought of Mr. Melmoth—there is ſoul in this! what pity it is that he will not be uniformly good, and take as much pains to avoid the commiſſion of an injury as he manifeſts inclination to repair it!’ —But to buſineſs.

Yeſterday morning we ſet out in a chariot and ſix for Mildmay Hall, and [37] arrived there about two o'clock, quite ſurprizing Mr. and Mrs. Mildmay, as you may naturally imagine, by our un⯑expected appearance. The old gentle⯑man at firſt carried matters very high, and ſeemed to think himſelf under a neceſſity of keeping a prodigious di⯑ſtance; but lady Haverſham, who has a degree of conſideration that equals her benignity, kindly made allowances for his behaviour; and, ſeizing him by the arm with all that candour of cordia⯑lity which generally diſarms an ill-grounded reſentment, begged of him to conſider her as a faithful friend to his family, who deeply partook in his miſ⯑fortunes, though theſe misfortunes were unhappily created by the profligacy of her brother;—"My dear Mr. Mild⯑may," expoſtulated the admirable wo⯑man, ‘I am almoſt as much to be pitied as yourſelf; you know how much my heart was in an alliance [38] with your houſe, and you alſo know how tender a friendſhip I ever enter⯑tained for the amiable Louiſa; don't therefore, inſtead of giving me conſo⯑lation, add ungenerouſly to my diſtreſs; but conſider me as a perſon deeply ſen⯑ſible of all your wrongs; and warmly animated with all your reſentments. The author of the preſent calamity is my brother; but I am ſure you can⯑not think me the ſiſter of his crime; nor imagine, that, becauſe I am allied to him in blood, I muſt likewiſe be allied to the guilty part of his charac⯑ter. Look at me, I beſeech you, with complacency; and tell me that my preſence is not unwelcome in the country.’

This addreſs there was no poſſibility of reſiſting—Mr. Mildmay's heart was melted; and, in ſpite of all his pride, he took hold of her hand with an air of [39] the greateſt reſpect, held it to his lips, and endeavoured to make an apology—A riſing flood of grief, however, choak⯑ed the paſſage of his words; he broke into a ſob of inexpreſſible affliction; and haſtily retired out of the room. You know, Harold, how readily the mother, as you call it, comes into my eyes; you know, beſides, that I am twenty good years older than you, and have been once a father. I could not, therefore, ſtand the exceſs of poor Mr. Mildmay's emotion; my handkerchief was out in an inſtant, and, notwithſtand⯑ing my utmoſt efforts, to ſuppreſs my concern, I blubbered ſo heartily as to be under a neceſſity of retiring alſo, unac⯑quainted as I was with the houſe, and ridiculous as I muſt have made myſelf to the ſervants. As to Mrs. Mildmay, nothing can be more tender or affecting than the reception of your ſiſter.—The two ladies, at their firſt meeting, remain⯑ed [40] claſped for ſome moments in each other's arms, each unable to ſpeak a ſyllable, and both giving a very copious freedom to their tears.

When we had all a little recovered ourſelves, and taken a diſh of chocolate, lady Haverſham, with her uſual delicacy, began to enter upon the buſineſs of her journey; lamenting the colonel's wound, in terms the moſt friendly; and hoping that the unfortunate affair at Reading would not prevent the poſſibility of a reconciliation between the two families: ſhe then ſet forth your extreme contri⯑tion for the part you had acted by Louiſa; and inſinuated that ſhe had a letter from you in her pocket, which, if Mr. Mildmay would take the trouble of reading, ſhe was certain, would, in ſome meaſure, leſſen the ſeverity of his preſent indignation. Mr. Mildmay up⯑on this took fire; ſwearing, with great [41] vehemence, that, ſo far from conſenting to a reconciliation, he never would en⯑joy a moment's peace of mind till you were ſacrificed to his vengeance; and, that, if he but knew where you were then concealed, he would himſelf, old as he was, call you to an inſtant account for murdering the reputation of his family.

This was a ſally of paſſion which we naturally expected, and therefore did not once interrupt him, till it was en⯑tirely exhauſted; lady Haverſham then reſumed the ſubject, and begged of him to conſider, that ſhe was now talking as much for the ſake of his happineſs, as for the happineſs of her brother.—"Indeed, my dear Mr. Mildmay," con⯑tinued ſhe, ‘if I was not ſenſible that the preſent calamity, under which we all labour, requires great allowances, I ſhould be apt to think you almoſt [42] as culpable as my brother himſelf. Does it follow, becauſe he has groſsly injured the honour of your houſe, that you yourſelf ſhould do it ſtill greater injuries? or can it admit of a mo⯑ment's debate which is the moſt proper courſe to follow—that which will re⯑cover the tranquility of your family, or that which will expoſe it to an additional diſtreſs?’

‘If calling my brother to an ac⯑count for his miſbehaviour, could be attended with any advantages, I ſhould not wonder ſo greatly at your reſent⯑ment; but when to do that, as has been already unhappily the caſe, the ſafety of a dear and deſerving ſon muſt be hazarded; and when, even if he ſhould kill his antagoniſt, he muſt forfeit his own life to the violated laws of his country—I ſay, when theſe things are conſidered; and when it is [43] moreover recollected, that, though the lenity of the laws ſhould ſpare the life of your ſon, it can by no means re⯑ſtore your peace; I am in hopes that your own good ſenſe will induce you to abate the warmth of your indigna⯑tion, and that you will prefer a cer⯑tain felicity to a precarious revenge—Juſtice, you ſee, by the colonel's un⯑fortunate wound, may ſometimes be unattended with ſucceſs; and ſhould you ſtill proſecute a quarrel with a man who deſires, who ſupplicates, who implores to make every reparation that can be made; the world will think your reſentment carried to an unrea⯑ſonable length, and be apt even to rejoice ſhould you meet with any new calamity.’

‘To the arguments which I have already offered, my dear Mr. Mild⯑may, I have another very forcible [44] plea to add, which I am ſure muſt operate on your tenderneſs, as a huſ⯑band; and upon your juſtice, as a man:—Turn, Sir, to this venerable, this excellent woman, the companion of your youth, the partner of your ſor⯑rows, the poſſeſſor of your heart—ſee where ſhe is, ſinking under the ſtern⯑neſs of your reſolution, and bleeding with an apprehenſion of future miſ⯑fortunes, as well as with a ſenſibility of the preſent diſtreſs—She, Sir, has a mother's claim in the ſon, whoſe life you are ſo willing to expoſe. Do not drive her into abſolute diſtraction—Her anguiſh is already exceſſive, and her death muſt be inevitable, if you think of waſhing away her daughter's ſtain with nothing but the blood of her ſon. On my knees, therefore, Mr. Mildmay,’ and down the wonderful woman dropped, ‘let me beg of you to think of a recon⯑ciliation. [45] —My brother is deeply wounded by the conſciouſneſs of his own guilt; and will, I am certain, from motives of gratitude, as well as affection, make a good ſon, and a deſerving huſband. Do not, my dear Mr. Mildmay, becauſe one affliction has interrupted your happineſs, raſh⯑ly devote yourſelf to wretchedneſs for life; but rather ſeize the beſt means of diſpelling the cloud which at pre⯑ſent overcaſts your peace; and en⯑deavour at recovering the genial ſun⯑ſhine of that tranquility which has been ſo recently and ſo fatally loſt.’

Mr. Mildmay (who all the time of your ſiſter's kneeling, in vain attempted to raiſe her up) ſeemed greatly ſtruck with what ſhe ſaid; but, though his reaſon was convinced, his pride never⯑theleſs held an obſtinate ſtruggle, and he ſeveral times attempted to quit the [46] room—Lady Haverſham and I as often prevented him from going out; we pre⯑vailed upon him with difficulty, to hear the principal part of your letter read; and Mrs. Mildmay herſelf kneeling to him, and in very pathetic terms requeſt⯑ing him to oblige lady Haverſham, he was at laſt overcome, and conſented that you might be ſent for as ſoon as we pleaſed, deſiring only that the ceremony might be delayed till the recovery of the colonel.

When we had thus ſettled the mate⯑rial affair, our converſation naturally turned upon the colonel's caſe, and the abilities of his attendants.—Mr. Mild⯑may ſaid, that, though the wound at firſt appeared extremely dangerous, as it was very near the groin; neverthe⯑leſs, the ſurgeons now told him, that there was but little doubt of a fine cure, provided he eſcaped a fever— [47] "And this" ſaid the old gentleman, ‘I am no way uneaſy about, as the wea⯑ther is very cold and his pulſe ſo very temperate: but,’ added he, ‘ſuppoſe you go and ſee him; there is nobody with him but Miſs Beauclerk: and he had ſo fine a morning's ſleep that we ſhan't in the leaſt fatigue him with our company.’ We accordingly went; and were received, as I expected, with great coldneſs, though with great civi⯑lity—The ſight of people ſo very near to you naturally hurting that impatience which we all labour under where we have received any thing which looks like a diſgrace. Lady Haverſham, how⯑ever, went up to him as if ſhe had been his ſiſter; and expreſſed her concern for the cauſe of his misfortune, with ſo un⯑affected an air of cordiality as reconciled him a little to his viſitors. We then acquainted him with the buſineſs of our journey, talked matters over again, and [48] read all your letter but that part where the proviſion for his ſiſter is mentioned: he was extremely attentive to your ac⯑count of the duel, and begged more than once to hear a repetition of ſome particular paſſages. When I had done, he pauſed a little, and ſaid, you were very exact in the relation; and that, had he imagined you were actuated by a ſincere concern for your indiſcretion, and were really going up to town with a view of entreating Louiſa's forgiveneſs, he would not have been ſo raſh: "But," ſays he, ‘my heart was in the match—and to find every thing broken off while I was flattering my imagination with the happineſs my family was to poſſes—to find the rupture alſo ſo diſhonourable to us; and to think that a ſiſter, who was my principal pride, ſhould be guilty of ſuch a crime, made me abſolutely mad; ſo that I almoſt wonder how I refrained from [49] ſhooting Sir Robert through the head before I even offered him the choice of a piſtol.’

Notwithſtanding the colonel's ſeem⯑ing frankneſs, I could eaſily ſee he was ſecretly diſſatisfied that he had not been conſulted by his father in the concluſion of our accommodation. When the old gentlemen told him what he had con⯑ſented to, he was extremely grave, and obſerved, ‘That to be ſure it was better to ſettle matters any how, than to think of going farther with family reſentments.’ The tone and look with which he delivered this were viſi⯑bly ſarcaſtic; and I could, however, rea⯑dily perceive he ſomewhat diſconcerted his father. We took no notice of the expreſſion, however; lady Haverſham thinking with me, that thoſe may be allowed to complain a little who feel a great deal. Dinner being ready by this [50] time, we took our leave of the colonel, and ſat down in a very ſociable manner to a very good repaſt. Your ſiſter was all life; and Mrs. Mildmay, who has been a very fine woman, was animated with a chearfulneſs that really filled me with pleaſure; as, from the character lady Haverſham gave me of her worth, I could not but ſhare very ſenſibly in her afflictions.

In ſhort, we were all extremely happy but Miſs Beauclerk. This young lady, who ought to be the gayeſt perſon in company, was remarkably thoughtful and reſerved; ſhe ſcarcely touched a morſel of any thing, and even more than once let a ſigh eſcape her pretty audible: ſhe is a very fine girl indeed, Harold; and, if ſhe is but half as good as ſhe is hand⯑ſome, it would be ten thouſand pities that any thing ſhould give her the leaſt uneaſineſs. You cannot conceive how [51] exceſſively I am taken with her—there is ſo much real good ſenſe, ſo much genuine delicacy, and ſo much true be⯑nevolence in every word and action, that was it poſſible for me ever to marry a ſecond time, or poſſible for her to look on ſuch an old fellow, I really believe ſhe would be the woman in the world whom I ſhould firſt think of—but what have I do with the ſex! In my youth I loſt the woman of my heart—When I laſt ſaw her ſhe was juſt ſuch another young creature as this Miſs Beauclerk; all beauty and beneficence, all ſenſibility and love: Miſs Beauclerk has in fact her very form, her very face, the ſame irreſiſtable ſweetneſs of voice, and ele⯑gance of manner which once diſtinguiſh⯑ed my Nancy; and which, though long ſince buried in the grave, have been con⯑tinually preſent to my imagination. Be good natured, Harold, and bear with me a little on this tender ſubject—You [52] know I ſeldom break out, and therefore may now and then be entitled to a little indulgence, eſpecially as I am always ſo ready to put up with your everlaſting impertinence.

The ladies retiring a little after dinner, and leaving Mr. Mildmay and I to chat over a bottle of Burgundy, I took the liberty to make ſome enquiry about Miſs Beauclerk, aſſuring the old gentleman that I was ſtrongly prepoſſeſſ⯑ed in her favour.— ‘Why truly, Mr. Melmoth,’ returned he, ‘I don't know a ſweeter, better tempered girl in the world than this young lady; my Louiſa and ſhe contracted an in⯑timacy at the boarding ſchool, when they were both very young, and have ever ſince been remarkably diſtinguiſh⯑ed for the cloſeneſs of their friend⯑ſhip; the one never knowing joy or a ſorrow in which the other did not [53] immediately enhance the ſatisfaction, or mitigate the diſtreſs. I am ſure, in the late unhappy affair, my daughter's misfortune affected Miſs Beauclerk as cloſely as if Louiſa had actually been her ſiſter—During the time of her being here, ſhe has applied her⯑ſelf with ſuch aſſiduity to comfort and take care of my poor wife, that I conſider her as a principal inſtrument in Mrs. Mildmay's preſervation—Her mother, Sir, loſt her huſband while Harriot was yet an infant at the breaſt; he died it ſeems in the Eaſt-Indies, and left the good lady in ſuch very ſlender circumſtances, that, had not a relation of her own, who died alſo about the ſame time, left her a fortune of 20000l. in the funds, ſhe muſt have gone into ſome little way of buſineſs for the maintenance of herſelf and her daughter. Upon the intereſt of this ſum ſhe keeps a carriage, and [54] has a moſt delightful retirement about thirty miles off—What is extremely re⯑markable, is, that, though ſhe was not much above twenty when her huſband died, and when ſhe came into poſſeſ⯑ſion of this fortune, yet, ſo far from acting like the generality of women, and liſtening to the addreſſes of every coxcomb who might have deſigns either upon her perſon or her purſe, ſhe retired immediately from London to the ſpot I have been ſpeaking of, and there continued ever ſince, con⯑fining her viſits within a very narrow circle, and dedicating her attention to the education of her daughter. Within a mile of her houſe my Louiſa was at ſchool when a child; and the inti⯑macy between the little ones naturally creating an acquaintance between the parents, Mrs. Beauclerk and our fa⯑mily have been upon the moſt unre⯑ſerved footing of friendſhip theſe [55] ſixteen years; and, I dare ſay, ſhall continue in friendſhip till the end of our lives, as there is but one circum⯑ſtance which can poſſibly diſturb the harmony of our correſpondence.’

As it would have been extremely rude in a ſtranger to aſk what this cir⯑cumſtance was, I did not interrupt Mr. Mildmay; nevertheleſs I was lucky enough, in the naturally communicative⯑neſs of his temper, to have my curioſity gratified; his heart was now open, and he conſidered me as a good natured friendly man who might be truſted with a ſecret; drawing his chair therefore cloſer to mine, and lowering his voice, he proceeded to unboſom himſelf to the following purport.

‘You muſt know, Mr. Melmoth, that, during the intimacy between Mrs. Beauclerk's family and mine, I have [56] diſcovered that my ſon entertains very favourable ſentiments of her daugh⯑ter; and between ourſelves I can ſee plainly enough that her daughter is no way diſinclined to my ſon. I have been a young fellow myſelf, Mr. Mel⯑moth; and, in my time—you under⯑ſtand me—but that is nothing to the purpoſe—As I was ſaying, this mu⯑tual good opinion between Harry and Miſs Beauclerk, is a thing which gives me no little uneaſineſs—the young lady to be ſure poſſeſſes a very high place in my eſteem, and I don't know a woman in the kingdom whom I ſhould be better pleaſed to have for a daughter; but the misfortune is ſhe does not carry ſufficient weight of metal, and I have ſome family views in my head, which, though I am pretty well in the world, require a conſidera⯑ble addition of fortune. My houſe, Mr. Melmoth, is a very antient one; [57] there have been more than two peer⯑ages in it; and I have myſelf ſome expectation of a title. Now, Sir, as the ſupport of ſuch a dignity cannot allow me to marry my ſon to a woman of little fortune; on this account I am greatly concerned that any ſecret correſpondence ſhould be carried on between him and Miſs Beauclerk. I ſhould be very ſorry to oppoſe his inclinations, or to wound her ſenſibi⯑lity; but you know the raiſing of one's family is a very eſſential point; and that, ridiculous as a coronet may appear to ſome people, it is never⯑theleſs entitled to priviledges, which are far from being diſagreeable—This is not all—a noble lord in the neigh⯑bourhood, who is able to give his daughter a prodigious ſum of money, has lately intimated, a deſire of unit⯑ing his family with mine; and I think ſo very well of the affair, that I [58] mentioned it yeſterday to my ſon, when I found him launching out into ſome paſſionate encomiums on Miſs Beauclerk.’ —Mr. Mildmay pauſing in this place, I could not help obſerv⯑ing, that, though the plan which was thus laid down for the aggrandization of his family, might in itſelf be ex⯑tremely right, nevertheleſs, if his ſon entertained a cordial affection for the young lady, the poſſeſſion of her hand might be more conducive to his happi⯑neſs than the poſſeſſion of a title; and that therefore it might be difficult to make him ſacrifice the intereſt of his heart even to gratify the laudable am⯑bition of his father—But the old gen⯑tleman ſtopped me ſhort, by declaring, He believed the colonel would do any thing to oblige him. "However," ſays he, ‘if I ſhould be unhappily diſap⯑pointed of his obedience in the matter we have been talking of, I know how [59] to puniſh his obſtinacy when I come to diſpoſe of my fortune.’ Here our converſation ended, for the ladies com⯑ing in we were obliged to talk of ſome⯑thing elſe; though I ſhould have told you, that Mr. Mildmay more than once inſinuated a fear, that his lady ſecretly approved of the paſſion ſubſiſting be⯑tween Miſs Beauclerk and the colonel.

I could moralize in this place, Sir Robert, on the prepoſterous behaviour of thoſe fathers who are willing to give their children every thing but happineſs. Reflections of this nature, however, are too common to be uſeful; and it would be juſt as new to tell you, that the parts of a day conſiſt of twenty-four hours, as to tell you that the very fondneſs of ſuch fathers is the moſt in⯑ſupportable of all tyrannies. Poor Miſs Beauclerk—and is the tawdry gewgaw of a coronet to be put in competition [60] with the charms of exalted virtue, elevat⯑ed ſenſe, and ſweetneſs ineffable! But love would be too exquiſite an enjoyment, Harold, had not Providence wiſely thrown theſe bars in our way, and tem⯑pered the inexpreſſible raptures which it beſtows with ſome occaſional mixtures of infelicity.

