THE HISTORY OF HARRIOT AND SOPHIA CONTINUED.

IT was not long before Sophia had an account of Sir Charles's viſit from her mother, who, forgetting the part ſhe had acted before, wrote her a letter full of invectives againſt her obſtinacy and diſobedience, and bitter upbraidings of her folly, for loſing by her ill-timed pride, the heart of ſuch a man as Sir Charles.

She told her, with a kind of exultation, that he had utterly forgot her, and repeated every circum⯑ſtance of his behaviour while he was with her, and every word he had ſpoke, as all tending to ſhew his indifference; but though this was done to mor⯑tify Sophia, and make her repent of her precipitate departure, yet her diſcernment, and that facility which lovers have, in flattering their own wiſhes, pointed out to her many things in this minute relation, which ſerved rather to nouriſh hope than deſtroy it.

Mrs. Darnley added, as the finiſhing ſtroke, that Sir Charles looked pale and thin; ſhe attributed this alteration in his health to the efforts he had made [415] to baniſh her from his heart, and thence inferred that a reſolution which had coſt him ſo much trouble to confirm, would not be eaſily broke through; and that ſhe had no reaſon to expect he would ever deſire to ſee her more.

Sophia could not read this part of the letter without tears, tears that flowed from tender ſenſi⯑bility, accompanied with a ſenſation which was neither grief nor joy, but compoſed of both: that Sir Charles ſhould reſolve to forget her was indeed afflicting, but that this reſolution ſhould coſt him ſtruggles ſo painful as to affect his health, could not but raiſe her depreſſed hopes, ſince it ſhewed the difficulty of the attempt, and conſequently that the ſucceſs was doubtful.

This letter gave ſo much employment to her thoughts, that to be at liberty to indulge them ſhe took her evening walk without ſoliciting the company of her beloved Dolly, and wandered far into the wood, attracted by thoſe romantic ſhades which afford ſuch ſoothing pleaſure to a love-ſick mind. Here, while ſhe meditated on her mother's letter, and read it over and over, ſtill ſeeking, and ſtill finding ſomething new in it to engage her at⯑tention, ſhe heard the voices of ſome perſons talk⯑ing behind her, and ſuddenly recollecting Dolly's adventure, ſhe began to be alarmed at the diſtance to which ſhe had unwarily ſtrayed, and turned her ſteps haſtily towards home.

Mean time a ſudden guſt of wind blew off her hat, and carried it ſeveral paces back: ſhe turned, in order to recover it, and ſaw it taken up by a genteel young man, who on a nearer approach ſhe [416] knew to be the lover of her young friend. Pleaſed at this encounter, ſhe advanced to receive her hat from him, which he gave her with a bluſhing grace, awed by the dignity of her mein, and that ſpark⯑ling intelligence which beamed in her eyes, and ſeemed to penetrate into his inmoſt ſoul; for Sophia, who was deeply intereſted for her innocent and unhappy friend, conſidered him attentively, and was deſirous of entering into ſome conver⯑ſation with him, that ſhe might be enabled to form a more exact judgment of his underſtanding and manners than ſhe could from the accounts of the partial Dolly.

While ſhe was talking to him they were joined by an ancient gentlewoman, who accoſting Sophia, told her in an affected ſtyle and formal accent, that her nephew was very happy in having had an op⯑portunity to do her this little piece of ſervice.

Sophia, who ſaw an old woman, apparently op⯑preſt with the infirmities of years, dreſt in all the ridiculous foppery of the laſt age, was ſo little pleaſed with her, that ſhe would have anſwered this compliment with great coldneſs, had not the deſire and hope of being ſerviceable to her friend made her conquer her growing diſguſt; ſhe therefore re⯑ſolved to improve this opportunity of commencing an acquaintance with the aunt of young William, and met her advances with her uſual ſweetneſs and affability, ſo that the old woman was quite charmed with her; and being very deſirous to gain her good opinion, and to ſhew her breeding, of which ſhe was extremely vain, overwhelmed her with troubleſome ceremony; and, to diſplay her under⯑ſtanding, [417] of which ſhe was equally proud, murdered ſo many hard words, that her diſcourſe was ſcarcely intelligible.

Sophia would fain have drawn in the youth to partake of their converſation, but his aunt's volu⯑bility left him very little to ſay; yet in that little Sophia thought ſhe diſcovered both good ſenſe and politeneſs.

The evening being now pretty far advanced, Sophia thought it time to ſeparate, and took leave of her new acquaintance. Their parting was pro⯑tracted by ſo many courteſies and compliments from the old lady, that her patience was almoſt wearied out; at laſt ſhe get free from her, and quickened her pace towards home, when on a ſud⯑den ſhe heard her in a tremulous voice calling out, "Madam, madam, pray ſtop one moment." Sophia looked back, and ſeeing Mrs. Gibbons come tottering up to her with mere ſpeed than was conſiſtent with her weakneſs, ſhe met her half way, and ſmiling, aſked her why ſhe had turned back?

‘Oh, madam, replied ſhe, I am ready to ſink with confuſion! what a ſolſim in good breeding have I committed! to be ſure you will think I have been uſed to converſe with ſavages only.’ Sophia, not able to gueſs what this ſpeech tended to, looked at Mr. Gibbons as if ſhe wiſhed for an explanation.

‘My aunt, madam, ſaid the youth, (bluſhing a little at the old woman's affectation,) is con⯑cerned that you ſhould walk home alone, and [418] that I can't offer my ſervice to attend you, being obliged to lead her, as you ſee.’

‘That is not all, nephew, ſaid the ceremonious gentlewoman: you do not tell the young lady the true cauſe of the dilemnia I am in: I would not leave you, madam, purſued ſhe, till I ſaw you ſafe home, but you live with a family who has affronted me, and I cannot endure to come with⯑in ſight of the houſe. I never can forgive an affront, that would be to ſhew I do not under⯑ſtand the laws of good breeding: but I thank heaven no body can charge me with that, I was very early inſtituted into polite life; but ſome people are not to be aſſeſſed with.’

‘I hope, ſaid Sophia, (ſcarce able to compoſe her countenance to any tolerable degree of ſeriouſneſs) that none of Mr. Lawſon's family have given you cauſe of complaint: they ſeem to me incapable of affronting any one, much more a perſon that.’ —

‘Oh, dear madam, interrupted the old lady, cour⯑teſying low, you do me a great deal of honour; but you will find, nay you muſt have obſerved already, that Mrs. Lawſon is vulgar, very vulgar, ſhe knows nothing of decorums.’

‘I am very ſorry for this miſunderſtanding be⯑tween you, ſaid Sophia, and I ſhould think it a very great happineſs if I could be any way uſeful in renewing your friendſhip.’

‘Oh, cried Mrs. Gibbons, you might as well think of joining the Antipoles, madam, as of bringing us together again; and I am grieved [419] beyond meaſure when I think that it is impoſ⯑ſible for me to wait on you.’

‘However, anſwered Sophia, you will have no objection, I hope, to my coming to ſee you.’

‘By no means, madam, replied Mrs. Gib⯑bons, you came laſt into the country, and you are entitled to the firſt viſit; I would not for the world break through the laws of politeneſs; I am ſorry you have ſo indifferent an opinion of my breeding.’