Lady Haverſham juſt now called me aſide, and hinted that ſhe had ſpoken to Mrs. Mildmay relative to ſome ex⯑preſſions which Louiſa had dropped in your ſiſter's laſt interview with her, in⯑dicating the moſt poſitive determination of never ſeeing you more. Mrs. Mild⯑may is to write to her on this ſubject, and therefore ſhe can but little doubt of Louiſa's altering her determination; the reſolution of her family in your favour was the principal point to gain; and ſince we could work upon their pride, there can be no doubt of influencing [61] her ſenſibility. A woman, Harold, can forgive every thing where ſhe really loves; the ladies have a ſoftneſs about them which turns even contempt into kindneſs, and gives the tenderneſs of their hearts a conſtant ſuperiority over the goodneſs of their underſtandings. I ſhould be ſorry, however, that all cox⯑combs were for reducing this precept into practice; as we have already but too many fools among the fair who are deſirous of ſtamping their weakneſs with the immediate image of deſtiny, and ſo⯑licitous to call that an abſolute decree of fate which ariſes from their own appa⯑rent want of reſolution.

I have been this moment at a conſul⯑tation of colonel Mildmay's ſurgeons, and have the very great pleaſure of in⯑forming you that he is entirely out of danger.—You may therefore, by the next Helvoetſluys packet, make a trip [62] to Harwich, ſince at the utmoſt it can't be above twelve hours from Rotterdam to Helvoet. If you ſhould ſtop at the Hague, pray call at Fitzpatrick's in the Hoogſtraat; who is as modeſt, as ſenſi⯑ble, and as well behaved a man as I ever ſaw at the head of a tavern; and who, without mentioning any body's name, will treat you with the utmoſt civility: if you know the man already my cha⯑racter will be needleſs; if you do not, you will find a very good houſe, and ſo far be obliged to me for this accommo⯑dation.

As we have done our buſineſs at Mildmay Hall, your ſiſter and I ſhall ſet out for London, in order to wait upon Louiſa, and acquaint her with the determination of her father. Mrs. Mild⯑may has a letter to ſend by us to her daughter, which will put a finiſhing hand to the reconciliation; ſo that, Bob, you [63] may look upon the whole affair as con⯑cluded to your wiſh; yet it is ten to one that, now happineſs is again within your reach, but what you ſtrive to ſtart difficulties, and endeavour to deſtroy all that lady Haverſham and I have been labouring to bring about with ſuch an unremitting degree of fedulity.

Take care, however, dear Harold, how you act at this time; and do not idly play the prodigal with your own happineſs—Youth can never excuſe a bad action, though it may extenuate the indiſcretion of a fooliſh one; and the man who is twice guilty of the ſame crime, is in much more danger of mak⯑ing himſelf abhorred, than in rendering others wretched or contemptible; take the hint therefore, Bob, and believe me, with the utmoſt cordiality,

LETTER XVI. Mr. MELMOTH, in Continuation, to Sir ROBERT HAROLD.

IF you have not yet ſet out from Rot⯑terdam, you may as well continue where you are, or go to any other part of the continent which is beſt adapted to your inclination; England is not a place which I would have you return to yet awhile, if you really love Miſs Mildmay, and would be concerned to find her actually allied to infamy and proſtitu⯑tion.

Your ſiſter and I arrived in town this morning; and, unable to contain the ſa⯑tisfaction with which our boſoms na⯑turally ſwelled at your approaching feli⯑city; [65] we immediately drove to Louiſa's, with a view of diſpelling her unhappi⯑neſs, by acquainting her with the for⯑tunate reconciliation effected between her and her family—But judge our aſtoniſhment, when, inſtead of meeting with her, Mrs. Darnel came down ſtairs with an air of the utmoſt affliction, and informed us that Miſs Mildmay had eloped in a poſt-chaiſe and ſix, with a gentleman richly dreſſed, the preceding evening— ‘Having no authority to watch her motions,’ ſaid Mrs. Darnel, ‘and imagining from her ſpecious air of penitence, if I even had, that every attention of that nature would be ut⯑terly unneceſſary, I went to hear a lecture at our pariſh-church after tea, never once dreaming that during my abſence ſhe would think of running away from a houſe into which ſhe had entered a voluntary viſitor, and in which there was no likelihood of her [66] receiving the ſmalleſt diſguſt—You may, however, eaſily gueſs my con⯑ſternation, when my maid Jenny, the moment I came home, ran up and in⯑formed me that Miſs Mildmay had gone off with a gentleman in a poſt⯑chaiſe. I naturally concluded, that, had it been any relation, I ſhould have received ſome notice of her intended departure; and therefore, as ſhe went away in ſo unaccountable a manner, I as naturally aſcribed her flight to ſome preconcerted deſign; eſpecially as Jenny informed me, that a gentleman in brown and gold had for two or three nights been ſeen to hang about the houſe, and to peep in at the windows with a degree of breed⯑ing much below the elegance of his appearance—Notwithſtanding theſe unpromiſing accounts, I nevertheleſs ſat up till four o'clock, rather hoping than expecting the unfortunate young [67] lady's return; but, alas! I might have ſat up till this moment, without reap⯑ing the leaſt advantage from my anxiety or my fatigue; ſhe never once approached the houſe, and which way ſhe has gone I am by no means able to conjecture.’

And this, Sir Robert, is the end of all our expectations. For my own part, ſtrenuouſly ſolicitous as I was but a few hours ago in her favour, I now ſincerely congratulate with you on your fortunate eſcape; I now begin to think you were right in rejecting her from the firſt, and am perfectly ſatisfied that the error, which I thought the effect of her partiality for you, was nothing more than the reſult of her own conſtitution. Lady Haverſham, however, will not ſub⯑ſcribe to my opinion of her levity, tho' ſhe knows not any cauſe to which [68] her elopement can be ſo probably attri⯑buted—Nevertheleſs, ſhe thinks all enquiry after her needleſs; and almoſt wiſhes that ſhe had not taken the journey into Oxfordſhire— ‘For this new diſappointment, Mr. Melmoth,’ ſays ſhe, ‘will come with additional weight upon her family; and, if it does not entirely kill the poor mother, it will certainly drive her diſtracted.’

Mrs. Darnel, who appears to be a decent well behaved woman, notwith⯑ſtanding your ſuſpicions, is to ſend down an account of Louiſa's elopement to Mildmay Hall. What conſequences it may produce there I know not; but of this I am certain, that you have every reaſon in nature to be happy in the timely diſcovery of her levity—Had ſuch a diſ⯑covery been made after your marriage with her, I ſuppoſe the reſult would [69] have been her immediate death, and your certain execution—You would have ſacrificed her inſtantly to your fury; and your life would have been the penalty of your raſhneſs. Return thanks, there⯑fore, to Providence for having ſuch a fortunate eſcape, and do not meanly re⯑gret the loſs of a woman whom you know to be guilty, when you could ſo readily give her up at a time that you thought her innocence, in a manner, un⯑queſtionable. But you ſee, Harold, that innocence, like contrition, may be eaſily affected; and that thoſe may ſeem the moſt ſtrenuous votaries of virtue, who are in fact the leaſt unhappy at its loſs.

If any thing new ſhould occur before you think of returning home, you need not doubt of my readineſs to commu⯑nicate it. Lady Haverſham is extreme⯑ly affected with Louiſa's behaviour, but [70] attempts very little, if any thing, in her defence; ſhe ſends her beſt wiſhes to you by this letter; and deſires me to aſſure you, that ſhe is as much your affectionate ſiſter as I am

LETTER XVII. Miſs HARRIOT BEAUCLERK to her Mother.

A DISTRESS of a more piercing nature than ever has fallen upon this unhappy family. You will ſcarcely conceive, and I have ſcarcely power to inform you; but my wretched friend Miſs Mildmay, while lady Haverſham was down here, as I told you in my laſt letter, ſettling every thing to our wiſhes, and reſtoring every body to peace, eloped from Mrs. Darnel's, in London, with a ſtrange gentleman, in a chariot and ſix, while her couſin was at church; and where ſhe is gone there is no likelihood of diſcovering; Mrs. Darnel's account of this affair reached us this morning; [72] and from the pain which I know your own worthy heart will feel on this melan⯑choly occaſion, you may eaſily imagine what an effect it had on her poor father and mother; upon her brother and my⯑ſelf. I would, if poſſible, have kept it from the colonel, as I thought the know⯑ledge of ſo fatal an accident might ma⯑terially retard his recovery—But Mr. Mildmay's rage was too violent, and the venerable lady's anguiſh too exceſſive, to admit of ſuch a ſalutary ſecrecy; ſo that, in leſs than five minutes, he was made acquainted with the minuteſt cir⯑cumſtances; and the agitation of his mind has been ſo prodigious ever ſince, that his phyſicians begin to be appre⯑henſive about the conſequences.

Indeed, my dear mama, I am, inexpreſ⯑ſibly wretched from the part which I am to act in the general calamity—every body turns to me for conſolation,— [73] when my own boſom is torn with a thouſand diſtreſſes—and expects that I ſhould be able to adminiſter comfort, when I am equally, if not more, miſera⯑ble myſelf. You, my deareſt mama, muſt ſooth my afflictions—You muſt enable me, by the magnanimity of your example, and the wiſdom of your advice, to bear up againſt this unexpected ſtroke of misfortune, which now falls on me with an aggravated heavineſs, as it comes in the hour of my utmoſt ſecurity, and invades me in the moſt unſuſpecting moment of my hopes—I was feaſting my imagination, madam, with number⯑leſs proſpects of future felicity; and preparing my heart for nothing but hap⯑pineſs and you—When, alas! the golden ſcene is inſtantly raviſhed from my eyes, and the whole void as inſtantly filled up with diſappointment and deſpair.

[74]When I conſider this unaccountable ſtep of Louiſa's, I am loſt in perplexity and doubt—Mrs. Darnel's letter ac⯑quaints us that ſhe went away of her own accord; that ſhe was not carried off by force, but that ſhe abſolutely eloped; and the maid even deſcribes the gentle⯑man with whom ſhe went, as a tall handſome man, dreſt in brown, richly laced with gold; ſhe ſays alſo, that he was a very fair man, and wore a bob wig. All this is mighty odd—I have known her from her infancy up; have ſhared every ſecret of her heart, and never conceived that ſhe entertained the leaſt affection for any body but Sir Robert Harold—Him it cannot be, as by Mr. Melmoth's account he ſet out for Holland the moment after the unhappy duel between him and the colonel; and beſides, he has a com⯑plexion remarkably black, and wears his own hair. When I put all theſe [75] things together, my dear mama, I am aſtoniſhed—Louiſa would hardly go off with a man for whom ſhe felt no affec⯑tion; and the whole tenor of her life has been ſo generouſly frank, and open; and ſo repugnant to every thing like hypocriſy or artifice; that I could ſtake my exiſtence Sir Robert is the only man for whom ſhe cheriſhed a favourable ſentiment—Beſides, madam, if you were to ſee the letter which ſhe ſent her mother, you would be ſatisfied, that, notwithſtanding her unhappy lapſe with that gentleman, ſhe is infinitely above the appearance of diſſimulation—Her error is there acknowleged in ſuch forcible terms; and lamented with ſuch a ſenſe of unextenuating penitence, that her faults almoſt render her amiable, and the only emotions which we feel are thoſe of pity and admiration.

[76]For theſe reaſons, I am poſitive my amiable friend can be no way depraved in her principles; yet, on the other hand, Mrs. Darnel is a woman of known ſobriety and character; is re⯑ceived among people of the firſt diſtinc⯑tion, in conſequence of her good beha⯑viour; and ſhe mentions Louiſa's elope⯑ment with ſo poſitive a degree of cer⯑tainty, that there can be no poſſibility of diſputing the fact—God grant that this contradiction may be happily reconciled. My own ſoul is not dearer in my eſti⯑mation than the happineſs of Miſs Mild⯑may; and I don't know that I could be able to ſurvive any inſtance of her pre⯑mediated unworthineſs—Premeditated unworthineſs! No, my ever amiable Louiſa, you are incapable of a deliberate guilt; and the bare ſuppoſition was a blaſphemy againſt the purity of our mutual affection—The heart which can queſtion the virtue of a friend till it [77] argues upon abſolute conviction, is a traitor to the cauſe of amity; the moſt alarming appearance ſhould never ſhake the confidence of our friendſhip; and though, in every thing elſe, a nice combination of accidents may juſtify a doubt, yet here we ought never to heſi⯑tate upon circumſtances, nor to leſſen in our regards till conjecture is evidently loſt, in certainty.

Theſe arguments, my dear mama, I have repeatedly urged in the preſent ſtate of things to the good Mrs. Mild⯑may—But ſhe ſhakes her head when I want her to reduce the precept into practice; and, while the large drops courſe one another down her venerable cheeks, ſhe tells me the ſentiment ſounds prettily enough upon the ear, but is little calculated to convince the underſtand⯑ing. I wiſh, my dear mama, you could come over to us; there never was a [] greater neceſſity for your ſupporting preſence than now—Mrs. Mildmay ſeems in a very declining way, and her ſituation alarms me the more ſtrongly, as ſhe does every thing in her power to put on an air of the utmoſt compoſure and ſerenity.

As you, my dear mama, are one of thoſe excellent women who bring up a daughter rather in a ſtate of reſpectful familiarity with you, than endeavour to eſtabliſh an authority by keeping her in a diſtant degree of abject ſubjection—As you are generous enough to receive thoſe inſtances of confidence as a favour which you can command as a right, and can blend all the tenderneſs of the parent with all the freedom of the friend, I am enabled to talk to you on a ſubject which few young women ever care to mention to a mother, though a mother's [79] ear is the propereſt by much for a buſi⯑neſs of ſuch importance.

You have often, my dear madam, kindly hinted your apprehenſion, that the merits of colonel Mildmay were making too deep an impreſſion on my heart; and that I ſhould by all means reſiſt every impulſe of a tender nature, in his favour, as there was but too much reaſon to apprehend that the diſ⯑parity of our fortunes would be a ma⯑terial bar to our union, notwithſtanding the harmony ſubſiſting ſo long between our two families. Your advice, my ever honoured mama, I was convinced was perfectly juſt; nevertheleſs—but why ſhould I think of concealing any thing from my beſt friend—from the only perſon in the world who by nature and inclination muſt be the readieſt to re⯑joice at my felicity, or to participate in my diſtreſs—Yes, madam, I muſt own, [80] in ſpite of all your judicious precau⯑tions, my heart was inſenſibly engaged, and I loved before I was aware that the colonel had any other place in my affections, than what was due to the bro⯑ther of Louiſa—You, madam, I am ſure, muſt have ſeen, upon ſeveral occa⯑ſions, what an awkward conſtraint I have laboured under when I have been in his company—Your penetration could not be eluded, though I then fondly thought nobody could ſee into my ſentiments, and piqued myſelf upon the addreſs with which I behaved in ſo very critical a ſituation.

Indeed, the reſpectful tenderneſs with which the colonel all along treated me, contributed not a little to raiſe him in my eſteem—Upon a thouſand little oc⯑caſions he gave me proof of his good opinion, though he never made me the moſt diſtant tendre of his heart; but [81] judging of his ſentiments by my own; or poſſibly believing, becauſe I wiſhed it might be ſo, that he really ſaw me with more than a common degree of friend⯑ſhip; I ſuffered the flame imperceptibly to ſpread, and was ſolicitous only of concealing my weakneſs from his obſer⯑vation; but matters, madam, have, at laſt, come to ſomething of a criſis, and I have the ſatisfaction of knowing that my tenderneſs is at leaſt returned, whether I am ever bleſt with the object of it or not.

The ſecond day after the colonel's coming down wounded, before he was yet pronounced out of danger, he ſent his compliments to me, and begged I would favour him with a viſit, as he had ſomething of importance to acquaint me with. The light in which I was conſider⯑ed by every body in the family, joined to the nature of his ſituation, would [82] have made it affectation to the laſt de⯑gree, had I not immediately complied with his requeſt—I therefore went, and the attendants being ordered out of the room, he begged of me to ſeat myſelf cloſe to the bedſide; where, taking hold of my hand, and deſiring I would not be offended at what he was going to ſay, he went on to the following purport.

O! mama, what a mind has this man!—Here, however, he was obliged to reſt himſelf a little, while the only reply I could make was with my tears.

After a pauſe of ſome moments, he reſumed the affecting ſubject, and thus continued his diſcourſe— ‘I do not now, my ever adorable Miſs Beauclerk, meanly intend, by an addreſs to your generoſity, to make any intereſt with your heart—Your eſteem I ſhould be proud of poſſeſſing; but thus hover⯑ing, as I may ſay, on the verge of eternity, I ſhould be ſorry, for your own ſake, was I honoured with your love—May that, madam, be reſerved for ſome fortunate man, whoſe merits are ſufficient to juſtify your choice, and whoſe ſituation will not create any [86] impediments in the road of your hap⯑pineſs.—Had I been deſtined for ſuch a bleſſing!—but why do I harrow up my own reflection, or wound your ſenſibility—I know the ineffable ſweetneſs of that temper, and have ſeen numberleſs occaſions where a tale of calamity has deluged it in tears.—From an ungenerous lamenta⯑tion, I ſhall therefore proceed to buſi⯑neſs; and, if I can but gain your ac⯑quieſcence to a laſt requeſt, the hand of death will lye light upon my brows, and I ſhall go out of the world in a comparative ſtate of content.’

O! my dear mama, how I trembled at the ſolemnity, the tenderneſs of his manner—the dangerous extremity to which I ſaw him reduced. In ſhort, as he himſelf phraſed it, very happily the diſtreſſes of his mind, and the anguiſh of his wound, intereſted me ſo much in [87] his favour, that I never thought of interrupting him; but continued one paſſive hand all the time in his, the other being employed in holding up my hand⯑kerchief to my eyes, which were by this time quite red, and ſwollen with my emotion—After another pauſe to re⯑cover ſtrength he thus went on.

O! good God, my dear mama, it was his will, his—will—had the uni⯑verſe been offered me I could not touch it—my ſenſibility now became audible

I quite ſobbed, yet, ſcarcely knowing what I did, I diſengaged my hand from his, and, falling down upon my knees by the bed-ſide, cried out, ‘O ſpare me, Sir,—ſpare me—this is too much—indeed it is.’ —At the ſame time ſinking my face upon the bed cloaths, wholly unable to look up, as if I was conſcious of ſome manifeſt impropriety—To be ſure, madam, it was very wrong in me to let him ſee how much I was diſtreſſed—But what could I do—Con⯑ſider [89] his tenderneſs for me, and then think of his melancholy ſituation. In ſhort, my ever revered mama, conſider alſo that I had ſentiments of a ſofter nature than gratitude or friendſhip to occaſion my agitation, and then you will be much more apt to pity than to condemn it.