Sophia perceiving that the old gentlewoman was a little diſcompoſed, for this article of good breed⯑ing was a tender point with her, endeavoured to bring her into good humour, by ſome well-timed compliments, and once more took leave of her; but Mrs. Gibbons now inſiſted upon her nephew's ſeeing her ſafe home, ſaying, ‘She would reſt her⯑ſelf under a tree till he came back.’

Sophia but faintly declined this civility, for ſhe feared to offend her again; and the joy that ſparkled in William's eyes when his aunt made this offer of his attendance, made her unwilling to diſappoint him of the hope of ſeeing his miſtreſs; ſo after much ceremony on the part of Mrs. Gib⯑bons, they ſeparated.

As they walked, Sophia took occaſion to expreſs her concern for the violent reſentment his aunt had entertained againſt Mr. Lawſon's family, and which ſeemed to make a reconciliation hopeleſs.

The youth told her, that nothing could be more trivial than the accident that had occaſioned it; and yet, purſued he, ſighing deeply, ‘ſlight as it is, the conſequences are likely to be fatal enough.’

[420]During their converſation Sophia diſcovered ſo much good ſenſe and delicacy of ſentiment in the young William, that ſhe more than ever pitied the fate of theſe poor lovers, whoſe happineſs was ſa⯑crificed to the capricious temper of an affected old woman: ſhe aſſured him ſhe would neglect no opportunity to improve her acquaintance with his aunt: ‘And perhaps, ſaid ſhe, with an inchanting ſmile, that expreſſed the benevolence of her heart, I may be ſo fortunate as to effect a recon⯑ciliation between her and my Dolly's family.’

Mr. Gibbons thanked her in tranſports of joy and gratitude; and now Dolly and her ſiſter, who had walked out in ſearch of Sophia, appearing in ſight, ſhe mended her pace, in order to come up with them ſoon; for in the ardent glances that William ſent towards his miſtreſs, ſhe read his im⯑patience to ſpeak to her.

Dolly, who was in the utmoſt ſurpriſe, to ſee Sophia thus accompanied, took no notice of Wil⯑liam; but avoiding, with a ſweet baſhfulneſs, his earneſt and paſſionate looks: ſhe fixed her eyes on Miſs Darnley, as if ſhe wiſhed to hear from her by what chance they had met.

‘I know, ſaid Sophia to her ſmiling, that you did not expect to ſee me ſo agreeably engaged; but Mr. Gibbons can inform you how his aunt, whom we left in the foreſt yonder, and I became acquainted.’ She then addreſſed ſome diſcourſe to Fanny, to give the lovers an opportunity of talk⯑ing to each other.

Dolly aſked a thouſand queſtions concerning their meeting, and his aunt's behaviour to Miſs Darn⯑ley; [421] but the paſſionate youth leaving it to Sophia to ſatisfy her curioſity, employed the few moments he had to ſtay with her in tender aſſurances of his own unaltered affection, and complaints of her indifference.

‘Surely, ſaid Dolly, with tears in her eyes, I ought not to be blamed for obeying my father.’

‘Ah, my dear Dolly, replied William, our af⯑fections are not in the power of our fathers; and if you hate me now becauſe your father com⯑mands you to do ſo, you never loved me.’

‘Hate you, cried Dolly; no, Mr. William, my father never bid me hate you; and if he had I am ſure I could not have obeyed him: he only commanded me to forget you.’

‘Only to forget me, repeated William, in a melancholy tone: then you think that little, Dolly; and perhaps you will be able to obey him; but be aſſured I would rather be hated by you than forgotten.’

"That is ſtrange, indeed," ſaid Dolly, ſmiling through her tears.

‘You would not think it ſtrange, replied the youth, in an accent that expreſſed at once grief and reſentment, if you had ever loved. Ah Dolly, are all your tender promiſes come to this! little did I imagine I ſhould ever ſee you altered thus! but I will trouble you no more, added he, ſighing, as if his heart would break; I will endeavour to follow your example: per⯑haps it is not ſo difficult a thing as I imagined to cure one's ſelf of love; you have ſhewn me it is poſſible, and if I fail in the attempt I can be [422] but miſerable, and that you have made me now.’ As he ſpoke theſe words, he turned half from her, and let fall ſome tears.

Dolly, who had no intention to make him un⯑eaſy, was exceſſively affected with this ſight, and not a little alarmed at what he had ſaid: ‘And will you try to forget me, ſaid ſhe, in the moſt moving tone imaginable; then indeed you will be falſe and perjured too, for you have ſworn a thouſand times that you would love me for ever.’

‘Why ſhould you wiſh to ſee me wretched, ſaid he; you have reſolved to love me no longer, and it is but reaſonable that I ſhould try to forget you.’

He would have proceeded in this ſtrain; but turning to look on her, he ſaw her ſweet face overſpread with tears. ‘Oh my Dolly, cried he, we are very cruel to each other; but I am moſt to blame: can you pardon me, my deareſt: ſay you can; alas, I know I do not deſerve it.’

Dolly's heart was ſo oppreſt that ſhe was not able to ſpeak; but ſhe held out her hand to her young lover, who ſeizing it eagerly, preſt it to his lips, ‘Yes, I will love you, ſaid he, though you ſhould hate me; I will love you to my lateſt breath.’

Dolly perceiving Sophia and her ſiſter coming up to them, drew away her hand haſtily; but looked on him at the ſame time, with inexpreſſible tenderneſs: Sophia told him with a ſmile, that ſhe was afraid his aunt would be impatient: upon which he made his bow, and haſtened back to her.

[423]Fanny now left her ſiſter alone with Miſs Darn⯑ley, who perceiving that ſhe had been weeping, aſked her tenderly the cauſe. ‘Oh my dear miſs, ſaid the poor girl, bluſhing and preſſing her hand, if I had but a little of your prudence and good ſenſe, I ſhould obey my father better; but when one has once given one's heart, it is very dif⯑ficult to recal it.’

‘Very true, my dear, ſaid Sophia; therefore one ought not to be in haſte to give it.’

‘I hope, interupted Dolly with an anxious look, you have obſerved nothing in Mr. William to make you change your good opinion of him.’

‘Quite the contrary, ſaid Sophia, I believe him to be a good, and I am ſure he is a ſenſible youth: nay more, I believe he has a ſincere regard for you; and that, purſued ſhe, ſighing, is ſaying a great deal, conſidering what reaſon I have to judge unfavourably of men: but, my dear, I would have you keep your paſſion ſo far ſub⯑jected to your reaſon, as to make it not too dif⯑ficult for you to obey your father, if he is fully determined to refuſe his content.’ I know, added ſhe, with a gentle ſmile, ‘That it is eaſier to be wiſe for others than for ourſelves; but I know it is not impoſſible for a heart in love to follow the dictates of reaſon: I think ſo highly of Mr. Lawſon's underſtanding and good⯑neſs, that I am perſuaded he would not lay an unreaſonable command upon you, and by what I could collect from ſome hints dropt by Mrs. Gibbons, and the little diſcourſe I had with your lover, the old gentlewoman is wholly to blame.’

[424] ‘Did Mr. William tell you, ſaid Dolly, what was the occaſion of their quarrel?’

‘No, replied Sophia: I ſhould be glad to hear it from yourſelf.’