The colonel, madam, ſeemed greatly affected by my emotion; and, by endea⯑vouring to aſſiſt me up, occaſioned me to riſe conſiderably ſooner than what I would have done had he made uſe of the moſt earneſt entreaties; for the mo⯑ment I found him exerting himſelf to that purpoſe I recollected his wound, and was inſtantly in my former ſitua⯑tion, notwithſtanding my cheeks were viſibly ſtudded over with tears; and notwithſtanding my perturbation was ſo exceſſive as to furniſh a man of his fine ſenſe with ſome reaſonable ſuſpicions of [90] the cauſe—Be this as it may, he preſſed my hand to his lips with an air of inex⯑preſſible tenderneſs; and, apologizing for the uneaſineſs which he had given me, he continued to enforce his requeſt with ſo much vehemence, and to declare in ſo poſitive a manner that he could never enjoy a moment's peace unleſs I gratified him in this point, that I told him I would conſider the matter a little far⯑ther, and give him an anſwer in two or three days— ‘Two or three days, Har⯑riot!’ replied he with a mixture of ſorrow and ſurprize, ‘Two or three days! Suppoſe that in this time I ſhould be taken off—Your anſwer then will be a little of the lateſt, and I ſhall go out of the world without my principal conſolation—The thing and the time require an immediate determination; and my reaſon for mentioning it to you at all, is to prevent the raſhneſs of your [91] generoſity.—I know that, ſhould I die without exacting a ſacred pro⯑miſe from you to enjoy yourſelf this laſt little mark of my affection, you would think it an indiſpenſable obli⯑gation to give every thing back to my family—But my family is already too rich for its own happineſs; and, if I am to be removed, will have ſtill leſs occaſion for its extraordinary opu⯑lence—Promiſe, therefore, Harriot, ſo⯑lemnly promiſe, in the preſence of that God, who ſees with how aking a ſenſe of tenderneſs I love you, that you will, according to the true purport of my requeſt, accept of this teſtament—In it I have not forgot ſome proper remembrances for my father and mo⯑ther; and, becauſe I knew you would receive more pleaſure on that ac⯑count, I have not ordered any eraſure to be made in an article that relates [92] to the wretched Louiſa. Talking, my dear Miſs Beauclerk, I find becomes inconvenient to me—Indulge me therefore at once, and conſider, that to be generous, upon ſome occaſions, may be the higheſt inſtance of barba⯑rity.’

Whether I was right or wrong, my dear mama, you muſt determine; but, unable to reſiſt his ſolicitations any longer, I took the paper with a reluctant hand; and, in my confuſion, putting it into my boſom inſtead of my pocket, the colonel ſeemed tranſported at the action, kiſſed my hand a thouſand times, and declared he could now quit the world with content. All the time I was ſinking under a load of equal awkward⯑neſs and anxiety, till the ſurgeons hap⯑pily coming in, gave me an opportunity of retiring, and unlading the fullneſs of my heart in a freſh ſhower of tears.

[93]The good Mrs. Mildmay, knowing that I had been a conſiderable while in the colonel's apartment, came up to my room; and, finding my eyes extremely red, ſhe threw her kind arms round my neck, and calling me by the tendereſt appellations you can conceive, told me ſhe had been long ſenſible that her ſon was paſſionately in love with me; and that ſhe alſo had been long ſenſible, not⯑withſtanding my delicate reſerve, (ſo ſhe was pleaſed to ſay) that I conſidered him with an eye of affection— ‘But my ſweet girl, my dear Harriot,’ conti⯑nued ſhe, finding me diſtreſſed and aſtoniſhed at this information, ‘don't imagine I have ſeen this mutual re⯑gard with any other regret, but my fear, that Mr. Mildmay would not be propitious to the happineſs of his ſon: for my own part, I am ſo convinced of your worth, that the colonel has an additional ſhare in my regard on [94] account of his attachment to you; and, could I but prevail upon his father, I ſhould ſtill have a daughter no leſs dear in my eſtimation than the miſer⯑able Louiſa—But, my love, this fa⯑mily—pride ſo runs away with my poor Mr. Mildmay's good ſenſe, that I deſpair of making him ſacrifice the ſuggeſtions of his vanity to the ſentiments of his reaſon: his mind has been always taken up with an idea of making his children great; and, ſo he could gain them an empty title, he payed but little conſideration to what might ſecure their felicity.’

And thus, my dear mama, are matters at preſent ſituated; and thus, all the time that I have been ſuppoſing my af⯑fection for the colonel a ſecret, this ex⯑cellent woman has ſeen into the moſt latent receſſes of my heart, and even kindly ſympathized with my anxiety. [95] You may be ſure, madam, that, after this exceſſive goodneſs had a little embold⯑ened me, I made her acquainted with every circumſtance which paſſed with the colonel, though I ſcarcely knew how to mention the affair of the will, as I thought ſhe might fancy me on that account an enemy, though an involun⯑tary one, to the intereſt of her family—But Mrs. Mildmay, madam, is a coun⯑terpart of yourſelf; ſhe has a ſoul inca⯑pable of liſtening to any little conſidera⯑tions, and obſerves the practice of gene⯑roſity too much in her own conduct not to love it in other people's—As I went on with my ſtory ſhe was gradually af⯑fected—her heart laboured—and her eye roſe in perfect uniſon to mine; and, upon the concluſion of my narrative, "Harriot," ſays ſhe, ‘the more I know you, the more I wiſh you for my daughter—My ſon has pleaſed me exceedingly by his conduct on this [96] occaſion; and I think you would have acted rather below the dignity of your character, had you not condeſcended to oblige him; but, notwithſtanding the little likelihood of preſent appear⯑ances, I have yet a dawn of hope which beams acroſs my boſom, and aſſures me you ſhall one day be happy with the colonel—Had the unfortunate Louiſa—But why do I afflict myſelf with recollecting a creature who now has really diſhonoured us—Her ſcan⯑dalous elopement, in the very moment of her ſeeming penitence, argues an uncommon turpitude of ſentiment; and ſhews that her firſt indiſcretion was not ſo much the conſequence of an extravagant tenderneſs for her lover, as the reſult of her natural de⯑pravity. God will, I hope, however, forgive the unhappy wretch her guilt, and mercifully incline to ſwell the [97] enormity of her crime, by putting down her death to my account.’

My unhappy Louiſa!—You may be ſure, my dear mama, I did what I poſſi⯑bly could to alleviate the diſtreſſes of the venerable Mrs. Mildmay, at the ſame time that I ſaid every thing which could extenuate the ſeeming miſbehaviour of my friend; the good old lady ſeemed willing to catch at any twig of proba⯑bility which might keep her hopes en⯑tirely from ſinking; but, alas! the fatal force of appearances rendering the very ſtrongeſt quite unequal to the taſk, ſhe changed the converſation, and aſked me if I had any ſcruple to ſhew her the colonel's will—I replied, that I could have no ſcruple to ſhew her any thing, as I was ſenſible ſhe could never have a deſire that was not founded on the ſtricteſt propriety; and therefore imme⯑diately produced it from my boſom— [98] "My dear," ſays ſhe, ‘you are very good; and yet be aſſured I ſhould not make this requeſt on any account, was I not convinced that you wiſh as cordially as myſelf that the teſtator's recovery may prevent the will from being ever carried into execution.’

Indeed, madam, (returned I)—"Harriot," interrupted ſhe, ‘let minds that doubt each other's candour break out into profeſſions of regard, and ſentimental exclamations; it is below us, however, my love, to enter into a vindication of our motives, ſince any argument to prove them juſt would be tacitly to acknowlege that it was poſſible for them to be otherwiſe. We will not, my deareſt girl, even wrong the rectitude of our own principles by implication; nor be the firſt to deny ourſelves that merit which has been hitherto granted us by every [99] body elſe.’ —So ſaying, ſhe opened the will, which is very ſhort, containing little more than a general reaſon for the colonel's appointing me his heir; and leaving a miniature of himſelf ſet in diamonds to his mother; his horſes, arms, and watch, to his father; his li⯑brary to Louiſa; a diamond ring to yourſelf; ſome trifling remembrances to other friends; and his cloaths and about two hundred pounds among the ſervants.

Short as the will was, my dear mama, I could ſcarcely ſtand the ſhock of read⯑ing it; there is ſomething ſo awful in a will, you know, even where one's ſelf is not concerned; but when it is made by a perſon for whom one entertains an eſteem; when a partiality is abſolutely ſhewn in one's own favour; and when there is another perſon by, who is infi⯑nitely more entitled to a preference; it [100] muſt be inexpreſſibly diſtreſſing to us if we are not wholly diveſted of ſentiment and delicacy. You cannot, therefore, imagine my confuſion, when I found the colonel had left me two thouſand pounds in money; the magnificent ſervice of plate, which had been his godfather, Harley's; and the Buckinghamſhire eſtate, which is ſeven hundred pounds a year, and which was formerly his great aunt Ingoldſby's. Mrs. Mildmay ſaw my anx⯑iety, and kindly pitied it; reſtoring me the paper, and acknowleging ſhe had been to blame in ſuffering her curioſity to carry her ſo far— ‘But, my dear Harriot,’ ſays ſhe, ‘a mother will pay but little attention to decorum in any thing which concerns the conduct of her children.’ After this, we had a long converſation about the colonel, in which Mrs. Mildmay ſeemed ſo high⯑ly pleaſed with his behaviour to me, that I was ſomewhat re-aſſured, and [101] had freſh opportunities of admiring the greatneſs of her generoſity. Notwith⯑ſtanding this, the circumſtances of the will rendered me exceſſive awkward, till we were flattered with ſome certain hopes of the colonel's recovery. From that moment I breathed a free-er air, and conſidered myſelf as leſs an inter⯑loper in the family; he is now, thank God, in a very fine way, and has borne the freſh ſhock of his ſiſter's abrupt de⯑parture, with a much greater ſhare of fortitude than could be expected.

And now, my dear mama, how do you do, and what do you ſay to the boldneſs of your girl, in thus preſuming to talk to you upon ſuch a point as the foregoing ſubject? Do you condemn her of temerity, or approve her for candour; do you imagine that ſhe has grown forward on your indulgence, or do you think that ſhe has made only a [102] proper uſe of your tenderneſs, and treat⯑ed you with the openneſs which is doubly your due from the cloſeneſs of your relation, and the greatneſs of your indulgence? I wiſh I knew your ſenti⯑ments; for, as you have always ſtudied to anticipate every deſire of mine, I ſhould be a monſter indeed if I heſitated but an inſtant to comply with your in⯑clinations. The whole family here, my dear mama, are impatient to ſee you—Mrs. Mildmay longs, ſhe ſays, to talk with you about the colonel, and you know who—the old gentleman repeated⯑ly tells me, that the value of a friend is only to be experienced in the day of adverſity; and the colonel hopes that nothing at the Hall has given you any cauſe of diſguſt. Come to us then, dear madam, for your company is greatly wanted; and by none, you may believe, ſo much as your daughter: the colonel's tenderneſs oppreſſes me, the amiable [103] Louiſa's fate diſtracts me, and Mrs. Mildmay's goodneſs is inſupportable. Come then, madam, to her reſcue; the arms of maternal affection are always fraught with peace; and, if they bring comfort in proportion to their benignity, who is ſo likely to receive the balm of conſolation as

P.S. When I write to my dear mama I never know where to leave off—I ſhould have told you that Butler, a very ſenſi⯑ble fellow, who is ſervant to the colonel, has been ſent away to London to make a minute enquiry at Mrs. Darnel's, in re⯑lation to Louiſa—God grant the honeſt man may ſucceed; for, if friendſhip is liable to be attended with ſuch anguiſh [104] as I feel upon this dear but unfortunate girl's account, I muſt, for the future, avoid every acquaintance with the moſt amiable part of my ſex, for fear of being plunged into continual calamities.

LETTER XVIII. Sir ROBERT HAROLD to CHARLES MELMOTH, Eſq.

IT is in vain, my dear Melmoth, I find, for your unfortunate friend to continue any longer abroad: the change of country in no manner tends to alle⯑viate the diſtreſſes of his boſom, nor eraſes in the leaſt the form of that amiable wretch, that Miſs Mildmay, from his recollection. If poſſible, ſhe gives him every moment an additional pang; and, till he becomes utterly de⯑prived both of memory and ſenſe, he muſt feel the ſharpeſt affliction on her account.

In reality, Charles, though it is now twelve months ſince the infamous flight [106] of that unfortunate girl, I am rather more wretched than ever—She is con⯑tinually preſent to my imagination; and I find, in ſpite of my pride and my reaſon, that ſhe holds an abſolute empire over my heart, and that I muſt actually ceaſe to live before I can actually ceaſe to love her. Don't deſpiſe me, how⯑ever, my dear Melmoth—I bluſh for my own baſeneſs, in ſuffering the a⯑bandoned woman even to ſteal a ſingle inſtant upon my thoughts; but, alas! the more I would baniſh her, the more forcible ſhe returns; and I am diſtracted with a perpetual round of tenderneſs and ſhame; of pity and indignation: wherever I go I am torn with a variety of oppoſite paſſions; and, to uſe the language of poor Sciolto, ‘All within is anarchy and uproar."’

[107]How, Melmoth, when I received your firſt letter at Rotterdam, did my ſoul exult in the expectation of being com⯑pletely happy with Louiſa! The moſt diſtant inſinuation of that delicacy which originally cauſed all our misfortunes, was then argued down into ſilence; and the univerſal joy which I thought would flow from a reconciliation, added to the tumultuous tide of tranſport that ſwelled about my heart from a ſtill more na⯑tural cauſe, gave me an abſolute fore⯑taſte of elyſium.—But Providence thought proper, by an accident which I conſidered, at that time, as the greateſt of all calamities, to ſnatch me from the ſmiling deſtruction, and graciouſly counteracted the warmth of my wiſhes to preſerve me from everlaſting diſgrace—O! Melmoth, had I been married to her before this fortunate diſcovery of her infamy—think what would have been the conſequence!—To the remoteſt [108] confine of the world I had purſued her; and, as Othello ſays,

In fact, Charles, I ſhould have proceed⯑ed upon ſome immediate act of deſpera⯑tion; and, perhaps, after I had ſacrificed her to the juſtice of my reſentment, it is more than probable I had been tempt⯑ed to lay violent hands on myſelf.

You ſee, however, my dear friend, from the conduct of this unhappy wretch, how much reaſon I had for ſup⯑poſing that the woman who deviates from the rules of virtue with one man, will have very little ſcruple to indulge the licentious turn of her diſpoſition with another; you ſee what reaſon I had to ſet Louiſa's crime down to the ac⯑count of genuine conſtitution, inſtead of attributing it to the weakneſs of an [109] extravagant love—But your women of ſtrong paſſions, Charles, are continually falling in love; every freſh object in⯑ſpires a freſh deſire; and when they have once conquered that exalted deli⯑cacy of ſentiment, which is the principal bulwark of their honour, they give an unbounded licenſe to enjoyment; and imagine that, ſince they have been fami⯑liar with one perſon, there can be no ad⯑dition to their guilt by an equal famili⯑arity with all. Thus, inſtead of an en⯑deavour to recover the hallowed paths of innocence, they make a ſingle indiſ⯑cretion an excuſe for the commiſſion of a thouſand; and indulge every riſing guſt of inclination, by arguing them⯑ſelves into a belief that it cannot in the leaſt increaſe the infamy of their cha⯑racters.

You pleaſed me extremely by your re⯑peated accounts of colonel's Mildmay's [110] perfect recovery. Poor fellow, he now ſees for what a worthleſs woman he ventured his life; and thoſe mad-headed puppies that are for reſenting the ruin of a ſiſter, impatient to be ruined, and one who places the principal of all feli⯑cities in her abſolute deſtruction, will, I hope, be warned by Louiſa's conduct, from hazarding their throats whenever a profligate huſſey thinks proper to throw away her reputation. Is it not, however, ſurprizing, that, in all this time, notwithſtanding the moſt dili⯑gent ſearch of the Mildmay houſe, no account whatſoever can be heard of their delicate daughter? But I ſuppoſe ſhe is in ſome ſecluded corner of the kingdom, wallowing in the ſtye of un⯑bounded proſtitution, and even enter⯑taining ſome underbred ſcoundrel of a keeper with the pangs which her in⯑famous flight has thruſt into the boſom of her miſerable family—O! for ſome [111] quick, ſome executing curſe to ſtrike the ſtrumpet and her paramour this moment to the center, though I was to follow them the next—Perhaps, Charles, ſhe is diverting him with a ludicrous repreſentation of your friend; and laughing with him this moment at my ſtupidity in once believing her a woman of virtue—Perhaps, my manner is mi⯑micked to a circle of intoxicated fox-hunters; and, perhaps, a whole table of brutal country ſquires are at this very inſtant roaring at the ſeriouſneſs and ſo⯑lemnity of my firſt declaration—O! that I was near her—that I could reach her proſtituted heart—By the great God of heaven it would give me more pleaſure to tear it from her boſom, than to re⯑ceive the empire of the whole univerſe; and I am not ſure but I would forfeit my hopes of everlaſting ſalvation if I could but commit a piece-meal murder on her villain, and make him feel but [112] one half, one fiftieth part of that hell which his poſſeſſion of her has kindled in this breaſt, and which is at this mo⯑ment furiouſly blazing for revenge.

Yet, Charles, what have I to do with this abandoned woman—what is her in⯑famy to me?—I'll talk no more of her—I'll think no more of her—I'll ſtab her idea to the heart if it ever riſes again to my imagination—I'll—Alas! my dear Melmoth,—I can talk of nothing elſe—I can think of nothing elſe; and baſe, polluted, proſtitute as ſhe is—I will not anſwer, but what ſhe might yet find it poſſible to argue me into an opinion of her innocence; and perſuade me, even againſt the ſenſe of my own conviction, into ſuch a belief of her purity as would induce me to forget every thing which is paſt, and urge me to ſnatch her again to my boſom, with all the paſſionate phrenzy of a deſperate [113] love—O! Melmoth, had you ever ſeen her—had you ever heard her talk—But I will drop the ſubject, I will ſpeak of ſomething elſe; and only obſerve that the greateſt of all curſes, is to doat upon the object of our utmoſt con⯑tempt; and to feel an invincible fondneſs in our hearts, for what our reaſon points out as an everlaſting mark of deteſtation.

I have by this poſt wrote to my ſiſter, and informed her of my intention to comply immediately with her wiſhes, and return home; Edwards has orders to prepare every thing for my depar⯑ture, and in ſix weeks or a couple of months, I flatter myſelf with a hope of finding you in high ſpirits, and in good health. You, my dear Melmoth, and that exalted woman, lady Haverſham, ſhall have the direction of my future life—You are people upon whoſe friend⯑ſhip [114] I can ſafely rely, and notwithſtand⯑ing all the parade which is made about a knowledge of the world, I am not ſatisfied but what the integrity of our friends is much more eſſential to our welfare, than their knowledge of man⯑kind—But a truce with philoſophical reflections.

What you tell me in relation to my ſiſter's refuſal of lord Winworth, does not at all ſurprize me—A woman of eight and twenty with a prodigious for⯑tune, a fine perſon, and ſuch a mind as lady Haverſham's, cannot fail of hav⯑ing a number of admirers—But I am ſatisfied deſerving as thoſe admirers may be, ſhe will never think of changing her ſituation—I know Theodoſia poſſeſ⯑ſes a delicacy of mind, perhaps, ſupe⯑rior to all the reſt of her ſex; and am ſenſible, however, ſhe may reſpect the matrimonial union, that ſhe is no friend [115] to ſecond marriages—She has in confi⯑dence repeatedly told me, that a heart which is deſerving of regard can admit but of one impreſſion; and that ſhe who can love a ſecond time is utterly unworthy of being ever loved at all—Her notions to ſome may appear a little romantic, but I dare ſay, Charles, they will never leſſen her in any body's eſti⯑mation, whoſe eſteem can be neceſſary to her peace, or advantageous to her character—This I am ſure of at any rate, that they will excite your admira⯑tion as much as they have done that of

LETTER XIX. Miſs LOUISA MILDMAY to Miſs HARRIOT BEAUCLERK.

AND have I at laſt the unſpeakable happineſs of writing once more to my dear Harriot, does ſhe ſtill ac⯑knowledge me for her friend; or does ſhe join in the general obloquy which the whole world muſt naturally throw upon a myſterious abſence of above eleven months, at a time too that the moſt criminal levity of conduct had baniſhed me from the protecting arms of parental affection, and caſt me out in the full face of the whole univerſe, as a diſgrace to my ſex, and a ſcandal to my family. O! Harriot, it will be no more than what I expect if you ſhould [117] both deſpiſe and deteſt me—Yet when my ſtory, my melancholy ſtory comes to be related; when you find how baſely, how cruelly I have been betrayed; I know your tender heart will bleed at what I have ſuffered, and I know alſo that the generoſity of your diſpoſition will be ſenſibly affected if during a period in which I have been moſt entitled to your pity, I have been materially leſſen⯑ed in your eſteem. To begin then at once, know that the ſpecious, the ſanc⯑tified Mrs. Darnel, who had ſuch obli⯑gations to our family, and in whoſe houſe I was to find ſo certain an aſylum, is a fiend of darkneſs, an inſtrument of hell, a prieſteſs of deſtruction.

For the firſt day or two of my reſi⯑dence at her houſe, after I was turned out from my father's, ſhe ſeemed ſo heartily touched with my misfortune, and ſo immediately intereſted in my [118] welfare, that abſtracted from the cloſeneſs of our relation, ſhe acquired a conſi⯑derable ſhare of my eſteem, and I could not help conſidering her as a woman of unbounded good nature, who was kindly appointed by the pitying hand of Providence to mitigate the ſeverity of my affliction—Actuated by this opinion, I made her acquainted with my whole heart, and determined as ſhe had the character of being extremely ſenſible, and devout, to regulate my conduct en⯑tirely by her advice, till I ſhould be happily bleſt with the forgiveneſs of my father.

I had not, however, been at her houſe above three days, when ſhe began to alter her tone a little; inſtead of la⯑menting the unhappy ſtep I had taken, as ſhe did firſt, ſhe ſpoke of it with more and more indifference; and at laſt pretty plainly inſinuated, that I had [119] erred rather againſt the ſeverities of cuſtom, than the laws of morality—that the very beſt women in the kingdom had not always been able to preſerve themſelves unſullied; and that it was even idle to diſtreſs myſelf ſo much on account of a ſlip, which ſhe herſelf knew would not be in the leaſt prejudi⯑cial to my fortune. I muſt confeſs I was ſo aſtoniſhed to hear a woman, of whoſe delicacy in matters of reputation I entertained the higheſt opinion, ſo eaſily reconciled to an action I conſider⯑ed as criminal, as it was ſcandalous, and to be no leſs repugnant to the principles of virtue than the cuſtoms of ſociety. I therefore continued ſilent ſome mo⯑ments, hoping that I had miſcon⯑ceived her meaning, and expecting that ſhe would explain herſelf more to my ſatisfaction: but here I was totally diſ⯑appointed; for miſtaking my ſilence as a mark of my approbation, ſhe ventured [120] to be ſtill more explicit, and delivered herſelf to the following purpoſe, with an air half gay, half ſerious; yet care⯑fully attending through the whole, to the various changes of my countenance.

‘Indeed, my dear Miſs Mildmay, to be candid with you, I cannot imagine however widely I differ from the ſen⯑timents of the righteous over much; that the indulgence of the paſſions is any way repugnant to the laws of morality—I ſhall grant that the indul⯑gence of them in a manner conforma⯑ble to the practice of one's country is the moſt eligible mode; but where people are not married, human nature, as the poet ſays, will be human nature; and a caſual lapſe from the rigid rules of form muſt be ſometimes expected. Come my dear,’ continued the un⯑bluſhing creature, ‘taking hold of my hand, that Harold is a villain, but if [121] you will be governed by me, your little affair with him ſhall by no means de⯑prive you of a good huſband. You recollect your old admirer Sir Harry Haſtings, Sir Harry paſſionately loves you, and has followed you up to town, to make another tendre of a heart, which has long been devoted to your ſervice; he is my intimate acquaint⯑ance, and has in fact requeſted my aſſiſtance, and if you have no objection ſhall drink tea with us this evening.’

You cannot imagine, my dear Har⯑riot, what indignation I felt during the whole time of this delicate harangue; yet willing to diſcover her utmoſt de⯑ſigns, I endeavoured to bridle my impatience till ſhe had finiſhed it. When ſhe concluded, I ſtrove to aſſume as unembarraſſed a tone of voice as I was able, and fixing my eyes with an unremitting attention upon her's, [122] I think this was ſometing like my reply ‘—When I was free enough, madam, in obedience to the commands of a mother, to take up my reſidence at your houſe, I never expected to be inſulted with a converſation of this na⯑ture; I did not ſcruple to acknowledge that I had been accidentally guilty, but at the ſame time I was in hopes Mrs. Darnel would good naturedly conſider, that I was far from being habitually depraved—How therefore ſhe can ſo widely miſtake my character, or rather how ſhe can act in a manner ſo unworthy of her own as to become a kind of advocate for diſhonour, fills me with an equal degree of ſurprize and affliction.—When I came here, I ex⯑pected a friend that would ſympathize with my ſorrows; not a flatterer that would ſtudy to leſſen the blackneſs of my crime. Human nature as, you ſay, madam, may be human nature; [123] but be aſſured, notwithſtanding the error which I have ſo recently com⯑mitted, I have no wiſhes to gratify by a new ſacrifice either of my peace or my character; and that I ſhall never be ſo loſt to ſentiment or ſhame as to accept the hand of a worthleſs fellow who was formerly diſcarded on ac⯑count of his own profligacy, and who is now mean enough to build his hopes of ſucceſs upon an opinion of mine. Excuſe me Mrs. Darnel—You have a right to receive what company you pleaſe in your own houſe; but con⯑ſider that I am under no neceſſity of remaining here to be affronted by your viſitors—I have other relations, madam, in town, who I doubt not will favour me with protection; and if you will only ſuffer ſome body to order a chair I ſhall eaſe you directly of all uneaſineſs on my account.’

[124]Alarmed at a reply, which I dare ſay from my ſilence at firſt, ſhe no way ex⯑pected, Mrs. Darnel ſeemed greatly ſur⯑prized that I ſhould put ſo unaccounta⯑ble a conſtruction upon her words; if ſhe ſeemed to ſpeak ſlightly, ſhe ſaid, of a deviation from the ſpotleſs path's of innocence, it was on purpoſe to reſtore me to ſome degree of temper with my⯑ſelf; and if ſhe had recommended Sir Harry Haſtings to my conſideration, it was entirely from a ſolicitude for my welfare, that deſerved a very different return from ſuch a ſeverity of animad⯑verſion as I had been pleaſed to diſtin⯑guiſh it with; Sir Harry was a man of good family and large fortune; unex⯑ceptionable in his perſon, and for aught ſhe had ever heard to the contrary un⯑exceptionable alſo in his manners. On theſe accounts ſhe did not think him unworthy of my notice; however, ſince I was ſo averſe to an interview with him, [125] ſhe would take care he ſhould never viſit at her houſe ſo long as I continued to honour her with my company; and that for the future I might be ſatisfied ſhe would not drop a ſingle ſyllable which was capable of giving me the leaſt offence—Adding, that from the unremitting rectitude of her paſt life there could be no room to ſuppoſe ſhe would now become an advocate for diſhonour; or betray the cauſe of that virtue in the decline of her days, which in the giddieſt part of her youth ſhe had always regarded as the principal beauty of the female character.

We are all of us, my dear Harriot, ready enough to believe, what we wiſh may be true; and Mrs. Darnel defend⯑ed herſelf with ſuch an appearance of integrity that I was grieved for the tartneſs of my reply, and begged ſhe would excuſe it on account of the di⯑ſtraction [126] with which my mind muſt at that time be naturally torn. I then let her into a few paſſages of Sir Harry's character, particularly his ruining the two Miſs Nettervilles; his inſolent attempt to run away with myſelf, for which you know my poor brother would have called him to a ſevere account had not Mr. Townſhend put them both under an arreſt; and mentioned ſome inſtances of his tyranny to inferiors, that had rendered him either contemptible or de⯑teſted through all the country. Mrs. Darnel affected great ſurprize at theſe accounts, declaring ſhe had never heard of any thing but his attempt to run away with me which could be mentioned to his prejudice—"Even of that," ſays ſhe, ‘I heard but vaguely, I however ſet it down as a proof of that paſſion for you, which he ſtill continues to ex⯑preſs with the greateſt vehemence, and which before I heard your ſenti⯑ments, [127] I did not know but the family might be induced to overlook.’

Matters continued entirely to my mind at Mrs. Darnel's, till lady Haver⯑ſham took her leave of me, and went down on the ſcheme of reconciliation to the Hall. Mrs. Darnel then began to hint ſomething of a concern for Sir Harry, and inſinuated, though diſtantly, a fear, leſt the amiable counteſs ſhould prevail in her brother's favour; and leſt after all I ſhould be doomed to the arms of a man who was entitled to nothing but my eternal deteſtation—I again appeared extremly diſſatisfied, ſhe however, apologized, and we were again reconciled; but the night after, Har⯑riot—the night after—Does not your heart ach with the ſtrongeſt apprehenſions for your poor Louiſa?—I know it does—and I even anticipate at this paſſage [128] the diſtreſs which I am ſenſible you muſt feel upon my account.

Next morning after breakfaſt Mrs. Darnel told me ſhe was in a great di⯑lemma with regard to an engagement, which ſhe had annually at Sir William Nicholſon's in the next ſtreet; ‘You muſt know my dear,’ ſays ſhe, ‘Sir William and his lady always celebrate the anniverſary of their marriage, and for twenty years I have never been abſent on that occaſion—Now I would not for the world leave you alone—and yet I don't know how to get excuſed if I ſtay away from Sir William's, this is the day, and there is to be a prodigious croud of company there in the even⯑ing.’ My dear Mrs. Darnel, return⯑ed I, you quite diſtreſs me with your civility—You muſt on no condition ſtay from your friends, for I ſhall be quite miſerable if I think I interfere in the [129] leaſt with your engagements; I inſiſt therefore abſolutely on your going—and—"Well, well," interrupted ſhe, ‘ſince you are ſo good I'll go,—but depend upon it I ſhall be at home by eleven in the evening.’ The ſtating of an hour for her return occaſioned a freſh diſpute; but at laſt ſhe ſet out, ordering a chariot, which ſhe had kindly ſet up on my account the day or two be⯑fore, notwithſtanding the ſlenderneſs of her fortune, to come at twelve.

As I was no way inclined to ſleep I ſat up in the back parlour, reading Cla⯑riſſa Harlowe; and had juſt got into that paſſage where the vile Lovelace at⯑tempts the ſanctity of her chamber at midnight, in the houſe of that deteſta⯑ble monſter Sinclair. I don't know how it was, but I felt an inſtinctive kind of terror, when I came to this place—I could not go on with the ſtory, [130] and began to reflect, that, if any body was to break into our houſe I ſhould be in a very dangerous ſituation—It was now almoſt one o'clock, and not a ſingle ſoul at home beſides myſelf, and the cook; my Sally, and Mrs. Darnel's wo⯑men had received leave to be at a dance with ſome ſervants in the neighbour⯑hood; and the men were attending the chariot at Sir William Nicholſon's to bring home their miſtreſs—The time; the place; a remote ſtreet, bordering on the fields of Marybone; and, above all, the ſubject which I had been juſt reading, ſerved to fill me with the ſtrongeſt ap⯑prehenſions; and I was going more than once to call the cook to ſit with me; but that I was fearful the poor woman might be in a doze, from exceſſive fatigue, as ſhe was houſe-maid alſo, and therefore conſidered it cruel to diſturb her—At laſt I heard ſomebody unlock the ſtreet door on the outſide; and na⯑turally [131] ſuppoſing it to be my Sally, and Mrs. Darnel's woman, who had now re⯑turned from their evening's entertain⯑ment, I rang the bell; when who ſhould enter the room, to my inexpreſſible aſtoniſhment, but the villain Haſtings, wrapped up in a large ſurtout, and car⯑rying a dark lanthorn in his hand, which gleamed an inconceivable horror round the whole apartment—I ſcreamed out, you may naturally imagine, at the ſight of ſo unexpected and ſuſpicious a viſitor; and called the cook as loud as I could to come up ſtairs inſtantly, at the ſame time ringing the bell with the greateſt violence; but whether ſhe was too faſt a-ſleep to hear me, or whether ſhe was privy to the deſigns of her in⯑famous miſtreſs, I know not; this only I know, that ſhe never once made her appearance, and that I was left entirely to the brutality of a wretch whom I [132] knew to be equally deſtitute of ſhame and of humanity.

Finding myſelf thus barbarouſly be⯑trayed, I aſſumed what ſpirits I could, and aſked the midnight ruffian by what authority he had dared to break into my chamber at ſuch an hour, in ſuch a diſguiſe; and threatened him with the utmoſt reſentment, not only of the laws, but my family. He had now laid down his lanthorn, and unbuttoned his ſurtout; and was ſtriving, by all the affectation of the deepeſt reſpect, to ſilence my excla⯑mations; declaring that the happineſs of his whole life depended upon me, and that nothing but the dictates of a deſperate love could poſſibly urge him to break in thus violently on my repoſe— ‘Conſider, ever beautiful Miſs Mild⯑may,’ cried the monſter on his knee, ‘conſider how long and how paſſionate⯑ly [133] I have loved you—Recollect alſo, madam, that you are now thrown out by the inhumanity of a relentleſs father, and the perfidy of a profligate villain, upon an inhoſpitable world, which, ſo far from commiſerating your ſituation, will even feaſt its malevo⯑lence with your diſtreſs—To guard you from the ruin which muſt inevi⯑tably burſt upon your head in theſe melancholy circumſtances, behold theſe faithful arms—My fortune and my ſoul are your's if you condeſcend to accept of them; and I ſhall think myſelf eternally obliged, if the ſoli⯑citude which I manifeſt for your feli⯑city may be able to influence the na⯑tural generoſity of your temper to prevent the everlaſting deſtruction of mine.’

As he pronounced this ridiculous ſpeech with every ſeeming appearance [134] of ſincerity, I ſuppreſſed the indigna⯑tion which I ſhould have otherwiſe diſ⯑covered at his preſumption in joining my father's name to ſo opprobrious an epithet, in hopes that I ſhould be able to turn his own arts upon him, and draw ſome advantages from all this af⯑fectation of generoſity and affection—I therefore told him, that he had taken an odd way to teſtify his regard for me, by breaking thus at midnight into my apartment; and that the myſterious manner of his intruſion looked as if he came with ſome intentions which were totally different from the ends of this paſſionate proteſtation—On which ac⯑count I begged he would immediately retire; and hinted, that, if he ſtill con⯑tinued his ſentiments in my favour, he need not deſpair of being heard to his ſatisfaction in the morning.

[135]"A thouſand thanks, my angel" re⯑turned the wretch, kiſſing my hand with a wildneſs of vehemence ‘for this con⯑deſcending goodneſs—Yet why, my adorable Miſs Mildmay, if I am to receive any marks of your benignity in the morning, need you now ſcruple to bleſs me with ſome little, ſome diſtant token of your approbation?—Where a man doats to diſtraction, like me, an hour's delay is a whole eternity of torture—Shorten, there⯑fore, the time, I beſeech you, madam; and encreaſe the greatneſs of the obli⯑gation, by a generous alacrity in be⯑ſtowing it.’

He was going on in this manner, my dear Harriot, and even proceeding to kiſs my cheek, when, ſummoning all the fortitude of my ſoul, I ſeized him by the breaſt, and threw the wretch from me above half the length of the room— [136] "Deſpicable villain," cried I at the ſame time, ‘unhand me; or, by the holy hoſt of heaven, this moment is your laſt.’ I was really frantic, Har⯑riot—I ſaw myſelf betrayed, and had ſeized a penknife that lay accidentally open on the reading table, abſolutely determined to put my threats in execu⯑tion if he preſumed to affront me with another approach—Finding me ſo greatly enraged he ſeemed totally at a loſs how to behave, and for ſome mo⯑ments ſtood muſing in a ſtate of mingled ſurprize and irreſolution.

Perceiving him thus embarraſſed at my behaviour, I determined immediate⯑ly to alarm the neighbourhood; and, with that view, ſnatched up one of the candles, thinking, before he recovered from his conſternation, to reach the ſtreet-door; but the cautious villain was too well prepared; he had five other [137] ruffians planted in the fore-parlour, who were to ſeize me in caſe I attempted any thing of this kind; and to carry me through a little garden at the back of the houſe, into a lane that led to the fields; there it ſeems a coach was in waiting to hurry me off; and the ſcheme was ſo ſettled, that two of theſe five ſhould ride withinſide the vehicle, to prevent my ſcreaming; while the three others were to be poſted armed without, for fear, after all their precau⯑tions, I might find ſome opportunity of calling for aſſiſtance, and excite the humanity of any accidental paſſengers to an attack.

You cannot conceive, my dear Har⯑riot, when I quitted the room, and found Sir Harry no way inclined to follow me; how my heart throbbed with the expectation of counteracting [138] all Mrs. Darnel's barbarous machina⯑tions; and the hope of being able to engage the compaſſion of ſome charita⯑ble neighbour for my protection till day-light; but when the other wretches ruſhed out of the ſtreet-parlour, and barred my paſſage to the door, I was next to abſolutely diſtracted—I ſcream⯑ed with a violence that almoſt tore my head to pieces; and, loſing all my reſo⯑lution at once, I fell upon my knees, crying out, ‘Spare me, dear gentlemen, ſpare me—I am a poor unfortunate creature, caſt out from my family and friends—and I conjure you, by the tender mercies of the living God, not to aſſiſt the infamous purpoſes of that monſter Sir Harry Haſtings.’

"Madam," replied one of the fel⯑lows, whoſe appearance was ſuperior to the reſt, ‘Sir Harry is a fine gentle⯑man, [139] has long loved you—and means you nothing but what is ſtrictly ho⯑nourable; remove your apprehenſions therefore.’ —

"O! Sir," interrupted I, ‘whence this violence, if he means nothing but what is honourable? Why am I, at ſuch an hour as this, beſet in my own lodgings, and treated with all the illiberal free⯑doms of a brothel-like audacity? If you are gentlemen, you will ſurely ſnatch a poor unhappy young creature from deſtruction, who has never done any human being the leaſt injury: or, if you are men whoſe neceſſities have obliged you to undertake an office repugnant to the natural goodneſs of your hearts, you muſt ſurely perform a virtuous action for reward with as much readineſs as you can conſent to the perpetration of a monſtrous crime. [140] —Hear me then, dear gentlemen, I beſeech you; conduct me but to lady Haverſham's, in Groſvenor Square—Lodge me but ſafely in the next houſe; and I ſolemnly proteſt, before God, that, let the wretch who has employed you for this barbarous purpoſe pro⯑miſe what he will, you ſhall receive double that ſum, and a thouſand thanks into the bargain, for conſult⯑ing your own ſafety, and diſappoint⯑ing his infamous deſigns.’

I would have expoſtulated farther with the ſavages, my dear Harriot, but the vile Sir Harry now made his ap⯑pearance; and aſked on what account they delayed the execution of their plan; endeavouring to raiſe me from the ground at the ſame time, and ordering the reſt to aſſiſt in carrying me to the coach—It was in vain I ſtruggled—in vain I [141] ſhrieked for help—the monſters obeyed his commands with the moſt implicit readineſs; and my ſpirits were at laſt ſo exhauſted by the ſharpneſs of my terror, and the fatigue of my reſiſtance, that I ſunk lifeleſs on the floor.—In this ſtate they eaſily carried me to the coach; and it was ten o'clock next, or, more pro⯑perly ſpeaking, that morning, before I recovered my ſenſes ſufficiently to recol⯑lect any one circumſtance of the whole tranſaction.