‘Well, reſumed Dolly, taking her under the arm, let us go to our dear oak then, and there we ſhall be out of ſight; but I am impatient to know how you met, and what converſation you had.’ Sophia ſatisfied her curioſity, divert⯑ing herſelf a little with the old lady's hard words, and her ſtrict regard to ceremony.

‘Ah, ſaid Dolly, it was thoſe hard words, and the clutter ſhe made about ceremony and de⯑corum, that occaſioned all our unhappineſs; for as I told you, miſs, ſhe was well enough pleaſed with her nephew's choice, ſaying, that he was in the right to marry like a gentleman, and pre⯑fer perſon and breeding to money: however, ſoon after ſhe came into the country, ſhe ſhewed herſelf a little diſſatisfied with my education, and ſaid, that as my father was a gentleman and a ſcholar, he ought to have taught his daughters a little Greek and Latin, to have diſtinguiſhed them from meer country girls.’

‘Your mother, I ſuppoſe, ſaid Sophia, laughed at this notion.’

‘It does not become me, ſaid Dolly, to blame my mother; but to be ſure ſhe took great delight in ridiculing Mrs. Gibbons: indeed it was ſcarce poſſible to help ſmiling now and then at her hard words, and her formal politeneſs; but my mother, as Mr. William often told me with great concern, carried her raillery ſo far that [425] his aunt would certainly be offended with it at laſt; and ſo indeed ſhe was, and grew every day cooler, with regard to the marriage. This diſ⯑guſted my mother more, ſo every thing wore a melancholy appearance: at length Mrs. Gibbons broke out one day violently, upon my mother's ſending a diſh of tea to another gentlewoman before her. I ſaw a ſtorm in her countenance, and dreading the conſequence, I made haſte to carry her, her diſh myſelf, but ſhe refuſed it ſcornfully, and then began to attack my mother in her ſtrange language, upon her want of breed⯑ing, and ignorance of the rules of precendency, that was her word. My mother at firſt only laughed, and rallied; but when the reſt of our viſitors was gone, and Mrs. Gibbons only remained, the quar⯑rel grew ſerious. My mother, who was out of patience with her folly, ſaid ſome ſevere things, which provoked Mrs. Gibbons ſo much, that ſhe roſe up in a fury, and declared ſhe would never more have any collection with ſuch vulgar crea⯑tures. At that moment my father and Mr. William, who had been walking together, came into the room: they both were exceſſively ſur⯑priſed at the diſorder that appeared among us; and poor Mr. William, who was moſt apprehen⯑ſive, turned as pale as death: he gave me a me⯑lancholy look, as fearing what had happened, and had ſcarce courage enough to aſk his aunt what was the matter? Mean time, my mother, in a laughing way gave my father an account of what had happened, repeating ſome of Mrs. Gibbons's ſtrange words, and made the whole affair appear [426] ſo ridiculous, that Mrs. Gibbons in a great fury, flung out of the houſe, declaring that from that moment ſhe broke off any treatiſe of marriage between her nephew and me; and that, if he con⯑tinued to make his addreſſes to me, ſhe would make a will and leave all her money to a diſtant relation. Mr. William was obliged to follow his aunt; but he begged my father's leave to re⯑turn as ſoon as he had ſeen her ſafe home. When he came back, he implor'd my father, with tears in his eyes, not to forbid his ſeeing me: he ſaid the loſs of his aunt's fortune would give him no concern if he durſt hope that it would make no alteration in my father's reſolutions, ſince his own little inheritance was ſufficient to maintain us comfortably. My father was pleaſed with his generous affection for me, and ſaid a great many obliging things to him, as did my mother likewiſe, ſo that we thought our misfortune not ſo bad; but the next day old Mr. Gibbons came plodding to our houſe, and with a great deal of confuſion and aukwardneſs, told my fa⯑ther that he was very ſorry for what had happened; but ſiſter had changed her mind, and would not let her nephew marry, and he was afraid if he diſobliged her ſhe would leave all her money to ſtrangers; ſo he begged him to give his ſon no encouragement, but to tell him plainly he muſt obey his aunt and his father; and he ſaid he was ſure his ſon would mind what my father ſaid to him more than any body elſe.’

‘I am in pain for poor Mr. Lawſon, ſaid So⯑phia. What a booriſh ſpeech was this!’

[427] ‘My father, reſum'd Dolly, ſaid afterwards, that if it had not been for the concern he felt for me and Mr. William, he would have been ex⯑ceſſively diverted with the old man's ſimplicity; but he anſwered him gravely and with great civi⯑lity: he promiſed him that the affair ſhould go no farther; that I ſhould receive no more viſits from his ſon; and that he would talk with him, and endeavour to make him ſubmit patiently to what his father and his aunt had determined for him. The old man thanked my father a thouſand times over for his kindneſs, and after a great many bows and ſcrapes he went away. My father was as good as his word: he laid his commands on me to think no more of Mr. Wil⯑liam, and forbad me to ſee or ſpeak to him; and when Mr. William came next, he took him with him into his ſtudy and talked to him a long time. He acknowledged that Mr. William had oftener than once moved him even to tears; but for all that he did not relent, and we were not allowed ſo much as to ſpeak to each other alone, for fear we ſhould take any meaſures to meet in private. This I thought very ſevere, purſued Dolly, ſighing, we might at leaſt have been in⯑dulged in taking leave, ſince we were to be ſe⯑parated for ever.’

‘I cannot blame your father, ſaid Sophia, he was indiſpenſably obliged to act as he did: it is to be wiſhed indeed that Mrs. Lawſon had paſ⯑ſed over the poor woman's follies with more temper; but this cannot be helped now: per⯑haps I may be able to ſerve you. The old gentle⯑woman [428] ſeems to have taken a liking to me; I ſhall endeavour to improve it, that I may have an opportunity to ſoften her: it is not impoſ⯑ſible but this matter may end well yet.’

‘Poor Dolly was ready enough to admit a hope ſo pleaſing, and felt her heart more at eaſe than it had been a long time. As for William, his aunt's extravagant praiſes of Sophia, and ſome expreſſions which ſhe dropped, intimating that ſhe ſhould be pleaſed if he could make himſelf acceptable to ſo fine a lady, hinted to him a ſcheme which might afford him the means of ſeeing his miſtreſs ſometimes: he ſeemed there⯑fore to liſten with ſatisfaction to theſe dark over⯑tures made by his aunt, and upon her ſpeaking ſtill plainer, he ſaid it would be preſumption in him to think that a young lady ſo accompliſhed as Miſs Darnley would look down upon him; and beſides, he had no opportunity of improving an acquaintance with her, being forbid Mr. Lawſon's houſe, at her requeſt.’

The old woman, pleaſed to find he made ſo little oppoſition to her deſire, told him, ‘That he would have opportunities enough of ſeeing and con⯑verſing with the lady; ſhe often walks out, ſaid ſhe, either in the foreſt or the fields about the houſe: cannot you throw yourſelf in her way, and accoſt her politely, as you very well know how; and, to felicitate your ſucceſs, I will let her know that I am willing to receive the honour of a viſit from her, though this is againſt all the rules of decorum, for it is my part to viſit her firſt, ſhe being the greateſt ſtranger here: you [429] ſhall deliver my meſſage to her to-morrow your⯑ſelf.’

‘The youth replied, coldly, that it was poſ⯑ſible he might not meet with her to-morrow: ne⯑vertheleſs he would go every day to the foreſt, and wherever it was likely ſhe would walk, in hopes of ſeeing her.’

Mrs. Gibbons, exulting in the hope of mortify⯑ing Mrs. Lawſon, told her nephew, ‘That if he could ſucceed in his addreſſes to miſs Darnley, and give her ſo fine a lady for a niece, ſhe would ſettle the beſt part of her fortune on him im⯑mediately.’

William ſuffered her to pleaſe herſelf with theſe imaginations, having ſecured the liberty of going unſuſpected, and as often as he pleaſed, to thoſe places where he could ſee his beloved Dolly; hitherto he had not dared to indulge himſelf fre⯑quently in theſe ſtolen interviews, leſt his aunt being informed of them, ſhould take meaſures to engage Mr. Lawſon to keep his daughter under a greater reſtraint; but now he continually haunted the park, the wood, and the fields about Mr. Law⯑ſon's houſe: here he could not fail of often ſeeing his miſtreſs, and ſometimes of ſpeaking to her unobſerved by any one.

Dolly never failed to chide him as often as this happened, for thus laying her under a neceſſity of diſobeying her father's injunctions; but ſhe took no pains to ſhun thoſe places where ſhe was al⯑moſt ſure of meeting him; and her chiding was ſo gentle, that he was convinced ſhe was not greatly offended.

[430]Sophia happening to meet him one morning, while he was thus ſauntering about, ſhe enquired for his aunt, and hearing from him how deſirous the old gentlewoman was of ſeeing her, ſhe who was full of her benevolent ſcheme, and eager to put it in execution, delayed her viſit no longer than till the afternoon.

Mrs. Gibbons conſidered this as a proof of her ne⯑phew's ſincerity, and was in ſo good a humour, that ſhe liſtened without any ſigns of diſpleaſure, to the praiſes which Sophia artfully introduced of Dolly; and even ſometimes joined in them: Sophia thought this a very favourable beginning, and went away full of hope that ſhe ſhould ſucced in her deſign: but while ſhe was thus endeavouring to make others happy, her ſiſter was preparing a new mortification for her.

Sir Charles continued to viſit Mrs. Darnley as uſual: he paſſed ſome hours every day at her houſe, and while he applauded himſelf for the ſteadineſs of his reſolution, not to follow his miſtreſs, he per⯑ceived not his own weakneſs in ſeeking every alle⯑viation of her abſence. He went to the houſe where ſhe had formerly dwelt, becauſe every object he ſaw in it brought her dear idea to his mind: he loved to turn over the books he had ſeen her read, to ſit in thoſe places where ſhe uſed to ſit: he was tranſported when he ſaw any thing that be⯑longed to her; and when he was not obſerved by the inquiſitive eyes of Harriot, he indulged his own in gazing upon Sophia's picture, faintly as it ex⯑preſſed the attractive graces of the original: he endured the trifling diſcourſe of Mrs, Darnley [431] and the inſipid gaiety of Harriot, and left all other company and amuſements to converſe with them, that he might hear ſomething concerning Sophia; for he had the art, without ſeeming to deſign it, to turn the diſcourſe frequently upon her, and thus drew from the loquacious mother all he de⯑ſired to know, without appearing to be intereſted in it.

Mrs. Darnley knew not what judgment to form of his aſſiduity in viſiting her, and vainly endeavour⯑ed to penetrate into his views. As for Harriot, who had no idea of thoſe refinements of tenderneſs which influenced Sir Charles's conduct on this oc⯑caſion, ſhe concluded that her charms had once more enſlaved him, and exulted in her fancied conqueſt the more, as it was a triumph over her ſiſter, who had been the occaſion of ſo many mor⯑tifications to her.

Nothing is ſo eaſy or ſo fallacious as the belief that we are beloved and admired; our own va⯑nity helps the deceit, where a deceit is intended: and a coquet who has a double portion of it, wil⯑lingly deceives herſelf.

Harriot was now fully perſuaded that Sir Charles had forgot Sophia, and was wholly devoted to her. Impatient to inſult her with the news of his change, ſhe propoſed to her mother to make her a viſit: Mrs. Darnley immediately conſented, not be⯑cauſe ſhe was very deſirous to ſee her daughter, but becauſe every thing that wore the face of amuſement was always acceptable to her. Sir Charles, upon being made acquainted with their [432] intention, offered to accommodate them with his chariot; and although he only deſired them coldly to preſent his compliments to Sophia, yet when he reflected that they would ſoon ſee and converſe with her, he could not help envying their hap⯑pineſs; and it was with great difficulty he con⯑quered himſelf ſo far as to forbear going with them.

THE HISTORY OF THE COUNT DE COMMINGE CONTINUED.

THE meeting between my father and me was, on my ſide, full of reſpect, but coldneſs and ‘I have given you leiſure, ſaid he to me, to repent of your folly, and I am now come to give you the means to make me forget it; re⯑turn this inſtance of my indulgence with obe⯑dience, and prepare to receive as you ought, the count of Foix, and mademoiſelle de Foix his daughter, for whom I have deſtined you. The marriage ſhall be ſolemnized here; they will ar⯑rive to-morrow with your mother; I came before them only to give the neceſſary orders for their reception.’

‘I am ſorry, Sir, replied I calmly, that I cannot comply with your wiſhes: I have too much ho⯑nour to marry a perſon I can never love, there⯑fore I intreat you will permit me to leave this [450] place directly. Mademoiſelle de Foix, however amiable ſhe may be, cannot alter my reſolution; and if I ſee her, the affront I ſhall give her by refuſing her hand, will be more poignant to her.’

‘No, interrupted my father in a rage, thou ſhalt not ſee her, nor ſhalt thou be allowed to ſee the day; I will ſhut thee up in a dungeon, a fitter habitation. I ſwear by heaven, that thou ſhalt never be delivered from thy confinement, till I am convinced thy repentance is ſincere, and thy change certain. I will puniſh thee for thy diſobedience every way that is in my power; I will deprive thee of my eſtate, and ſettle it up⯑on mademoiſelle de Foix, to fulfil, in ſome de⯑gree, the promiſe I have given her.’

I made no oppoſition to my father's tyrannical deſign; I ſuffered myſelf to be conducted to an old tower, where I was confined in a place at the bot⯑tom of it, which received no light but from a little grated window which looked into one of the courts of the caſtle. My father gave orders that food ſhould be brought me twice a-day, but that I ſhould not be ſuffered to ſee any perſon whatever.

I paſſed the firſt days of my confinement with tranquility enough, and even with ſome kind of pleaſure. What I had ſo lately done for Adelaida employed all my thoughts, and left no room for reflection on the horrors of my condition; but when this ſentiment began to loſe its force, I re⯑ſigned myſelf up to deſpair at being thus doomed to an abſence of which I knew not the end. My buſy imagination tortured me with the apprehenſion of a thouſand other evils: Adelaida might be forced [451] to enter into another engagement: I fancied her ſurrounded with rivals, all aſſiduous to pleaſe, while I had none to plead for me but my miſeries; but to a mind ſo generous as Adelaida's, was not this ſufficient? I reproached myſelf for entertaining the leaſt doubt; I asked her pardon for it, as for a crime, and my heart gathered new ſtrength from the confidence I had in her fidelity.