About ten o'clock, however, I came a little to myſelf, and found that I was in a very handſome bed, that the room was extremely well furniſhed, and that there were two female attendants with hartſhorn, and a number of other reſto⯑ratives, ready to adminiſter every aſſiſt⯑ance which might be neceſſary for my recovery. From theſe women, who [142] were Sir Harry's houſe-keeper and her daughter, I learned that I was brought to this houſe about four o'clock in the morning; that ſeveral times on the road Sir Harry and his companions were in violent apprehenſions for my life; that the moment they arrived I was conſign⯑ed over to the care of the women; and that, till within the laſt two hours, I had been in the ſtrongeſt hyſterics imaginable. The houſekeeper added, that ſhe was ſure her maſter muſt love me with the ſincereſt affection, for he had been like a diſtracted man on my account; and had repeatedly ſworn to lay violent hands on himſelf, if my indiſpoſition ſhould be productive of any fatal conſe⯑quences. As the women ſeemed to be not only communicative but good-na⯑tured, weak as I was, I made them ac⯑quainted with their maſter's conduct, told them my name and family, and of⯑fered to reward them above their utmoſt [143] expectations if they could, by any fortu⯑nate contrivance, facilitate my eſcape.—To this they replied, that they ſhould be very willing to oblige me; but that their lives would not be ſafe if they acted in the leaſt contrary to the will of their maſter—The youngeſt, particularly, thought it ſurprizing that I ſhould wiſh to quit ſo fine a gentleman as Sir Harry, who had ſo great an eſtate, and who was ready, ſhe was ſure, to marry me the moment I thought proper to give my conſent. From this, and ſome other expreſſions which dropped from the daughter, I found that ſhe herſelf was in love with the wretch; and conſequently thought it wonderful how any body elſe could mention him with the ſmalleſt in⯑dication either of averſion or contempt.

Diſappointed in my hopes of eſcap⯑ing by means of the women, and find⯑ing them entirely at the devotion of [144] their profligate maſter, I deſired they would help me up, not knowing how ſoon they might leave me to the monſter's brutality. They complied, but reluctant⯑ly; obſerving, that, after what I had un⯑dergone, reſt was abſolutely neceſſary for me; and declaring that they were certain I muſt be greatly indiſpoſed. Indeed, Harriot, they ſaid true; I was extremely ill; and, could I have removed my apprehenſions of Sir Harry, I ſhould have followed their advice with the utmoſt ſatisfaction. When they had dreſſed me, or, more properly ſpeaking, when they reſtored my dreſs to a little order, they led me into the dining-room, and prevailed upon me to ſwallow two diſhes of tea, and a diſh of choco⯑late: after this they withdrew; but the daughter returned in a few minutes after, to tell me that Sir Harry was coming to attend me; and the meſſage was ſcarcely delivered before the horrid [145] fellow actually entered with an air of forced complaiſance, very viſibly mixed with ſome degree of confuſion, and a great deal of malignity.

I was ſitting in a great chair when he entered; and, thinking it beſt to betray as little fear as poſſible, I fixed my eyes upon him with an intenſeneſs of deter⯑mined indignation; and aſked him how long I was to remain a priſoner in his houſe? To which he replied, till I wanted an inclination to quit it.— ‘But, madam,’ ſays he, ſeating himſelf on the oppoſite ſide of the fire-place, ‘I am now come to have a little ſerious con⯑verſation with you; and, as the nature of this converſation will be of the laſt importance to your own happineſs, I hope, upon that account, you will favour me with your attention.—From the cloſeneſs of our neighbourhood in the country, my dear Miſs Mildmay, [146] it is impoſſible but what ſome parti⯑culars of my conduct muſt have reached your family that were no way advantageous to my character—Yet from the ſame cloſeneſs of neigh⯑bourhood, you yourſelf muſt have heard that I declined all alliance with many young ladies of diſtinction, merely on account of my attachment for you; declaring that ſo long as you continued ſingle, I never ſhould think of any other woman—You alſo know, madam, that when you thought proper to reject my addreſſes, your whole houſe allowed my pro⯑poſal to be extremely diſintereſted; and acknowledged that I did not want for love, however I might be deficient in deſert. That love, madam, in⯑ſtead of being extinguiſhed by re⯑pulſe, has, on the contrary, acquired additional force from oppoſition; and has driven me upon expedients in [147] which I have acquired nothing but diſgrace—It has forced me to the meanneſs of keeping ſpies continually about your perſon; and your very woman, Sally, in whom you ſo con⯑fidently truſted—nay, madam, don't ſtart—is nothing better than one of my inſtruments.’

‘As long however as you remained abſolutely diſengaged, I bore my own rejection, and even the ſhame which reſulted from my unſucceſsful attempt to carry you off before, with ſome tollerable ſhare of temper; but the moment that curſed Harold was de⯑clared the happy man, I determined, let the conſequence be what it would, to prevent the celebration of your union; and had not a rupture happen⯑ed otherwiſe between you, I was re⯑ſolved you never ſhould be his, tho' I even got him piſtoll'd on his way [148] to the church—When you were ſent up to town I followed you inſtantly; and eſtabliſhed my intereſt ſo effectu⯑ally with Mrs. Darnel, that ſhe con⯑ſented to my carrying you off from her houſe if there was no likelihood of my ſucceeding by any other means—There was no likelihood; on the contrary, lady Haverſham ſet off to bring about a reconciliation between her family and your's; and the thing may be concluded done, for every body knows that woman is irreſiſta⯑ble.’

‘Such, madam, is the hiſtory of your preſent captivity—Now to what muſt follow—After having gone theſe lengths to get you into my poſſeſſion, it cannot be ſuppoſed that the power of man will ever prevail upon me to give you up—Nor, indeed, is it likely that any body will be able to diſcover [149] you, ſince Mrs. Darnel's own intereſt, as well as her reputation, muſt oblige her to account for your abſence in a manner widely different from the truth—For theſe reaſons, therefore, madam, I leave it to the determination of your own good ſenſe, whether it will not be much better for you to think of uniting chearfully with me; than urge me to the diſagreeable neceſſity of exerting a power, which, however unjuſtly it may be obtained, neverthe⯑leſs places your deſtiny entirely in my hands—Believe me, Miſs Mildmay, I love you with the moſt paſſionate extravagance, yet with the niceſt ſen⯑timent of honour—If I did not in⯑tend honourably, what could prevent me, in a houſe where my will is as abſolute as fate, from gratifying my inclination in any manner I might wiſh?—But, I don't know how it is—culpable as I may have been with [150] regard to others, there is ſomething about you which always excited my deepeſt veneration; and awes me at this inſtant, when I am in poſſeſſion of your perſon, from entertaining any inten⯑tion injurious to your character—I have talked a great deal, and ſhall now acquaint you with my final de⯑termination in a few words. From the purity of my views, madam, and the impoſſibility of your ever eſcap⯑ing from this houſe, I am in hopes that your generoſity and your good⯑neſs will induce you to accept of the offer which I again repeat of my hand and fortune. Make a merit, therefore, madam, of neceſſity; and conſent to my propoſitions with a good grace—for be aſſured your refuſal ſhall ex⯑cuſe you nothing, as I have a clergy⯑man already in the houſe, who is not to be terrified from his duty by ſcreams, and will perform the neceſ⯑ſary [151] ceremony were you even ſtrug⯑gling in the pangs of death, and he himſelf to be deſtined the next mo⯑ment to inevitable deſtruction.’

Inhuman, barbarous, remorſeleſs villain!—O! Harriot, don't you wonder at my patience in liſtening ſo tamely to ſo long and ſo audacious an addreſs? But, indeed, my dear, the odious man terrified me to the laſt degree by the exceſs of his confidence; and, in proportion as it was proper for me to interrupt him, I found myſelf leſs and leſs able to break in upon his horrid harangue—But a mo⯑tion which he made to ſeize my hand rouſed me inſtantly to an exertion of my ſpirits; and, ſpurning him from me with all the diſdain I could poſſibly aſſume, yet ſtill poſſeſſing my recollection, I ſpoke to him in the following manner: ‘—Hear me, Haſtings—Execrable monſter hear me—Nor imagine, be⯑cauſe [152] I have been infamouſly betray⯑ed into your power, that any thing can fright away my reluctance to your perſon, or my hatred of your heart—Know then, that, ſhould inſtant death be the conſequence of my refuſal, no force on earth ſhall ever make me yours—I always deſpiſed, I always deteſted you—and this laſt outrage or which you have been guilty, gives ſuch an everlaſting edge to my aver⯑ſion, that, I if retain in the next world any ſenſe of what has paſſed in this, I ſhall ſtill conſider you through all eternity with the ſame unremitting contempt, and the ſame unremitting deteſtation—What, Sir, do you ſuppoſe that the more reaſon I have for my abhorrence, the more I ſhould relax in my reſentments; or think that, if your addreſſes were repulſed when I thought you infinitely leſs atrocious, there is a poſſibility of ſuc⯑ceeding [153] now, when you are covered with aggravated crimes? No, Haſtings, no—The very ſuppoſition of ſuch a cir⯑cumſtance is a freſh argument of your unworthineſs, and only ſerves to render you additionally odious to my imagi⯑nation—Free me, therefore, from this infamous houſe, I deſire you—Free me inſtantly from this houſe—for, by the mighty God of heaven, the hour that makes me your's puts an end to my life, and may poſſibly endanger the ſafety of your own.’

"Upon my word, madam," replied the inſulting wretch— ‘this tone of voice is perfectly tragical; you really talk this admirably—and, if your fa⯑vourite Harold was not to the full as great a profligate as myſelf, I ſhould think it impoſſible for you to over⯑look the ſmalleſt deviation from the paths of virtue—But I appeal to the [154] rectitude of your judgment againſt the prepoſeſſion of your heart—and, ſince you force me to put the queſtion, let me aſk you, which is moſt entitled to your regard, the man who has not only ruined, but forſaken you; or the man, who, with all the obloquy of that ruin upon your head, is willing to take you to his arms, and is ready even to think himſelf happy in a par⯑ticipation with your diſgrace?’

O! Harriot, don't you pity me, don't you bleed for me here?—Stained and polluted as I was, how could I reply to the equity of this reproach?—I felt it, as Hamlet ſays, in my heart's core—in my heart of heart's—and the propriety of it ſtruck me inſtantly dumb—O! how mean, how deſpicable is guilt, when it is even incapable to retort an inſult from the unworthy, and ſhrinks before the judgement ſeat of vice with as great a [155] degree of timidity as if it was imme⯑diately arraigned before the awful tribu⯑nal of virtue!—That Harold too—but ſave me, Harriot—I muſt not ſuffer myſelf to think—of that—I cannot find an epithet to diſtinguiſh him by—my reaſon is impatient to brand him with the moſt deteſtable—but this infatuated boſom eternally beats in his behalf, and, though I ſtrive to deſpiſe and abhor him, yet I feel I paſſionately love.

As I continued in a ſtate of ſilent confuſion at this unanſwerable retort of Sir Harry's, the wretch rang the bell with a determined air, and, the houſe⯑keeper entering to know his commands—"Mrs. Lawſon," ſays he, ‘deſire the gentlemen in the parlour to walk up.’ The woman withdrew, and, before I could recollect myſelf ſuffici⯑ently to aſk him for what purpoſe they were to walk up, three of the fellows [156] who had been concerned in carrying me off the night before, attended by a moſt bold looking man, in a clergyman's habit, were in the room. This was a ſight which I was utterly unable to withſtand; my brain was inſtantly on fire; I ſcreamed with a wildneſs of di⯑ſtraction; and, juſt as the clergyman was coming up to me, I ſunk down lifeleſs on the floor. What became of me for ſix whole weeks I know not—Mrs. Lawſon tells me, that I was in ſuch ſtrong hyſterics, after the preſence of the men had terrified me into a ſwoon, that they were under a neceſſity of giv⯑ing over their purpoſe for that time; and that it was with the greateſt difficulty ſhe, her daughter, and two of the houſe⯑maids, could remove me to my room. Here it ſeems the violent agitation of mind, and the exceſſive fatigue which I had undergone, threw me into a fortu⯑nate fever, which deprived me of my [157] ſenſes; and, though the monſter Haſt⯑ings omitted nothing which could poſſi⯑bly tend to my recovery, yet it was full ſix weeks before I was brought to my recollection. About this time, the na⯑tural goodneſs of my conſtitution tri⯑umphing over the fury of my diſorder, I became ſomewhat ſenſible, and was called back to the pungent reflections of a ſenſibility, which made me look with an inconceivable envy upon madneſs.

During the dangerous part of my ill⯑neſs, Mrs. Lawſon informed me, that her wretch of a maſter was abſolutely frantic; that he frequently tore his hair, and ſtamped upon the ground with all the agitation of a bedlamite, ſwearing he would not ſurvive me if I happened to die; and raving that the grave ſhould at leaſt unite him to me, ſhould there be no poſſibility of a union with me by any other means. Though nothing was [158] ever more odious to me than the thoughts of this fellow's paſſion, yet it was very fortunate that he loved me to ſo prepoſterous an exceſs—for his brutal companions, before I fell dangerous ill, being no ſtrangers to the crime of your unhappy friend, were continually ridi⯑culing his intention of marrying a crea⯑ture who had already parted with her honour; and were as often adviſing him to profit by the opportunity which Mrs. Darnel had put ſo luckily in his hands—They aſſured him, that a woman who had been familiar with one man, would make no mighty ſcruple to be familiar with a ſecond—they mentioned my hatred of him as the greateſt of all affectations; and inſiſted that nothing could be ſo contemptible as his ſtooping to accept of a woman for his wife whom another had already poſſeſſed as his miſtreſs. Theſe arguments Mrs. Law⯑ſon hinted would wind him up ſome⯑times [159] to a downright determination of proceeding to the moſt abſolute viola⯑tions—he ſeemed fearful of being de⯑ſpiſed by his friends—and frequently talked of purſuing their advice—but, in the midſt of all his reſolutions, the deſire which he had to make me his irrevo⯑cably, and the dread he was under leſt I ſhould commit ſome inſtant act of de⯑ſperation on myſelf if he went to ſuch ſhocking extremities, prevented him from executing his horrid deſign; ſo that when he found I was really in danger, every thought of an illicit na⯑ture was immediately ſacrificed to his concern for my recovery—By this means, my dear Harriot, I very happily eſcaped every actual diſhonour; and, tho' his deteſtable paſſion was the ſource of ſuch exquiſite diſtreſs, ſtill it was that very paſſion which was the ultimate cauſe of my preſervation.

[160]I will not, my dear Harriot, treſpaſs on your patience by a minute detail of all I ſuffered in this odious houſe during a period of ſeven months—Suffice it, that I was ſcarcely recovered from my firſt fit of illneſs, but a freſh attempt to force me into a marriage brought on a relapſe, which ſaved me from a world of the moſt inſupportable perſecution, and changed the deteſtable importunities of Haſtings into a freſh concern for my life—This ſecond interpoſition of Pro⯑vidence, for I conſider it as ſuch in my favour, laſted three months—and the wretch was ſo miſerable at that time on my account, that he expreſſed a reſolu⯑tion of uſing no means but humility and confinement to work upon my temper for the future—In about three months time I was again tollerably recovered, and beginning again to dread ſome law⯑leſs attempt from Sir Harry, when one of theſe common, yet unexpected acci⯑dents, [161] which are ſometimes productive of events which cannot be brought about by the utmoſt exertion of human wiſdom, ſet me free from captivity, and opened a new ſcene in my hiſtory, perhaps not leſs extraordinary than any of the former paſſages.

Sir Harry, and ſome of his fellow-liber⯑tines, had been making merry below ſtairs one day, (for I ſhould have told you, that, during the whole time of my impriſon⯑ment, I never once eat a morſel out of thoſe rooms which were particularly ſet apart for my uſe) and ſat up, according to cuſtom, ſo extremely late, that none of them retired ſober to their rooms.—I myſelf heard ſome of them very noiſy on the ſtairs when they broke up, and there⯑fore could give a probable gueſs at their ſituations.—I don't know what was the matter with me, but that night I would not pull off my cloaths, and only threw [162] myſelf acroſs the bed, to indulge myſelf in one of thoſe melancholly reveries which are generally pleaſing to the unfortunate:—be⯑tween three and four, however, I grew a little heavy, and had juſt began to doze, when Mrs. Lawſon and her daughter, who always lay in an adjoining bed in the ſame room, as well to prevent me from any poſſibility of eſcaping, as to take care that my apartments were not approached by any of her maſter's friends, gave a vio⯑lent ſhriek, and, jumping out of bed with the utmoſt precipitation, exclaimed, that the houſe was in flames. It was now about the beginning of October, and wanted a conſiderable while to day. I ſtarted up, and found the matter juſt as they repreſented it, the fire blazing fiercely through the windows; and the ſervants, who were by this time alarmed, were ſome of them unlocking the ſtreet door, and unbolting the parlour windows, while [163] others were buſied in aſſiſting their intox⯑icated maſters out of bed.—This was an opportunity, my dear Harriot, not to be neglected: already dreſſed, I took ad⯑vantage of the general confuſion, and, ſlipping out in nothing but a black ſilk night-gown, while every body's attention was employed on ſomething elſe, I gained the road, dark as it was, and trudged on without knowing, or indeed caring, which way I went, ſo I could but get far enough from that deteſted Haſtings.—The only apprehenſion I laboured under, was that of being purſued and overtaken by ſome of the wretch's emiſſaries, the moment he became acquainted with my flight. But, as if Providence was particularly deter⯑mined to reſcue me from his hands, I was overtaken by a miniſtring angel, in the humble ſhape of a gardener's wife, who was ſinging with all the chearfulneſs of a benevolent mind, and going with a cart⯑load of vegetables to one of the London [164] markets.—I addreſſed myſelf to her at once, told her that I was an unfortunate young woman, who had been carried off from my friends by force about ſeven months before; and that the villain's houſe, who had taken me away, being that moment on fire, I had ſeized the oppor⯑tunity, and made my eſcape; I therefore begged her protection, and aſſured her I would make it worth her while, if ſhe would be kind enough to take me along with her, as I was fearful of being pur⯑ſued, and carried back. The good wo⯑man, who had ordered a boy that drove the horſes to ſtop the moment I ſpoke to her, replied, that whoever I was, I ap⯑peared to be in diſtreſs, and that, ſhe ſaid, was a ſufficient claim to her aſſiſtance at any time. So ſaying, ſhe let down a little ladder from the cart, and deſiring the boy to help me up, I was ſeated by herſelf in an inſtant. As ſhe had a lanthorn by her in the vehicle, ſhe could now have a to⯑lerable [165] idea of my perſon; and, after looking at me for a minute or ſo, in the leaſt offenſive manner ſhe could aſſume, ſhe ſtood up, and taking off a warm jo⯑ſeph, in which ſhe was buttoned up her⯑ſelf, "Come, madam," ſaid ſhe, ‘this is a cold morning; you don't ſeem much acquainted with this way of travelling; therefore let me help you on with this coat. Indeed you muſt have it,’ (per⯑ceiving I made a motion to decline being obliged at her expence) ‘and you muſt let me tie this handkerchief about your head too.—Poor ſoul! how you trem⯑ble—but have a ſtout heart—I'll be ſworn, from your looks, that you are a good creature; and, depend upon it, you ſhan't want for a friend, while my name is Deborah Dobſon.’