My mother found means to convey a letter to my hands, in which ſhe exhorted me to ſubmit to my father, whoſe rage againſt me ſeemed to in⯑creaſe every day. She added, that ſhe ſuffered a great deal herſelf; that her endeavours to pro⯑cure a reconciliation between him and the family of Luſſan had made him ſuſpect that ſhe acted in concert with me.

I was greatly affected at the uneaſineſs my mo⯑ther ſuffered on my account; but as I could not accuſe myſelf of having voluntarily cauſed her any part of it, all I could do was to lament her ſitu⯑ation.

One day when I was, as uſual, wholly taken up with reflections on my unhappy fate, ſomething fell through the window into my dungeon, which im⯑mediately rouzed my attention. I ſaw a letter on the floor, I ſeized it with trembling haſte; but what became of me when I read the contents! they were as follow: ‘Your father's rage has inſtructed me what I ought to do. I know the terrible ſituation you are in, and I know but one method to extricate you from it, which will perhaps make you more miſerable; but I ſhall be ſo as well as you, and that thought will give me reſolution to do [452] what is required of me. Our cruel parents, to make it impoſſible for me to be yours, inſiſt up⯑on my marrying another. This is the price your father has ſet upon your liberty; it will perhaps coſt me my life, my quiet it too ſurely will, to pay it: but I am determined. Your ſufferings and your priſon are at preſent all that I can think of: in a few days I ſhall be the wife of the marquis de Benavides; his character is ſufficient to acquaint me with all I have to ſuffer from him; but this ſort of fidelity I owe you, at leaſt that in the engagement I enter into, I ſhould find nothing but miſery. May you, on the contrary, be hap⯑py; your good fortune will be my conſolation. I am ſenſible I ought not to tell you this: if I was truly generous I ſhould ſuffer you to be ignorant of the part you have in my marriage; I ſhould leave you in doubt of my conſtancy. I had formed a deſign to do ſo, but I was not able to ex⯑ecute it: in my ſad ſituation I have need of being ſupported with the thought that the remem⯑brance of me will not be hateful to you. Alas! ſoon, very ſoon it will not be permitted me to preſerve yours.—I muſt forget you;—at leaſt I muſt endeavour ſo to do.—Of all my miſeries this is what I am moſt ſenſible of: you will in⯑creaſe it if you do not carefully avoid all op⯑portunities of ſeeing and ſpeaking to me. Re⯑flect that you owe me this mark of your eſteem, and oh! reflect how dear that eſteem will be to me, ſince of all the ſentiments you have profeſt for me, it is the only one that I am allowed to require of you.’

[453]Of this fatal letter, which I have related at length, I was able to read no more than to theſe words: ‘Our cruel parents, to make it impoſſible for me to be yours, inſiſt upon my marrying another.’ Pierced to the heart with this cruel, this unex⯑pected misfortune, I ſunk upon the mattraſs which compoſed my bed, and lay there ſeveral hours without ſenſe or motion, and probably might never have recovered, but for the aſſiſtance of the per⯑ſon who brought me my proviſions. If he was alarmed at the condition in which he found me, he was much more ſo at the exceſs of my deſpair, when my ſenſes returned. The letter, which I held faſt in my hand during my ſwoon, and which I at laſt read quite through, was wet with my tears, and I ſpoke and acted extravagancies which made him apprehenſive for my reaſon.

This man, who till then had been inacceſſible to pity, was melted all on a ſudden: he blamed my father for his cruel treatment of me; he reproved himſelf for having executed his orders; he aſked my pardon on his knees. His repentance inſpired me with the thought of propoſing to him to let me quit my priſon for eight days only, promiſing him that, at the expiration of that time, I would return and put myſelf into his hands: I added every thing I could think of to oblige him to con⯑ſent. Moved at the ſtate he ſaw me in, excited by his own intereſt, and by the fear that I ſhould one day take vengeance upon him for being the in⯑ſtrument of my father's cruelty, he agreed to what I deſired, upon the condition I had myſelf propoſed to him.

[454]I would have ſet out that moment from the caſtle, but there was a neceſſity for his going to ſeek for horſes; and when he returned, he informed me that we could not get any till the next day. My deſign was to go to Adelaida, to tell her all my grief and deſpair, and to kill myſelf before her eyes, if ſhe perſiſted in her reſolution.

To execute this project, it was neceſſary that I ſhould arrive before her fatal marriage, and every moment's delay ſeemed to me an age of miſery. I read over her letter a hundred times, as if I had expected to find ſtill ſomething more in it. I ex⯑amined the date over and over; I flattered myſelf that the time might have been prolonged. ‘She will at leaſt make an effort, ſaid I; ſhe will ſeize all pretences to defer it. But why ſhould I flat⯑ter myſelf with ſo vain a hope, reſumed I? Ade⯑laida ſacrificing herſelf for my liberty will haſten the dreadful moment. Alas! can ſhe believe that liberty without her, can be a bleſſing to me? I ſhall every where find this priſon ſhe delivers me from; ſhe has never known my heart; ſhe judges of me by other men: it is to that I owe my ruin. I am ſtill more miſerable than I be⯑lieved myſelf, ſince I have not the conſolation to think that ſhe knows how much I love her.’

I paſt the whole night in making theſe com⯑plaints, the moſt tedious night I had ever known, even in that place of miſery. At length the day appeared; I mounted on horſeback with my con⯑ductor. We travelled the whole day without ſtop⯑ping a moment, when, towards the evening, I per⯑ceived my mother in a chariot which took the road [455] towards the caſtle. She knew me immediately, and, after having expreſſed her ſurprize at meet⯑ing me, ſhe obliged me to come into the chariot to her. I durſt not ask her the occaſion of her jour⯑ney in the ſituation I was in; I feared every thing, and my fear was but too well founded.

‘I come, my ſon, ſaid ſhe, by your father's permiſſion, to releaſe you from your confine⯑ment.’ ‘Ah! cried I, then Adelaida is mar⯑ried.’ My mother anſwered only by ſilence. My misfortune which was then without remedy, pre⯑ſented itſelf to my mind with all its horrid aggra⯑vations. I fell into a kind of ſtupidity, and, by the force of grief, I ſeemed to have loſt the ſenſe of it. However, my body now ſunk under the weakneſs of my mind: I was ſeized in the coach with a ſhivering like the cold fit of an ague. As ſoon as we arrived at the caſtle, my mother cauſed me to be put to bed. I lay two days without ſpeaking or taking any nouriſhment; all the ſymp⯑toms of a violent fever appeared, and, on the fourth, the phyſician deſpaired of my life. My mother who never left me, was inconceiveably af⯑flicted; her tears, her prayers, and the name of Adelaida, by which ſhe conjured me to live, made me reſolve not to obſtruct the endeavours of the phyſician to ſave me.

THE HISTORY OF BIANCA CAPELLO CONTINUED.

THE polite behaviour and promiſes of Mandragone, gave ſuch agreeable hopes to Bianca, that with quite another countenance than before, ſhe renewed her converſation with his lady; who, a little after, taking her by the hand, ſaid, I have a mind to ſhow you our palace, that you may tell me, if in any thing it reſembles your great and noble buildings at Venice; and in the mean time, the old lady, your mother, as ſhe is in years and feeble, may repoſe herſelf here till our return.

‘Aye, aye, go (replied ſhe,) for I have not breath enough to mount ſuch a ſtair-caſe;’ upon which the young women ſmiling, and arm in arm, ran from room to room, almoſt over the whole houſe. This palace, (which ſtood in the ſtreet called Carneſecchi, near Santa Maria No⯑vella,) was ſo lately built that it was not quite finiſhed, though very near ſo; and that with ſuch good taſte, and ſo much magnificence, that the [457] Venetian lady admired and praiſed every part of it: and now through many anti-chambers, they arrived at laſt to a very large one, where there was an ex⯑treme rich bed, and near it a writing cloſet, beau⯑tifully ornamented, the window of which looked down on a delightful garden. Here the Spaniard having opened a ſcrutore, took out a vaſt quantity of jewels, which one by one ſhe ſhewed her gueſt, to whom, while ſhe was looking on them with great attention, ſhe ſpoke in this manner, ‘I have a great, fancy to ſhew you ſome dreſſes I have lately made, which they tell me are exactly as the Venetian ladies wear them; but as I muſt fetch the key, I beg you will divert yourſelf with theſe few jewels till I come back.’

No ſooner was Mandragona gone out of the cloſet, but on a ſudden the grand duke entered it: at whoſe unexpected preſence Bianca trembled from head to foot, well imagining the meaning of his coming; but collected in herſelf, and alike prudent and virtuous, ſhe immediately threw her⯑ſelf at his feet, and in the moſt moving manner ſaid, ‘Since, ſir, it has pleaſed God that it ſhould be my unhappy fate to loſe my parents, my fortune, and my country, and to have nothing in this world left me but my honour; permit me humbly to entreat your royal highneſs's protection for that only good, which I eſteem more than all the reſt.’

The grand duke hearing her talk in this man⯑ner, preſently raiſed her from the ground with the greateſt reſpect, ſaying, ‘You have no reaſon, madam, to fear any thing from me, who only [458] come here to aſſiſt and comfort you, under thoſe misfortunes I grieve to ſee you ſuffer; of the truth of which, my actions ſhall ſoon convince you; let me then beg you to be ſatisfied, that you have found a friend in me, both willing and able to make you happy;’ and ſo ſaying, he bowed and left her all pale and confuſed, which the Spaniard perceiving at her return, ſaid, ‘Don't wonder, madam, at the abrupt appearance of the grand Duke, for he is pleaſed to live in that familiarity with us, that very often, and at all hours he comes in this way, diverting himſelf with jeſting, and frightening my maids and me; but this time I believe he is well met withal, and I don't doubt but that you have given him an anſwer that has put him out of countenance, and perhaps will make him more cautious for the future.’

‘I made him no anſwer, ſaid the Venetian, but what the care of my honour obliged me to, and which I recommended to the mercy and pro⯑tection of his ſerene highneſs.’

And you may be certain he will protect it, ſaid Mandragone: ‘But can a lady of your ſenſe and quickneſs (added ſhe) not perceive, that fortune in compaſſion to your tedious ſufferings, has at laſt turn'd her face, and will you not ſeize the golden opportunity? Believe me, madam, theſe are accidents that ſeldom happen; to have ſo young, ſo charming, and ſo great a prince, de⯑vote his heart with the ſincereſt paſſion to your ſervice.’

[459]Many were the arguments that theſe two ladies uſed to maintain their different opinions; but at the laſt thoſe of the Spaniard prevailed with Bi⯑anca Capello to hear the grand duke; and having heard, ſhe ſoon conſented to accept his love: the charms of his converſation and perſon encreaſing every day her inclination for him, till their paſſion became mutual.

Having traced poor Bianca through all thoſe thorny paths that brought her to the flowery precipice into which ſhe fell, we will now turn to Pietro Buonaventuri her huſband, and ſee how his new fortune became him, ſtill young and handſome, and ſtill beloved by his wife; ſo that upon her account the grand Duke not only made him maſter of the robes, but gave him a moſt magnificent palace in the ſtreet named Maggio, with ſuch great appointments, that he enjoyed all the happineſs this world could give.

His apartment was on the ground-floor, from whence he could aſcend to his wife's, except when the grand Duke was with her, and in that caſe, the door to them was faſtened on the other ſide: this happened frequently, Franciſco generally diſmiſ⯑ſing his train when he came home in an evening, and only with one or two confidents going pri⯑vately to ſup with ſignora Bianca, whom he could ſeldom bring himſelf to leave, till an hour before day obliged him to return to his palace; which he did in the ſame manner he left it.

Long did this courſe of life, and round of pleaſure laſt, and longer ſtill it might have done, had not the proſperity and power of Pietro (now become very [460] conſiderable all over Florence,) filled his mind with ſo much pride and inſolence, that his deſires alone dictated all his actions, without the leaſt re⯑gard to form or decency. Amongſt the many ladies whoſe affections he ſought to acquire, was a widow called Caſſandra Bongianni, deſcended from one of the greateſt families in the city, whoſe extraordinary beauty had gained her many admi⯑rers, to ſome of which it had proved very fatal: her relations, to revenge the diſhonour done their family, having already miſerably deſtroyed two of them; one of which (a young man of the family of del Caccia) after giving him ſeveral mortal wounds, they dipp'd in pitch, and with a ſtraw hat on his head, and a baſket full of balls of pack⯑thread on his arm, ſet him on a ſtone near the door of his miſtreſs; ſo that all the people, who paſſed, (thinking it was a country man aſleep) took no notice of him, till towards evening, ſome body going to wake him, diſcovered the truth, to the great concern of all who knew him, and more par⯑ticularly his parents; who, after they had buried him, ſought in vain for the authors of his death, though every body's conjecture centered on the relations of the lady.

Notwithſtanding all this was well known to Buo⯑naventuri, it did not in the leaſt intimidate him from purſuing his enterprize, which, as he was inſinuating, young and beautiful, he ſoon attained: and not content with his victory, he gloried in the publication of it, jeſting upon, and laughing in the very faces of any of her relations whom he met; and being one day particularly impertinent to [461] Roberto Ricci, her nephew, he, (unable to endure it,) complained to his aunt, threatning her ex⯑tremely if ſhe purſued ſo vile a practice, which, though ſhe poſitively denied to him, ſhe ſtill con⯑tinued in ſuch a manner, as made it obvious to all the city: nor did Pietro from this grow more diſ⯑creet; but as before he had only laughed at them, he began now to menace and inſult them, which for ſome time they feared to reſent, out of reſpect to the grand Duke: but at laſt their patience being exhauſted, they went all together, and repreſented to his ſerene highneſs, the injuries they ſuffered from Buonaventuri, begging he would command him to behave in a more reaſonable way.

The grand Duke was very much concerned to hear of the ill behaviour of Buonaventuri; and promiſed it ſhould be remedied. When they were gone he immediately ſent for Pietro, and taking him into his cloſet, told him the complaints he had received from Ricci, and the reſt of Bongianni's relations, adding theſe words: ‘You ſee there⯑fore, how great is the uneaſineſs ſuch things give to families, and as this is one of the moſt conſiderable in our dominions, you ought to have ſome regard to it; inſtead of which you are not content to poſſeſs the aunt, but muſt inſult and ridicule the nephew; and that in the moſt public places, and moſt opprobrious manner: all this forces me to warn you, that as your actions are unjuſt (perhaps) they may draw on bad con⯑ſequences; and ſhould theſe people kill you, 'tis not in my power to reſtore you to life; ſo that if you cannot or will not leave purſuing [462] this amour, at leaſt do it with more ſecrecy and decorum.’