O Harriot, how was I charm'd with the uncultivated benignity of this worthy ruſtic!—a tear of gratitude roſe inſtantly [166] into my eye; and all I could ſay was, "Good Mrs. Dobſon, I thank you." We had not rode above a mile from Hampſtead, for there, my dear, it was that Haſtings had his houſe, when the honeſt, obliging creature's joſeph and hand⯑kerchief preſerved me almoſt miraculouſly; for Sir Harry having miſſed me in a very little time, had diſpatched ſervants every way, I ſuppoſe, in ſearch of me, not at all attending to the ſafety of his houſe; and two of them now came up to the cart, and enquired of Mrs. Dobſon, if ſhe had met any young woman on the road; Mrs. Dobſon replied, ſhe had not; and the fel⯑lows purſued their courſe furiouſly on to⯑wards town, ſaying, that probably ſome⯑body on horſeback, or in a poſt-chaiſe, had taken her up, ſince it was impoſſible for her to walk ſo far in the time.

You can't think how my heart flutter'd, my dear Harriot, at this rencounter, nor ima⯑gine [167] what a degree of ſatisfaction the wor⯑thy woman expreſſed at my fortunate eſ⯑cape. "You ſee, Madam," ſays ſhe, ‘how lucky it was that you conſented to be wrapped up;—that joſeph is an old companion of mine; and I ſhall love it as long as I live, for being the means of your deliverance.’ In this manner we reached Whitechapel, I think ſhe call⯑ed it, where there is a market kept; and where ſhe had a ſiſter, ſhe told me, a wi⯑dow woman, who kept a ſnug little houſe, and would afford me all the accommo⯑dation in her power.—Accordingly ſhe led me directly to her ſiſter's, who, it ſeems, was a conſiderable dealer in butter and eggs, and was now preparing to ſet out upon the buſineſs of the day, a moſt comfortable breakfaſt of coffee being al⯑ready on the table, in a neat ſtone kitchen, amply furniſhed with pewter and braſs, of ſo ſhining a complexion, as bore the [168] ſtrongeſt teſtimony imaginable to the clean⯑lineſs of the owner.

"Molly," ſays Mrs. Dobſon to her ſiſter upon entering, ‘I have brought a ſtranger with me to town this morning: here is a young lady who was carried off from her friends by ſome ſcoundrel about ſeven months ago, and kept all that time at the villain's houſe at Hampſtead. The houſe, thank God, was a-fire as we paſſed by; and the young lady, while all the family was buſy about other affairs, ſlipped out, overtook my cart, and here I have brought her to be taken care of, 'till ſhe can ſend to her relations.’

"God bleſs her dear ſoul," returned the other, ‘I ſhall take as much care of her, as if ſhe was my own child.—I warrant her poor father and mother have felt many an aching heart upon her ac⯑count [169] —but come, Madam, ſit down; let us have a diſh of coffee, and then we'll ſhew you to a bed, where you may reſt a little, after the fatigue of your journey.’ So ſaying, ſhe helped me off with my joſeph and handkerchief; while a pretty, modeſt-looking young woman, about eighteen, who appeared to be her daughter, kindly reached me a chair, and ſeemed ſtudious for opportunities to oblige me.

After breakfaſt the two ſiſters, preparing to go away, recommended me to the care of Sally, the young woman of whom I have been juſt ſpeaking, and wiſhed me, in a very affectionate manner, a good morning. Before they withdrew, however, I begged to ſpeak to my worthy friend, Mrs. Dobſon, in a private room: the good woman readily indulged my requeſt; and, if I might judge by the benignity which enlightened her honeſt countenance, [170] ſhe came with the more readineſs, from a ſuppoſition that I ſtood in farther need of her ſervices. When we were alone, ‘My dear Mrs. Dobſon,’ ſays I, ‘you have eternally obliged me; you have been my preſerver—my guardian angel—but I ſhall be the moſt miſerable creature in the world, unleſs you kindly accept this trifle (endeavouring to ſqueeze five gui⯑neas into her hand) for a pair of gloves.’ "Madam," replied the generous Mrs. Dobſon, in a ſtile much above her condi⯑tion) ‘I am no way ſorry that you make me this offer, becauſe it confirms my good opinion of you—but I ſhould think very meanly of myſelf, if I was capa⯑ble of taking a reward for performing a common act of humanity.—God bleſs you, my ſweet young lady,’ continued ſhe, kiſſing my cheek, ‘and ſend you a happy meeting with your friends.—While you ſtay here, every thing will be at your ſervice, I dare ſay; and, humble [171] as we are in the world, be aſſured you have fallen among people, who would rather confer obligations, than receive them.’ Oh, Harriot, theſe are the perſons whom your great ones look upon with contempt—theſe are the perſons whom the inſolence of the opulence or pomp ſo frequently conſiders as little ſu⯑perior to the merely animal creation: yet ſee by what ſouls they are informed!—The mind of this woman, my dear, would have done honour to a coronet; yet how many women are there with co⯑ronets, who would ſhed the ſmalleſt de⯑gree of credit upon her cart?

After the departure of the two induſ⯑trious ſiſters, Sally, to whoſe care I was conſigned, adviſed me, in a very pretty manner, to lie down, inſiſting upon helping me to undreſs, and beg⯑ging I would conſider myſelf at home in their family. I complied with Sally's [172] obliging intreaties, and accordingly went to bed; but, alas! my dear, I awoke in a high fever; and was actually delirious before the good young woman's mother returned from market. By the exceſs of the worthy people's tenderneſs, and care of an excellent apothecary, who, it ſeems, attended that admirable inſtitution call⯑ed the Magdalen, about which you and I have ſo frequently talked in the coun⯑try, I was, in as ſhort a time as poſſi⯑ble, recovered from my illneſs;—but, though my health was re-eſtabliſhed, my mind was totally unhinged.—The numberleſs diſtreſſes which I had of late ſuſtained, joined to the conſciouſ⯑neſs of having been the original author of every misfortune myſelf, was too much for me. Ignorant whether my brother was living or dead—ſatisfied that my poor father and mother muſt be torn by the ſharpeſt of all anxieties—and convinced that my Harriot herſelf muſt have given me up as a loſt aban⯑doned [173] creature, I was continually raving about my fall, and wiſhing for ſome aſylum, where I might waſte out the remainder of my days in penitence for my ſin. Inſtead, therefore, of deſiring⯑ing to write to thoſe who would intereſt themſelves in my behalf, I looked upon the whole world as my irreconcileable ene⯑my; yet, though I inceſſantly raved, I was, nevertheleſs, apparently calm, and perfectly conſiſtent. It was in vain that poor Mrs. Dobſon, the honeſt woman, her ſiſter, and the whole family, oppoſed my reſolution of entering the Magdalen; it was in vain that they aſſured me of a perpetual aſylum with them—I conti⯑nued inflexible; and what was the ab⯑ſolute reſult of my delirium, they, who could naturally judge by nothing but appearances, ſet down as the conſe⯑quence of premeditated determination; ſo that at laſt they conſented, and I was received, though with ſome eſſential deviations, from the cuſtomary mode [174] of accepting Penitents, the good apo⯑thecary managing matters with as much delicacy as could be wiſhed. I have ſince, however, learned, that, had any of Ha⯑ſtings's people remained about Hamp⯑ſtead, to ſatisfy Mrs. Dobſon's enqui⯑ries; or could ſhe have prevailed on me to give any account of myſelf after my illneſs, I never ſhould have entered this place. But Sir Harry's houſe, it ſeems, being entirely burnt down, the whole family was removed, before her enqui⯑ries began; and I was ſo ſtrenuouſly bent upon my ſcheme, that I evaded an anſwer to her queſtions to myſelf, with a degree of cunning almoſt wonderful in my circumſtances.

I have now, my dear Harriot, been in this houſe above three months, and find that my little underſtanding is as well eſtabliſhed as my health.—I have, therefore, employed myſelf for ſome [175] time in drawing up the foregoing ac⯑count for your information, and ſubmit it entirely to your own diſcretion, either to conceal it, or to lay it before my re⯑lations. My friend, Mrs. Dobſon, and her ſiſter, with their good-natured niece and daughter, viſit me at every conve⯑nient opportunity; and I have now made the worthy people acquainted with the hiſtory of my misfortunes, though I have not yet informed them either of my betrayer's name, or the name of my own family; and, what is ſtill more, I have perſwaded Sally's mother to accept of fifty guineas, which I had in my purſe, for all her trouble and expence; and Mrs. Dobſon has promiſed to wear a ring for my ſake, but not 'till ſhe ſees me out of this houſe.—Somehow, worthy as theſe people are, they look upon public penance as diſreputable—perhaps, according to the modes of this country, it may be ſo; but what, in [176] fact, is cuſtom, where conſcience is ſole⯑ly to determine upon virtues and upon crimes?—It is true, if my imagination had not been diſturbed, I had never dreamt of entering into a place, parti⯑cularly dedicated to the public penitence of proſtitution:—Yet, alas, Harriot, how am I better than the unhappy poor creatures, whom the pinching hand of neceſſity, or the poignant ſtings of re⯑morſe, have brought to the ſame ſalu⯑tary, yet humiliating habitation?—Have I not violated the ſacred laws of virtue?—Have I not blaſted my reputation?—Have I not torn a father's heart with unutterable anguiſh?—Have I not ſteeped the pillow of an excellent mo⯑ther in deſpair?—And may not the generous youth, my brother, be long ſince murdered on my account?—O ſave me, Harriot, from that dread⯑ful ſuppoſition—Snatch me, if poſſible, from my fears upon this occaſion—or [177] my portion muſt be diſtraction without end.—Gracious God! what a wretch do I appear, on the ſmalleſt recollection!—And ſhall ſuch a creature as I, imagine ſhe is any ways leſſened, by mingling with thoſe who, like herſelf, have ſacri⯑ficed the dignity of their ſex, and the honour of their families?—No, Har⯑riot, this is the propereſt habitation for me now—Here meditation, as the poet ſays, may find room even to madneſs—And here the ſtreaming eye of a heart-directed contrition, may poſſibly waſh away the ſtains of guilt, and induce the awful Father of Mercies to overlook my crimes.—But my poor parents—my noble-minded brother—O Harriot, if I yet retain any ſhare in your remem⯑brance, write to me inſtantly—I ſhall not cloſe my eyes, till the return of the poſt.—A letter directed to Mrs. Car⯑ter's, my kind hoſteſs, in Whitechapel, for Charlotte Windham, (the name which [178] I aſſumed in the unſettled ſtate of my mind, to prevent my family from re⯑ceiving any farther diſgrace) will be im⯑mediately forwarded to the loſt unhappy wretch, who poſſeſſed the firſt place in your friendſhip, when ſhe was

LETTER XX. Sir ROBERT HAROLD, to CHARLES MELMOTH, Eſq.

OH Melmoth, my Louiſa is inno⯑cent—her account is authenticat⯑ed by the ſtrongeſt of all teſtimonies—the acknowledgment of Haſtings him⯑ſelf; and the villain has, by this time, probably, attoned with his life for all the tortures of her boſom, and all the agonies of mine.—I have juſt reached this place; and have ſat down, while a little veſſel is getting ready to ſail with me for Dover, to ſend you a curſory account of particulars, leſt any accident ſhould prevent me from being with you in London as early as the poſt.

[180]I had juſt received lady Haverſham's copy of Louiſa's affecting hiſtory, which you ſent me with your laſt, when, all life and ſpirits, I dreſſed for the opera, and happened to be introduced into a box, where an Engliſh gentleman was ſitting alone, with whom I fell into ſo familiar a converſation, that I accepted a propoſal which he made, of eating a bit of ſupper at a tavern, after the per⯑formance; and this the more readily, as his appearance bore an indication of fa⯑ſhion, and as, in the courſe of our chat, he mentioned his being intimate with two or three gentlemen of my acquaintance.

When the opera was over, we retired to one of the beſt houſes in the neigh⯑bourhood of the theatre; where, after drinking two or three glaſſes of Bur⯑gundy, he mentioned that his name was Sir Harry Haſtings, and that he had a ſeat in the county of Oxford.—I need [181] not tell you, that this information ſet me inſtantly on fire. I was juſt going to break out, and to demand ſatisfaction for his outrages to Louiſa, when, re⯑collecting it would be beſt to hear his own account of matters—for fear, after all, that Miſs Mildmay might draw up a ſtory to anſwer her own purpoſes, and treſpaſs a little upon veracity, to exte⯑nuate the infamy of her flight. With this view, I aſked Sir Harry, if he was acquainted with the Mildmays, as I knew ſomething of a gentleman, who had paid his addreſſes to a young lady of that family.— ‘Acquainted with them!’ replied Sir Harry; ‘yes, I am perfectly acquainted with them; and it is, in a great meaſure, on account of that very young lady, that I have quitted England.—You muſt know, Sir,’ continued the com⯑municative baronet, ‘that I am a near neighbour of the Mildmays, and have, [182] for above four years, entertained a paſſion of the moſt extravagant na⯑ture for their daughter—but ſome⯑how, though my fortune was as good as any other admirer's, and my pro⯑poſals much more advantageous, ſtill ſome freedoms which I had taken with the women, created unſurmount⯑able objections to my character, and my addreſſes were rejected with a de⯑gree of diſreſpect that gave me no little mortification. Stung with re⯑ſentment at the cavalier manner in which I was treated, and burning alſo to obtain Miſs Mildmay, I made a fruitleſs attempt to carry her off.—In ſome time after the failure of this deſign, one Sir Robert Harold, (poſſibly the gentleman you mean, ſir,) commenced an acquaintance at Bath with Miſs Mildmay, and work⯑ed himſelf ſo ſucceſsfully into her af⯑fections, that a day was ſet apart for [183] the celebration of their nuptials, though this happy lover was, to the full, as great a profligate as myſelf. The family, however, paid dear for the preference which they gave this gentleman, for, before the wedding day, Sir Robert found means to gain the laſt favour from Miſs Mildmay; and a quarrel happening between them immediately after, the intend⯑ed bridegroom fairly took his leave, and left the diſdainful Louiſa to feel, in turn, every ſting of diſappointment, and every pungency of diſgrace.’

‘Miſs Mildmay on this was inſtantly ſent to town, to the houſe of a re⯑lation, one Mrs. Darnel; and, as I had my ſpies continually at work, I found out at once the place of her deſtination, and followed her inſtant⯑ly, being ſtill ſo ridiculouſly beſotted, that her affair with Harold no way [184] leſſened either the exceſs of my love, or the extravagance of my venera⯑tion. In fact, what would have damp⯑ed the ardour of any other man's paſ⯑ſion, only ſerved to increaſe the fer⯑vour of mine; ſo that, inſtead of thinking to poſſeſs her on the ſame terms with that lucky dog Harold, I was uncommonly deſirous of mak⯑ing her mine for ever. I wanted to be ſure of her; and, notwithſtanding I had a thouſand times ridiculed other fellows, for ſcandalouſly ſtooping to patch up a cracked reputation, ſtill I went on, as if her character had been unblemiſhed; and felt infinitely more uneaſineſs on account of her prepoſſeſſion for the deſtroyer of her honour, than for her actual deviation from the ſentiments of virtue.—But I beg your pardon,’ cried Haſtings, interrupting himſelf; ‘I am treſpaſſing on your leiſure, by a dull repetition [185] of an affair, which cannot poſſibly afford you the ſmalleſt entertainment. People are apt to teize others with thoſe circumſtances which affect their own peace; and I never hear Miſs Mildmay's name mentioned, but what I am for entering into an account of my paſſion for her, and a narrative of my various diſappointments.’

"O, Sir," replied I, ‘you cannot oblige me more, than by indulging yourſelf on the ſubject. I am ex⯑tremely entertained by relations of this nature; and, if there is no par⯑ticular ſecret,’ —"Secret! Sir," returned my brother baronet— ‘O there is no ſecret—I dare ſay, by this time, every thing is public enough in England; and therefore I can have no objection to gratify your curioſity, ſince ſuch a gratification is the higheſt pleaſure I can do myſelf. You muſt [186] know, Sir, that Miſs Mildmay had ſcarcely arrived at her couſin Dar⯑nel's, when the prevailing rethoric of one thouſand guineas, and a five hun⯑dred pound annuity for life, prevailed upon the worthy relation to deliver her into my hands. The price, ex⯑travagant as it was, I did not matter ſixpence; but it ſeems the uncon⯑ſcionable Jezabel was to receive ſome⯑thing very handſome from Harold's ſiſter, lady Haverſham, for contriv⯑ing a method of removing thoſe in⯑conveniencies to which the beautiful delinquent might be expoſed, during her abſence from her family; ſuch as want of equipage, and other eſſen⯑tial articles.—Theſe, lady Haver⯑ſham, as Harold's ſiſter, could not be ſeen immediately to furniſh, as Miſs Mildmay's delicacy would be alarmed; and as Mrs. Darnel's cir⯑cumſtances were narrow, ſhe was to [187] receive a ſecret ſufficiency for the purpoſe, and to be properly conſider⯑ed for her politeneſs into the bargain. This was the reaſon why ſhe inſiſted upon the exorbitant terms I have mentioned.—But enough of terms—let it ſatisfy, therefore, that ſhe con⯑trived a feaſible excuſe to leave Louiſa alone one evening—that the ſervants were all ſent out of the way, and that, with the aſſiſtance of four or five friends, who were provided in caſe of accidents, I carried her off to a houſe which I had at Hampſtead, and kept her there for full ſeven months.’

Now, Melmoth, ſee my aſtoniſhing command of temper—"Seven months!" interrupted I, ſo calmly— ‘Well, and ſurely in that time you had opportu⯑nities enough of carrying your point, either by marriage, or a more expe⯑ditious [188] method—you underſtand me’ —"No, by all that's good," replied he, ‘ſtrange as it may appear—I was totally diſappointed of ſuc⯑ceſs.—She was in a violent fever the principal part of the time; and, in the intervals of her recovery, nothing could either perſwade or terrify her into an acceptance of me.—The few friends who were in the ſecret, adviſed me to proceed by other means, and laughed inceſſantly on account of my romantic purity of affection, as they termed it, for a caſt miſtreſs.—Their ridicule too was the more ſe⯑vere, becauſe I had been myſelf one of the very wildeſt in the whole knot; and had taken ſuch liberties at various times with the ſex, as ren⯑dered my preſent behaviour to the laſt degree extraordinary.—There is nothing which we can ſtand ſo little as the ſhaft of ridicule.—I was a [189] thouſand times determined to proſe⯑cute their advice—and frequently bluſhed in ſecret at the littleneſs of my conduct, in thinking of Miſs Mildmay for a wife—Yet my unac⯑countable love got the better of my ſhame, and I was terrified from at⯑tempting any actual violation, be⯑cauſe I knew the greatneſs of her ſpirit; and was apprehenſive, that, in ſuch a caſe, ſhe might lay a deſperate hand upon her perſon.—She had re⯑peatedly threatened as much, and, I am poſitive, would have been as good as her word.’

"It is wonderful," interrupted I, ‘that ſome of your friends did not ſpeak of her being with you—that none of your ſervants, as you were ſo near a neighbour of the Mildmays, did not, at ſome time, write to their friends in the country about the [190] young lady—or, that the phyſi⯑cians’ —

‘O, the eaſieſt things in the world to manage,’ cried Sir Harry— ‘I had ſecrets of my friends, as a ſe⯑curity for the preſervation of mine—my ſervants were all true to the back bone, and had been tried a thouſand times—and as for the phyſicians—an additional fee made them as ſilent as the grave at any time.’ —

"Well," interrogated I, ‘and was it poſſible that ſhe could eſcape at laſt out of your hands, without re⯑warding you for all the trouble which you were at upon her account?’

"It was poſſible," replied Sir Harry, ‘becauſe ſhe did—and I will tell you by what unfortunate accident.—A parcel of us had been making merry [191] one evening below ſtairs, and we were all pretty well in for it, before we thought of going to bed—For my part, though I had drank very near four bottles, I had no inclina⯑tion to undreſs—I therefore took up a volume of Triſtram Shandy, which lay by the bed-ſide, and continued ſo long at this, that nature was at laſt wearied out, and I ſunk inſen⯑ſibly into ſo found a ſleep, that it was with much difficulty they could wake me, when the houſe was in flames—for the bed-curtains, by ſome means, reaching my candle, the whole furniture was inſtantly in a blaze; and the fire, I ſuppoſe, ſpread through the other apartments with the great⯑eſt rapidity:—in the confuſion oc⯑caſioned by this unlucky circum⯑ſtance, Miſs Mildmay contrived to make her eſcape; and though, the moment her flight was diſcovered, I [192] poſted meſſengers through all the dif⯑ferent roads, and even continued an indefatigable ſearch after her for above two months, I never could gain any ſatisfactory account.—Tired out at length with a ſearch which was pro⯑ductive of nothing but diſappoint⯑ment and mortification, I gave her over, and quitted England, in hopes that diſtance and time would mitigate the diſtreſſes of my mind, if it could not even reſtore my tranquillity.—So much, Sir, for Miſs Mildmay—and now I have been ſo communica⯑tive, I hope you will not think me impertinent, if I aſk your name, and beg to know which part of England is favoured with your reſidence.’

"That," returned I, ‘you ſhall ſoon know—My name is Harold.—I have an eſtate in Somerſetſhire—but my [193] principal reſidence, when I am in England, is in Groſvenor-Square.’ —

Have you ever, my dear Charles, particularly remarked Garrick, in the ſecond act, I think it is, of Lear, where Goneril has ſtruck off one half of his followers, and the poor old king tells his melancholly tale to Regan, from whom he expects to meet the moſt dutiful re⯑turns of filial gratitude and affection—Have you, I ſay, remarked the in⯑tenſe, the inexpreſſible aſtoniſhment of the venerable monarch, when, inſtead of receiving the leaſt conſolation from the only child of which he now reckons himſelf poſſeſſed, the unnatural harpy aggravates the indignity he has ſuffered, and deſires him even to diſmiſs one half of thoſe knights, which have yet been ſpared him by her infamous ſiſter?—If you recollect the face of our modern Roſcius in that celebrated ſcene, you [194] will have ſome tolerable idea of the amazement which this reply inſtantly ſpread over the whole countenance of Haſtings—"Harold!"—exclaim⯑ed he—"Harold!" drawing his chair inſenſibly from the table, and fixing his eyes on me, with an abſolute wildneſs of ſurprize— ‘Pray, Sir, are you the Sir Robert Harold—who ſo lately courted Miſs Mildmay?’

"The very ſame," cried I, running to the door, and bolting it— ‘and you are the Sir Harry Haſtings, who have been villain enough to carry off that admirable woman, in a forcible manner, from her family; and to impriſon her for ſeveral months in a houſe, where her delicacy was to be treated with a continued round of outrage, and where the impriſonment of her perſon was to do an irrepara⯑ble injury to her reputation.—Draw, [195] Sir,—for the ſame providential diſ⯑penſation which has delivered her out of your hands, now delivers you up for puniſhment to mine.’

"Mighty pretty truly," returned Sir Harry, clapping his hand alſo upon his ſword, but retreating a little— ‘and ſo I have been all this while unbo⯑ſoming myſelf to my greateſt enemy, upon a full ſuppoſition that I was making an agreeable acquaintance, if not a valuable friend?—Truly, a very pretty rencounter—but I deſerve it all.—What buſineſs had this damn'd tongue of mine to run on ſo impertinently in the company of an abſolute ſtranger?—And ſo, Sir Ro⯑bert Harold, I muſt give you ſatis⯑faction for behaving like an infamous ſcoundrel to Miſs Mildmay?’

[196]"Sir," replied I impatiently, ‘this is no time for words.—The man who could behave baſely to Louiſa Mildmay, muſt be the greateſt of all villains, and—’

‘I am glad to find you ſo extreme⯑ly candid, Sir Robert,’ interrupted he ſneeringly; ‘becauſe, if you will only take the trouble of reflecting a little, you will find yourſelf much a greater villain than your humble ſer⯑vant.—You, Sir,’ continued he, al⯑tering his voice, and coming up fiercely to me, ‘You are a mighty proper per⯑ſon to commence a champion for the cauſe of virtue.—I carried off Louiſa, it is true; and, though I own the ac⯑tion to be highly criminal, yet is it by any means ſo poor, ſo paltry, ſo deſpicable, as your conduct in aſſum⯑ing the ſacred appearance of honour and attachment, to break in upon the [197] unſuſpecting confidence of her ſoul, and to blaſt her reputation? Her cha⯑racter, Sir, was as unſullied as the noontide beams of heaven, 'till you inſidiouſly found means to ſteal upon her affections, and, in an accurſed hour, like the baſeſt of all ſcoundrels, infamouſly violated every law of hoſ⯑pitality—every ſentiment of friend⯑ſhip—and every proteſtation of love.—I have violated no law of hoſpita⯑lity—have broke no link of friend⯑ſhip—have burſt no proteſtation of love.—On the contrary, ſo far was I from wiſhing to betray Louiſa Mild⯑may, that I was even willing to take her, ſtained and polluted as ſhe was by your baſeneſs, and did not heſitate an inſtant to participate in her ſhame.—And ſhall you, the original author of all her misfortunes, ſhall you take upon you to call others to an account?—Shall you, a villain of ſuch deeper [198] dye, ſtand up as an advocate for in⯑jured innocence; and talk of chaſtiz⯑ing offenders, who are, comparative⯑ly, ſpotleſs to yourſelf?—Audacious ſcoundrel! let me rather, as infinitely the leaſt culpable of the two, here take vengeance upon you, for all the calamities which have befallen a wo⯑man, whom I doat upon to diſtrac⯑tion.—From the moment I firſt heard of your ſucceſs with her, your very name planted a thouſand ſcorpions in my boſom; and I would have ſacri⯑ficed you to my rage, had not an indi⯑cation of my reſentment been likely to diſappoint my deſigns upon Louiſa.—I therefore ſtudiouſly avoided ſee⯑ing you, well knowing the vehemence of my own temper.—But the time is now come—and it is not a little of your blood, which can gratify the greedineſs of my revenge.’

[199]Melmoth, cowardice and guilt are inſeparable companions.—By the God of Heaven, this harangue of Sir Harry's almoſt petrified me.—I felt myſelf a paltry deſpicable villain; and I actually believe, had not his ſword been already pointed at my boſom, the juſtice of his reply would have ſham'd my reſent⯑ment into ſilence, and awed me into all conſcientious acknowledgments of the keeneſt ſelf-reproach—but my manhood was rouſed at the ſight of his naked weapon; and to it we went, with as de⯑termined a malignity, as ever rankled in the breaſts of men.—Sir Harry had great command of his ſword, and was prodigiouſly ſtrong in the arm—for ſome time he thought to conquer me by a mere exertion of force;—but find⯑ing this method ineffectual, he threw out one of thoſe exquiſite feints, which none but a maſter indeed ſhould ever think of giving into.—I don't believe [200] he thought me ſo good a ſwordſman as I really am—however, before he could poſſibly recover himſelf, I made ſo rapid a lunge, that my ſword was half way through his right breaſt; and the vio⯑lence of the thruſt, together with the acuteneſs of the pain, brought him in⯑ſtantly to the floor.—The noiſe which our combat occaſioned, by this time bringing up the people of the houſe, I thought it highly neceſſary to think of making my eſcape, eſpecially as they all cried out, he's a dead man; and he himſelf adviſed me to ſet immediately off.—I did ſo—and, leaving Edwards to follow with my baggage, I quitted Paris in leſs than an hour, and ſhall embark in a few minutes for Dover.

Such is the hiſtory of this quarrel—and now, Charles hear me attentively:—The moment you receive this, go to lady Haverſham, and tell her, that if [201] Louiſa and her friends are not entirely reconciled, and ready to receive me at my going over. I ſhall take an everlaſting leave of England, and perhaps, baniſh myſelf for life, from any degree of con⯑verſe with human ſociety.—Tell her that what my angel has ſuffered, and ſuffered chiefly through my means, has rendered her ſo inconceivably dear to my fond heart, that a new diſappointment will probably drive me to ſome inſtant act of deſperation.—In ſhort, Charles, tell lady Haverſham every thing which is moſt likely to alarm her tenderneſs, or work upon her generoſity.—But why do I affront the excellent woman with a doubt of this unneceſſary nature?—Why do I ſuppoſe—But, Charles, I will neither talk of doubts nor ſuppoſes—The firſt are the greateſt injury to the benignity of her heart; and the latter, I hope, is a violence to the juſtice of my [202] own. Adieu, therefore, my dear Mel⯑moth, and be aſſured, that, let my fate be whatſoever it may, I muſt be, as long as I live,

LETTER XXI. Lady HAVERSHAM to the Counteſs of BLANDFORD.

MY cares are now over—Bob is at laſt married to Miſs Mildmay—and has turned out the very thing I al⯑ways thought he would—a man of real probity, and ſound underſtanding.—Your ladyſhip already knows what a variety of misfortunes attended my ſweet ſiſter, from the time of her expulſion from her father's, till her departure from the Magdalen.—So that all which is neceſſary for me to relate, is the recep⯑tion which her family gave her, and the reception which ſhe gave my brother.

I have already told you, that the mo⯑ment her poor parents ſaw her letter to [204] Miſs Beauclerk, they wrote up to me, deſiring me to take her inſtantly away from the ſtrange aſylum which ſhe had choſen in her delirium, and promiſing to be in town within a week, when every thing ſhould be ſettled to my ſatisfac⯑tion; for I had frequently told them, how paſſionately Bob continued to love the unfortunate young lady, under all the diſadvantages of what we conſidered a ſcandalous elopement.—They at the ſame time ſent me up Louiſa's little hiſtory, where I ſaw plainly enough, that notwithſtanding the unaccountable part which my brother had acted, the dear deceived girl could not, by any means, eraſe him from her heart.—A copy of this letter I therefore got that worthy man, Mr. Melmoth, to take, for Bob's immediate uſe, and flew myſelf to the Magdalen, to which, as I have been, upon ſome occaſions, a benefactreſs, I have always acceſs, and enquired for [205] Louiſa by her aſſumed appellation of Windham.—The good Mrs. Dobſon, and her ſiſter, who have acquired ſo juſt a conſideration with Louiſa, were with her when I went in—the two honeſt women, it ſeems, are intimately ac⯑quainted with the matron, and that ac⯑quaintance admitted them, whenever they pleaſed, to Miſs Windham.—They were now ſitting in the matron's room, when my appearance threw the little group into the greateſt conſternation.—Louiſa, the moment ſhe ſaw me, ſtarted from her ſeat with a light'ning-like rapidity, and exclaiming, ‘Lady Haverſham! lady Haverſham!’ fainted inſtantly in my arms.—Her two friends ſeemed prodigiouſly ſtruck—but nevertheleſs ex⯑erted themſelves ſo ſucceſsfully in reco⯑vering her, that ſhe was quickly in a capacity of converſing; which, when they found, they propoſed to withdraw, though Mrs. Dobſon had a viſible re⯑luctance [206] in her manner, that made me conſider her with extraordinary atten⯑tion.—Miſs Mildmay, however, would not ſuffer them to ſtir; but, taking each by the hand, preſented them with ſuch a grace to me, that I could not help kiſſing her heartily for the condeſcend⯑ing dignity of the recollection.— ‘My dear lady Haverſham,’ ſays ſhe, ‘you have, I ſuppoſe, ſeen my letter to Miſs Beauclerk.’ —I anſwered in the affirmative.—"Why then," continued ſhe, ‘give me leave to preſent two of the worthieſt creatures in the univerſe to your ladyſhip.—This, Madam, is the excellent Mrs. Dobſon—and this the beneficent Mrs. Carter, whom I have mentioned in that paper.’

I roſe, and ſaluted each of them; thanking them in the warmeſt terms, for their generous attention to Miſs Mild⯑may; and, begging to know in what [207] manner I could be ſerviceable to them on her account.—"O, Madam," cried Mrs. Dobſon, falling on her knees, and kiſſing my hand with great eagerneſs, ‘you have been long entitled to our ut⯑moſt ſervices—to the everlaſting prayers of me and my whole family.—Your ladyſhip's munificent hand, and your noble brother's, have been the bleſſed inſtruments of Providence, to ſnatch both me and mine from deſtruction.—Your ladyſhip may re⯑member the unhappy farmer Jenkins, of Saliſbury, who was thrown into gaol through the inhumanity of a brutal landlord, for reſenting an inde⯑cent liberty taken with his daughter: I, Madam, was wife to that Jenkins, and mother to that daughter.—Your gracious brother redeemed my huſ⯑band from priſon, and gave a mar⯑riage portion with my child.—Your ladyſhip ſcarcely heard of Sir Robert's [208] unexampled generoſity, before you ſent us down ſuch a ſum, as enabled us to pay off all our debts, and ſet us, once more, above the frowns of the world.—We were utterly unknown both to your brother and you; and had no recommendation to your pity, but the merit of our diſtreſs.—May the great God of heaven and earth, ſhower down eternal bleſſings upon both your heads; and may you both feel that happineſs a hundred times doubled, with which you filled the hearts of both me and mine!’

Grateful, generouſly-minded creature!—My dear lady Blandford, you can't think how the tears rolled down my cheeks at this pathetic addreſs.—I re⯑membered the name perfectly well; and it was the merit of my brother's beha⯑viour on that occaſion, which originally rivetted him to the boſom of Louiſa.— [209] You recollect the affair yourſelf, I dare ſay; for I believe I ſhewed you, as a curioſity, what a well-written letter of thanks I received from poor Mrs. Jen⯑kins, immediately after I had ordered the remittance, which dwelt ſo ſtrongly upon the good woman's memory. I raiſed her up, you may be ſure, as ſoon as I poſſibly could, and told her, that the young lady whom ſhe had be⯑friended ſo much, would, I hope, in a ſhort time, honour my brother with her hand, as the match was what lay cloſe⯑ly to the heart of both our families.—She heard me with a look that indicated a wildneſs of ſatisfaction; and, burſting into a loud flood of tears, ran about the room, crying, "Thank God!—thank God!—I have lived to be of ſome little uſe to my benefactors!"

You will undoubtedly be ſurprized, my dear lady Blandford, at finding the [210] wife of a poor huſbandman expreſſing herſelf with ſuch an air of elegance, as Mrs. Dobſon.—The heart of the mean⯑eſt peaſant may be as ſentimentally ele⯑gant as a prince's—but it is education alone, which forms the delivery of our ſentiments, and gives the cuſtomary cha⯑racteriſtic of order and diſtinction.—For my own part, I was ſo much ſurprized at her manner, that I could not help telling her how greatly it ſtruck me—To which ſhe modeſtly replied, ‘That I was all goodneſs—but that her fa⯑ther was a curate in Wiltſhire, who had ſeveral children, and not more than forty pounds a year—At the ſame time, therefore,’ continued ſhe, ‘that he took every neceſſary care about the improvement of our minds, he took care to bring us up in a manner that ſuited with the narrow⯑neſs of our fortunes—ſo that we be⯑came ſomewhat remarkable through [211] the neighbourhood for our induſtry, and our education.—We all married men of humble ſituations; and hence ariſes the trifling diſparity which your ladyſhip is pleaſed to obſerve between our converſation and our circum⯑ſtances.’ —But to go on—

Having ſhewn Louiſa the letter I re⯑ceived from her father, ſhe conſented to go away with me inſtantly; but begged that Mrs. Dobſon and Mrs. Carter would favour her with their company, whenever ſhe took the liberty to requeſt it.—The worthy women aſſured her of their immediate concurrence, and we parted with many tears on both ſides, after I had left a fifty pound bill for the uſe of the charity.

Louiſa was at my houſe about four days, when her father and her mother came to town.—The dear girl, though [212] ſhe impatiently longed to ſee them, was, however, extremely terrified at the thoughts of their approach. "How, my dear lady Haverſham," would ſhe ex⯑claim, ‘ſhall I be ever able to look them in the face?—There is one guilt which I acknowledge; and they have nothing but my own word to purge away the imputation of a ſe⯑cond.—Mrs. Darnell's aſſertion may be taken as ſoon as mine.—Good God! how ſhall I look them in the face?’

They came at laſt—but with hearts prepoſſeſſed entirely as ſhe could wiſh. They had ſeen ſome of Haſtings's fa⯑vourite ſervants, before their departure from the country; and, partly by me⯑naces, and partly by bribes, they came at the truth, which correſponded exact⯑ly with the relation of Louiſa.—Senſible, therefore, only to her late ſufferings, [213] the father and the brother entirely for⯑got their reſentment, on account of her original error; and the doating mother, who conſidered matters in a more tender light than either, was even ready to con⯑demn herſelf, for agreeing to the ex⯑pulſion of ſo deſerving a daughter, when ſhe came to weigh all the misfortunes which that expulſion had fatally produc⯑ed.—In this frame of mind the three came to town, attended by Mrs. and Miſs Beau⯑clerck, when Louiſa was informed they were all below ſtairs.—Sweet girl, how ſhe trembled!—how ſhe wept!—By the force of hartſhorn and argument, I, however, recovered her, and ſhe came down, leaning on my arm, into the back parlour, where they were aſſembled.—She had ſcarcely entered the room, when the poor mother, frantic almoſt with impatience and joy, ſprung from her ſeat, and, faſtening round her neck, ſtrained her in her arms, with a violence [214] that almoſt bordered upon diſtraction.—Louiſa's feelings were no leſs exqui⯑ſite—She endeavoured to return the embrace with an equal degree of fer⯑vour, and both ſunk lifeleſs upon the floor, before either could give utterance to a ſingle word.—The colonel ran to his ſiſter; while the venerable old gen⯑tleman ſeemed entirely employed about the recovery of his excellent lady;—as to Mrs. Beauclerck, her daughter, and my⯑ſelf, we could ſcarcely afford them any aſ⯑ſiſtance for our tears.