The haughty Buonaventuri having heard the gracious admonitions of Franciſco, (which being deliver'd with ſo much reaſon and calmneſs, he ought to have eſteemed them as the greateſt of favours) returned this anſwer: ‘As I aſſure your royal highneſs, there is not one word of truth in all that theſe men have ſaid, (being neither ſo extravagant, nor impertinent as they would make me appear,) ſo I have not the leaſt fear of them: but the true cauſe of their anger is their envy; they cannot bear to ſee me in that ſtate, to which your highneſs's bounty has raiſed me, and there⯑fore with calumnies endeavour to deprive me of it, envying alſo their own blood, whoſe fortune, like wolves, they would devour; and as they know I have a friendſhip for that lady, and am ſome protection to her from their cruelty, they are reſolved to ruin us both by this monſtrous contrivance.’

‘I know nothing of theſe affairs, replied the grand duke, nor do I mean to enter into them; 'tis enough that I have adviſed you as a friend, do as you pleaſe, what happens after this will be owing to yourſelf alone;’ and ſo ſaying he diſmiſſed him.

Yet little did Buonaventuri profit by the kind remonſtrances of the great Duke, growing every day more furious and offenſive, committing ſo many outrages againſt all the relations of Caſſan⯑dra, and treating Ricci eſpecially, in ſo deſpicable a manner, that he was often ready to take a full re⯑venge, [463] being only detained from it by the fear of loſing his fortune, by the grand Duke's reſentment; at laſt he reſolved to renew his complaints to him, and as he was much in favour with the princeſs Iſabella his ſiſter, he choſe to do it by her means: to whom he proteſted, he was not able to ſupport any longer the ſcorn of the world, and abomi⯑nable impudence of Pietro, to deliver himſelf from which, if he could find no other redreſs, (he ſaid) he ſhould be obliged at laſt to abandon the con⯑ſideration of his fortune and every thing elſe.

The princeſs having heard him out, went di⯑rectly to her brother, whom ſhe made ſenſible of the vile carriage of Buonaventuri, and of the miſ⯑chiefs that might attend it; repreſenting the ap⯑proaching ruin of that whole injur'd family, who were ſo enraged, as to have no farther reſtraint, either from their obedience to their ſovereign, or reaſon itſelf.

The grand Duke promiſed a ſpeedy and effectual redreſs; and conſidering with himſelf that the only way to it, was to ſend Pietro from Florence till this hatred ſhould be abated, by time and abſence, he determined to employ him in ſome of his af⯑fairs abroad; and as ſoon as he came to Bianca Capello that night, he told her all that had paſſed on the occaſion, deſiring her to uſe all ſorts of arguments, both perſuaſive and threatning, that might induce Buonaventuri to change his pro⯑ceedings, and for the future to act more wiſely; "But if you can't prevail (added he) I will ſend him to France, where he ſhall ſtay till he is ſen⯑ſible of his errors."

[464]This was like a dagger to the heart of poor Bianca, who ſtill loved her huſband to exceſs, (though ſhe did not let it appear to the grand duke) and fearing that he would, as he ſaid, ſend him away, ſhe reſolved to try all the rhetoric of prayers and tears, to turn him from his dangerous courſe, and keep him with herſelf. For that purpoſe ſhe waited his coming home, which was always late, and when ſhe heard him below in his apartment, ſhe deſcended the back ſtairs, and began in this manner, ‘Since my love to you exceeds all that is, or ever was, of paſſionate, and kind, let me by that conjure you, to hear me out with pa⯑tience; for what I have to ſay concerns you in the neareſt manner, and is abſolutely neceſſary to your preſervation;’ and then in few words ſhe proceeded to tell him all that the grand duke had ſaid to her, and the reſolution he had taken for his ſecurity, to ſend him out of the country.

THE HISTORY OF HARRIOT AND SOPHIA CONTINUED.

WHEN they arrived at Mrs. Lawſon's, Sophia, who little expected ſuch a viſit, had wandered, as uſual, in the wood, accompanied with Dolly: Mrs. Lawſon immediately ſent Fanny in ſearch of her; and Harriot, expreſſing an im⯑patience to ſee her ſiſter, went along with her.

They found Sophia ſitting under an oak, with Mrs. Gibbons on one ſide of her, and Dolly on the other; for the old gentlewoman was prevailed upon by Sophia to endure the company of the in⯑nocent girl, who had never offended her; and Dolly, inſtructed by her lovely friend, made good uſe of theſe opportunities to inſinuate herſelf into her favour.

William leaned on a branch cloſe by Sophia, to whom he addreſſed his diſcourſe, while his eyes often ſtole tender glances at his beloved Dolly. Harriot, when ſhe approached, cried out affectedly, ‘Upon my word, ſiſter, you have a brilliant aſ⯑ſembly [492] here; I did not expect to find you in ſuch good company.’

Sophia, ſurpriſed to ſee her ſiſter, ran haſtily to meet her, and embracing her kindly, enquired with a ſweet anxiety for her mother, and whether ſhe alſo had been ſo good to viſit her. Harriot ſcarce anſwered her queſtion; her attention was all fixed upon William: ſo handſome a youth ſeemed worthy to feel the influence of her charms; and all the artillery of her eyes was inſtantly levelled againſt him. Having returned his reſpectful bow with an affected courteſy, and the faſhionable toſs of the head, ſhe deigned to take ſome little notice of Mrs. Gibbons, and honoured Dolly with a care⯑leſs glance, whoſe amiable figure, however, at⯑tracted a ſecond look; and after examining her with an inquiſitive eye, ſhe turned away with a little expreſſion of ſcorn in her countenance, and again attacked William, practiſing a thouſand airs to ſtrike him; all which he beheld with the utmoſt indifference.

Sophia, being impatient to ſee her mother, took leave of Mrs. Gibbons; but Harriot, who had a new conqueſt in view, was unwilling to go ſo ſoon, profeſſing herſelf inchanted with the place, and declaring ſhe would turn ſhepherdeſs.

Sophia told her, ſmiling, that ſhe was ſure that that ſort of life would not pleaſe her.

‘Oh! how can you think ſo, cried Harriot, is not the dreſs exceſſively becoming? then love in theſe woods is ſo tender and ſincere! I will engage there is not a nymph in this hamlet whoſe frown would not drive her lover to deſ⯑pair: [493] pair: own the truth now, ſaid ſhe, turning with a lively air to William, are you not violently in love?’

The youth bowed, bluſhed, and ſighed; and not daring to look at his miſtreſs, he ſuffered his eyes, full as they were of tender expreſſion, to direct their glances towards Sophia. ‘I am proud to own, madam, ſaid he to Harriot, that I have a heart capable of the moſt ardent paſſion.’

"And mighty conſtant too! no doubt," in⯑terupted Harriot, with a malignant ſneer; for ſhe had obſerved the ſigh and the look, and was ready to burſt with vexation and diſappointment, to find her conqueſt obſtructed already by her ſiſter, as ſhe ſuppoſed; and being now as impatient, as ſhe was before unwilling to be gone, ‘Come, Sophy, ſaid ſhe, taking her under the arm, my mamma will take it ill that you make no more haſte to ſee her, for we ſhall return to town imme⯑diately.’