When the mother and the daughter became ſomewhat compoſed, the latter threw herſelf at her father's feet, and begged at once his pardon and his bleſſ⯑ing.—The old gentleman, whoſe heart was long ſince melted, looked at her for ſome time, with an eagerneſs of ſi⯑lent rapture, as if he was perfectly will⯑ing, yet totally unable, to comply with [215] her requeſt: at laſt, no longer maſter of himſelf, he fell inſtinctively upon his knees, as ſhe knelt, and, catching her in his arms, exclaimed, ‘O my child, my child!’ and ſobbed out with ſuch a violence, that one would imagine his heart was abſolutely burſting.—We, therefore, tore him up in a manner;—but Louiſa was rivetted on her knees—there was no prevailing upon her to riſe.—After her father was forced into a chair, ſhe turned to her brother, who now hung weeping over her; and, while a large drop ſeem faſtened upon each of her cheeks, ſhe cried out— ‘O, Harry, what has my infamy coſt you!—Can you—but it is impoſſible—you never can forgive the wretch who has—but are you actually recovered?—O what a wretch am I, to involve every body, who loves me, in deſtruction!’ —The colonel replied to this, in a man⯑ner equally polite and tender; and Mrs. [216] and Miſs Beauclerk now coming to claim ſome little ſhare of her attention, Lou⯑iſa began to grow more temperate, and received them both with the warmeſt tokens of a moſt cordial affection.—In a little time we were all reſtored to our⯑ſelves; and the whole company were kind enough to become my gueſts, dur⯑ing their continuation in town; nay, in leſs than two hours, Miſs Mildmay, at the deſire of her parents, conſented to overlook my brother's behaviour; and a chariot was diſpatched for Mrs. Dob⯑ſon and Mrs. Carter, whom Mrs. Mild⯑may impatiently wanted to ſee, and who good-naturedly came to us in leſs than two hours more.—But now, my dear lady Blandford, prepare for ſomething extraordinary—

Mr. Melmoth, whom we have long thought a mighty worthy man, and who, for many years paſt, has been indulg⯑ing [217] a moſt melancholly turn of diſpoſi⯑tion, on account of a wife and an in⯑fant, who died while he was quite a young man, and abroad, is now the hap⯑pieſt of human beings:—he has found that wife, and that child, in the perſon of Mrs. Beauclerck, and her amiable daughter.—Two days after Mr. Mild⯑may came to town, Mr. Melmoth re⯑ceived a letter from my brother, with orders to communicate it inſtantly to me; and as Mr. Melmoth has a friend⯑ſhip of an uncommon nature for Bob, he never heſitates a moment to execute his commands—(but, by the bye, lady Blandford, you will ſee what a narrow eſcape Bob has had in another duel.—God grant it may be the laſt—for if any accident ſhould happen to him, I ſhould abſolutely run diſtracted.)—Well, as I was ſaying, Mr. Melmoth came to my houſe after dinner, and, requeſting to ſpeak with me in private, produced my [218] brother's letter; obſerving that Provi⯑dente ſeemed particularly inclined to ex⯑culpate Miſs Mildmay; and no leſs de⯑ſirous of puniſhing thoſe, in an exem⯑plary manner, who had been intentionally inſtrumental (that was his qualifying word for Bob's ſake) in that young la⯑dy's diſtreſs.—I took the letter with a trembling hand; and, though I rejoiced at this undeniable confirmation of Lou⯑iſa's rectitude, ſtill it was with the great⯑eſt difficulty I could get through the ac⯑count of the duel, which you will find incloſed in this pacquet.—I was obliged to uſe my har [...]ſhorn twenty times;—and I don't know that I could have read it at all, had not Mr. Melmoth previouſly aſſured me, that my brother was in health.

When I had at laſt got through the contents, I inſiſted upon Mr. Melmoth's going in with me to the company, as [219] he was intimately known by character to every body, though with ſome he might be unacquainted by perſon.—He accord⯑ingly complied; but judge, my dear, the univerſal aſtoniſhment, when, at the very inſtant of his entrance, Mrs Beau⯑clerck ſcreamed out, "Mr. Villars!"—and fell back into her chair.—Alarmed at the name, the manner, and the voice, he flew to her, and exclaiming, ‘O my Nancy, my Nancy,’ raiſed her up in his arms; while her beautiful daughter ran wild to her aſſiſtance, not knowing what to think of this extravagant ſur⯑prize.—Not to keep you any longer in ſuſpence, my dear lady Blandford, the company ſoon diſcovered, that Mrs. Beauclerk was the long loſt wife of Mr. Melmoth; and that ſome very extraor⯑dinary circumſtance had divided them, without any fault on either ſide, for a painful ſeries of years.—What, however, appeared very ſtrange, was, [220] that each imagined the other to be dead; and that the information concerning the death of each, was communicated to the other, by no leſs indubitable a chan⯑nel of intelligence, than Mr. Melmoth's own father.—Mr. Melmoth's father, it ſeems, was a great Eaſt-India merchant, and intended to give his ſon a large for⯑tune—but the young gentleman fall⯑ing in love, and marrying contrary to his father's conſent, the old man would not be reconciled to him upon any terms, but his taking a voyage to the Indies, and continuing abroad for an interval of three years.—Mr. Melmoth, having no reſource for the maintenance of his wife, but his father's bounty, thought it better to accept of theſe cruel conditions, than to expoſe the woman of his ſoul to penury and diſtreſs: he complied, therefore, though with a bleed⯑ing heart, and accordingly ſet out in about thirteen months after their mar⯑riage, [221] juſt as ſhe had been delivered of a daughter.—He had ſcarce reached the place of his deſtination in the Indies, when his father wrote over a melan⯑cholly letter, containing an account of his wife's death, and his child's; and adviſing him to think of enlarging the term of his reſidence in that quarter of the globe. This was an advice which, the young gentleman readily purſued. After the loſs of all that was moſt dear to his wiſhes, England became hateful to his thoughts, and he did not return, till two years after the death of his fa⯑ther; when he had the mortification to find, that the old gentleman had left all his wealth to ſome remoter branches of his family.—Young Mr. Villars, for ſo I ſhall now call him, though diſappoint⯑ed in his expectations of ſucceeding to his father's fortune, was, however, in very affluent circumſtances himſelf. Dur⯑ing his reſidence abroad, he had acquir⯑ed [222] immenſe riches, and had been left by a friend no leſs than eighty thouſand pounds to take the name of Melmoth. His property, when he came home, he chiefly laid out in the purchaſe of lands; and Bob has told me repeatedly, the va⯑lue of his eſtates is a clear ſeven thou⯑ſand a year.—Yet, though he came home a very young man, and a very rich one, he ſtill avoided mixing much with ſociety.—The company of women he particularly ſhunned; and employed himſelf chiefly in acts of beneficence, and literary reſearches.—I don't recol⯑lect by what accident my brother Bob and he became originally acquainted—but, notwithſtanding the diſparity of years, and the diametrically oppoſite caſt of complexions, he entertained a very high eſteem for Bob; and would ſome⯑times, on his account, viſit at my houſe, and be ſociable.—I always reſpected him—I ſaw what an excellent heart he [223] poſſeſſed; and he gained my eſteem en⯑tirely, by the almoſt parental ſolicitude which he ſhewed for the welfare of my giddy-headed brother—and ſee, my dear, how Providence has rewarded him.—In the very moment that he was la⯑bouring for the happineſs of other peo⯑ple, we ſee his own tranquillity reſtor⯑ed; and find, that the benignity which induced him to mitigate the diſtreſſes of his friends, has been the principal means of removing all thoſe diſtreſſes under which he ſtruggled himſelf.—Who, lady Blandford, ought not to be virtuous, even from intereſt?—ſince, if the con⯑ſciouſneſs of having performed a good action, is not a ſufficient reward, we are ſo generally certain of finding it highly to our advantage in the end?—But now, to ſay ſomething of Mrs. Vil⯑lars—This lady, on the ſuppoſed death of her huſband, was reduced to ſome difficulties for ſupport—and, had not a [224] diſtant relation unexpectedly left her a conſiderable ſum of money, ſhe, per⯑haps, had found it neceſſary to work for bread. Old Mr. Villars would not advance her a ſhilling;—and few are fond of cultivating a friendſhip with calamity.—Soured, therefore, at the world, and ab⯑ſolutely wretched for the loſs of her huſband, the moment ſhe found herſelf in circumſtances, ſhe retired to a ſequeſ⯑tered habitation in the country, and has lived there ever ſince in a very private manner, viſiting very few people, and continuing an intimacy ſcarcely at any houſe but Mr. Mildmay's.

Thus far, lady Blandford, Mr. and Mrs. Villars's ſtory ſeemed to account for their ſeparation; but ſtill there want⯑ed ſome probable cauſes for old Mr. Villars's conduct, as well as for his daughter-in-law's aſſuming the name of Beauclerk. Moſt of us, therefore, ho⯑neſtly [225] expreſſed our ſurprize, that the conſideration of Mr. Melmoth's marry⯑ing a young lady without a fortune, could induce his father to practiſe ſo barbarous a deceit upon an only ſon; and Mr. Melmoth himſelf ſeemed aſtoniſhed, that his lady ſhould, without any reaſonable foundation, ſacrifice his name, while ſhe continued to dedicate herſelf ſo religi⯑ouſly to his memory.—Mrs. Melmoth bluſhed, and only ſaid, ſhe had her reaſons.—

"That ſhe had," cried out Mrs. Dobſon, (who had been in the houſe ſome time, and now eagerly thruſt her⯑ſelf forward.) I was amazed at the good woman; and, indeed, ſo was all the company:—but as ſhe appeared pregnant with ſomething of importance, Mr. Melmoth entreated ſhe would go on.—

[226]"I will, Sir," anſwered ſhe; ‘but, firſt of all, give me leave to aſk you a queſtion or two.—Pray, do you re⯑collect one William Dobſon, who for⯑merly was a favourite ſervant of your father's?’ —

"Yes; very well," returned Mr. Mel⯑moth.—

‘And pray, don't you recollect, that, before your marriage with Miſs Nancy Markham, the lady who now ſtands here, was publicly known, the ſame William Dobſon one day told you, in confidence, that your father was in love with Miſs Markham, and intended to offer very advantageous ſettlements, in hopes that the great⯑neſs of the propoſal, might obviate the difference of his age, and induce her to accept of him as a huſband? Pray, Sir, do you remember this?’

[227]"Yes, Madam," replied Mr. Mel⯑moth, "I remember it perfectly well."

‘Why then, Sir, the whole affair is nothing more than this—Your father, ſtung almoſt to madneſs, at finding himſelf cut off from the firſt wiſh of his heart, reſolved upon the barbarous method of ſeparating you, and mak⯑ing each believe that the other was dead. An aſſurance of this nature coming from a father, could admit of no doubt; and you might either of you have entered into a ſecond mar⯑riage, even before accident had unde⯑ceived you. In either caſe, the diſ⯑covery of the deceit would have only increaſed your diſtreſs; and in the former, ſo long as it remained undiſ⯑covered, ſo long he was certain of making you miſerable.—This was not, however, the whole of his de⯑ſign.—If he could make your lady [228] entertain a belief of your demiſe, he thought it ſtill poſſible for himſelf, at ſome opportunity, to gratify the hor⯑rid purpoſes of his imagination.—Though ſhe was his daughter, he ſtill continued to love her; and once, I believe, actually inſinuated a pro⯑poſition that muſt be ſhocking to humanity.—This was at a time when her neceſſities were extreme, and when he hoped the ſeverity of her ſi⯑tuation would leſſen the horror of his overture.—But let me hurry from this dreadful part of my narrative—When he found himſelf treated with the ab⯑horrence which he merited—when your lady even threatened to expoſe him to the world, and talked of ap⯑plying inſtantly to a magiſtrate, if he ever more came within her doors, he grew outrageous—he hired ruffians to inſult her; and omitted no oppor⯑tunity of ſlandering her reputation. [229] When, therefore, ſhe retired from London, ſhe found it I ſuppoſe ne⯑ceſſary to change her name, for fear of his infamous machinations.—This was what he told my huſband he was fearful of; and it is very fortunate the lady took that precaution; for I have been well aſſured, he made every poſſible enquiry, to diſcover the place of her retreat.’ —

"Gracious God!" exclaimed Mr. Melmoth, ‘and can there be ſuch fa⯑thers?—But pray, Madam, tell me by what means you have gained this information.’ —

‘From the repoſitory of all his ſe⯑crets, William Dobſon, Sir; whom, after the death of a former huſband, once the object of lady Haverſham's benevolence, I married.—Mr. Dob⯑ſon often told me the ſtory, and ſe⯑verely [230] reproached himſelf at times, for continuing in the old gentleman's ſervice.—But it ſeems he was a liberal maſter, and therefore William, I ſup⯑poſe, endeavoured to check the pun⯑gency of his reflections.—Mr. Dob⯑ſon, Sir, died about ſix months ago; and, on his death-bed, conjured me, if ever I found a proper opportunity, to make this diſcovery.—I would not diſturb the aſhes of the dead unne⯑ceſſarily; but the ſurprize which you expreſſed at your lady's change of name, affecting me in a very parti⯑cular manner, I could conceal the cir⯑cumſtance no longer.—Perhaps I have been preſumptuous.—I beg par⯑don of the honourable company; and hope they will excuſe my imperti⯑nence, from a juſt conſideration of my end.’ —

[231]Lady Blandford, did you ever hear ſo dreadful a ſtory?—The barbarous—but let us not think of the monſter—the bare idea of him curdles my very blood, and I ſhake with horror at the recollection of having written ſo much on ſo deteſtable a ſubject.—

When Mrs. Dobſon had done her ſtory, every body endeavoured to ſhift the converſation; and none of us hav⯑ing yet felicitated Mr. Melmoth on his happy diſcovery of ſuch a wife, and ſuch a daughter, we took this opportu⯑nity of doing it very ſincerely.—The worthy man was all extaſy; while the two ladies ſat between Mrs. Mildmay and Louiſa, enjoying a thouſand exqui⯑ſite feelings at ſo fortunate an event; and every now and then teſtifying their ſatisfaction with an expreſſive flood of tears.—Mr. Melmoth, my dear lady Blandford, will be now quite another [232] creature.—His temper has already un⯑dergone a total alteration; and you can⯑not think how pleaſed I am at the im⯑patience which he manifeſts, if he is but a moment abſent from his new⯑found happineſs. He loves his wife with an exceſs of tenderneſs, and in⯑deed well he may—for a more excellent, or a more lovely woman, of her age, I believe, is not to be found in Eng⯑land.—His daughter too is as fine a young lady in perſon, as ever I ſaw, and has a mind that even adds a luſtre to her external accompliſhments.—Well, and what do you think has been already done about her?—why, her father offered fifty thouſand pounds with her to colonel Mildmay; and old Mr. Mild⯑may is ſo heartily for the match, that he propoſes to make a double wedding of it, the moment my brother arrives in town.—Four and twenty hours ago, Mr. Mildmay would not have conſent⯑ed [233] ſo readily to his ſon's marriage with Miſs Beauclerk.—But Miſs Melmoth's fortune has an irreſiſtible charm; and fifty thouſand pounds will be no trifling affair to ſupport the coronet which he expects in his family.—Yet I don't know but this reflection would be a lit⯑tle cruel to the good old man, if I was writing to any body but lady Blandford.

Mr. Mildmay, his lady, and the co⯑lonel, (for Mr. Melmoth deprived me of two viſitors) were now in town about five days, when Bob arrived at my door; The father and ſon were looking through the parlour window, when he ſtopped, and both ran out good-na⯑turedly to meet him, and inſiſted he would make no apologies for what was paſt.—Faults, they obſerved, had been on both ſides; and ſince he had cha⯑ſtized that villain Haſtings, they could forgive him every thing.—Bob, lady [234] Blandford, was in a moſt elegant un⯑dreſs, and really looked charmingly.—Louiſa, who was prepared to expect him every hour, was not much alarmed when he was introduced. She and her mamma were ſitting in the dining room, when he came up between Mr. Mild⯑may and the colonel.—I led the van; and Alexander himſelf, in the midſt of all his victories, I am pretty certain, never experienced one half of my ſatis⯑faction.—You know how I love the recreant, and how I eſteem the Mild⯑mays.—This happy reconciliation, there⯑fore, almoſt overcame me—ſo that in⯑ſtead of ſaying any thing to Louiſa on my entrance, I retired to a ſopha in one corner of the room, and indulged myſelf in a delicious flood of tears.—Bob, however, was all himſelf: with an air of the deepeſt reſpect, yet of the greateſt manlineſs, he went up to the two ladies, and, falling on his knee, [235] held a hand of each alternately to his lips, without once breaking out into any aukward excuſes; which, as mat⯑ters then ſtood, muſt have called back diſagreeable images, and been little elſe, in fact, than ſo many inſinuated af⯑fronts.—Louiſa was all ſweetneſs and confuſion—the mother, nothing but ſenſibility and joy—both, at length, however, inſiſted upon his riſing; and he got up with ſuch a grace—to be ſure, lady Blandford, there is not a finer young fellow in the kingdom—and, as he is now in ſo fair a way of being good, you muſt allow me to ſpeak of him with my utmoſt partiality. In the even⯑ing Mr. Melmoth came with his lady and daughter.—How did my generous Bob—(I will call him my Bob now) ex⯑ult in the happineſs of his friend! and how did that equally generous friend re⯑joice at the happineſs of my brother!—In ſhort, all our hearts overflowed with [236] delight; and, to render this delight the more permanent, we fairly married the two couple at St. George's, Hano⯑ver-Square, the very next morning.

I have been ſo buſy ſince the cele⯑bration of theſe weddings, that the writ⯑ing of this letter has taken me up a whole week; and yet, long as it is now, and, fatigued as I am with drawing it up, I cannot conclude, without inform⯑ing you of ſome farther particulars.—Haſtings's wound, bleſſed be God, is not mortal.—A friend from Paris ſends word, that it had a dangerous appear⯑ance at firſt; but that, by the ſkill of a very able ſurgeon, the patient will be ſoon in a fair way of recovering.—Cri⯑minal as that man may be, ſtill it is a terrible thing to have the blood of a fellow-creature upon our hands.—But the vile Mrs. Darnel—I know not whe⯑ther it is improper ſometimes to be un⯑concerned [237] at the misfortunes of the un⯑commonly wicked—That wretch, find⯑ing her infamous hypocriſy thus palpa⯑bly detected, and, fearing both the re⯑proach of the whole world, and the ut⯑moſt ſeverity of the law on account of her behaviour to Louiſa, ſold off her houſe and furniture, and, with the mo⯑ney it produced, prepared to embark for France—but in going down the river for that purpoſe, the boat accidentally overſet, and the miſerable creature, to⯑gether with the woman who had been the principal inſtrument in the barba⯑rous behaviour to my ſiſter, was drown⯑ed.—As for lady Harold's own maid, Sally, one of my brother's men aſſures him, ſhe died in an hoſpital, of a di⯑ſtemper that naturally reſulted from her crimes.—Thus you ſee, in the ſhort ſtory of our family, my dear lady Bland⯑ford, that vice is ſure to be puniſhed at [238] laſt, however proſperous it may appear in the ſetting out: whereas virtue, let it be never ſo depreſſed in the begin⯑ning, is always certain of triumphing in the end.—In the courſe of our little no⯑vel, all the worthy characters of di⯑ſtinction have been made happy, and Louiſa will take care that none of the inferior ones ſhall go unrewarded. Mrs. Dobſon is to be her houſekeeper, with an annuity of a hundred pounds for life; and the good woman's garden is to be ſettled on her children in the country.—Mrs. Carter's Sally is to at⯑tend my ſiſter in quality of woman; and my Bob has taken a large houſe in St. James's Market for the mother; which, when properly ſtocked and fitted up, he intends her as a preſent, and has no doubt but ſhe will be ſoon able to give her daughter ſuch a fortune, as will get her a very excellent huſband. [239] —God bleſs you, my dear lady Bland⯑ford—take care of your health, and ſet me down as