"Sure you will ſtay one night," ſaid Sophia.

"Oh not for the world!" exclaimed Harriot af⯑fectedly; ‘How can you imagine I would ſtay ſo long in an odious village, to be ruſticated into aukwardneſs, purſued ſhe, with a ſpiteful laugh, and aſhamed to ſhew my face in any aſſemby in town afterwards.’ Saying this, ſhe courteſied diſdainfully to Mrs. Gibbons and her nephew, and tripped away, pulling her ſiſter away with her.

Dolly joined the two ladies, but walked by the ſide of Sophia, not aiming at any familiarity with the inſolent and affected Harriot; and as they pur⯑ſued their way home, ſhe had the mortification to [494] hear her lover ridiculed and deſpiſed by the diſap⯑pointed coquet, who ſuppoſed ſhe mortified her ſiſter by the contempt ſhe expreſſed for a man who had ſo little taſte as to like her.

Sophia, as well in compaſſion to poor Dolly, who ſuffered greatly upon this occaſion, as in juſtice to the amiable youth, defended him warmly, which drew ſome coarſe raillery upon her from Harriot.

When they came near to Mr. Lawſon's houſe, the ſight of Sir Charles's chariot threw her into a fit of trembling; Harriot perceived it, and willing to undeceive her, if ſhe hoped to find the young baronet there, ‘I am charged with Sir Charles's compliments, to you, ſaid ſhe, he inſiſted upon our uſing his chariot for this little excurſion; my mamma and I would fain have perſuaded him to accompany us, but he pleaded an en⯑gagement, and would not come.’

Dolly now looked with great concern upon her fair friend, who ſuppreſſing a ſigh, aſked if Sir Charles was quite recovered.

‘I do not know that he has been ill, replied Harriot. Indeed when he came from Bath, the fatigue he had endured with his ſick uncle, whom he had ſat up with ſeveral nights before he died, made him look a little pale and thin; but he is now extremely well, and more gay than ever: and it is well he is ſo, purſued ſhe, for we have ſo much of his company, that if he was not entertaining, we ſhould find him very troubleſome.’

[495]All this was daggers to the heart of poor So⯑phia: thoſe pleaſing ideas which ſhe had indulged upon reading her mother's letter, that repreſented Sir Charles as having ſuffered in his health, from his endeavours to vanquiſh his paſſion for her, all vaniſhed, and left in their room a ſad conviction that ſhe was become wholly indifferent to him.

She might indeed, knowing her ſiſter's malice, have attributed what ſhe ſaid to artifice; but her manner of accounting for the alteration in Sir Charles's looks, which her fond fancy had dwelt upon ſo much, was ſo natural and ſo full of pro⯑bability, that ſhe could ſuſpect no artifice there.

Every thing Harriot ſaid was confirmed by facts which left no room for doubt: his aſſiduity to Harriot, his neglect of her, appeared but too plain. Did he not lend his chariot for a viſit in which he would not ſhare? did he not ſend his compliments in a manner that ſhewed his heart was ſo much at eaſe, that he felt not even any reſentment for her leaving him? could there be ſtronger proofs of indifference than theſe?

Such were her thoughts, and her heart was ſo oppreſſed by this ſudden and unexpected ſhock, that it was with difficulty ſhe reſtrained her tears. Dolly, who looked at her with tender anxiety, and ſaw her colour come and go, and her charming eyes bent on the ground, as if ſhe feared to look up, leſt they ſhould betray her anguiſh, caſt many an angry glance at her envious ſiſter, and wiſhed her a thouſand miles off.

Sophia having a little recovered herſelf, haſtened towards her mother, who with a face of ignorant [496] wonder was following Mrs. Lawſon about her little farm, aſking a thouſand queſtions, without heeding the anſwers ſhe received. Sophia approaching, paid her duty to her with her uſual tenderneſs and reſpect, which Mrs. Darnley returned with ſlightly kiſſing her cheek, telling her that ſhe thought her complexion was greatly improved, and appealed to Harriot for the truth of her obſervation.

Harriot anſwered, ‘That indeed ſhe could not flatter her ſiſter ſo much, as to ſay ſhe thought ſo; for if there was any alteration, it was rather for the worſe.’

Sophia, without attending to this difference of opinion, with regard to her complexion, was only ſollicitous to know if her mother had been well; and while ſhe was making ſome tender enquiries concerning her health, Mrs. Darnley, who never conſulted either time or place, ſuddenly interupted her to draw her aſide from the company, and aſked her abruptly, ‘Whether ſhe was not ſurpriſed at Sir Charles's indifference?’

Sophia, ſtill ſmarting with the pangs her ſiſter's diſcourſe had given her, replied, in a tone of re⯑ſentment, ‘That nothing now could ſurpriſe her with regard to Sir Charles.’

‘Why, to ſay the truth, Sophia, replied Mrs. Darnley, I believe he has quite forgot you; but there was a time when you might have been happy.—oh girl, girl, purſued ſhe, kindling with anger as ſhe ſpoke, you were always obſtinate and conceited; what a fooliſh part have you played with all your wit! but I am to blame to trouble myſelf about you.’

[497]Sophia now eaſed her loaded heart by a ſhower of tears. ‘It is to little purpoſe now, ſaid Mrs. Darnley, to repent of your imprudent behaviour; you were too wiſe to take a parent's advice, when it might have been uſeful: when a man of rank and fortune makes his addreſſes to a woman who is inferior to him in both, he ex⯑pects a thouſand little complacencies and atten⯑tions from her, which, without wounding her honour, may convince him that it is not to his riches ſhe ſacrifices herſelf.’

‘Ah, Madam, cried Sophia, that is a ſnare which has been fatal to many young women in my circumſtances. Who ſees not the advantages this gives a man whoſe aim is to ſeduce? I am perſuaded theſe pernicious maxims are not yours, but his, for whoſe ungenerous purpoſe they are ſo well calculated.’

Sophia gueſſed truly; the young baronet had often had diſcourſes of this ſort with Mrs. Darn⯑ley, who nevertheleſs took it ill that her daugh⯑ter ſhould offer her ſuch an affront as to ſuppoſe ſhe did not underſtand maxims as well as Sir Charles.

Nothing is more certain than that we are never made ſo ridiculous by the qualities we have, as by thoſe we affect to have. Mrs. Darnley, with all her ignorance, aſpired to be thought witty: ſhe therefore vindicated her claim to what Sophia had called maxims; no matter whether they were per⯑nicious or not. The word maxim ſounded learnedly in her ears: ſhe told her daughter, with great aſ⯑perity, that ſhe was ſo conceited and vain of her [498] own wit, that ſhe would allow no one elſe to have any. Sophia found it difficult enough to appeaſe her, but ſhe ſucceeded at length, and they joined the reſt of the company.

Mrs. Lawſon eaſily prevailed upon her gueſts to ſtay that night and the following day, which, be⯑ing Sunday, Harriot could not reſiſt the temp⯑tation of diſplaying her charms and her fine cloaths in a country church, which was ſo new a triumph, that the thoughts of it kept her waking almoſt the whole night.

The ridiculous airs ſhe aſſumed to draw the ad⯑miration of the ſimple villagers, who never ſaw any thing ſo fine and ſo gay before, and who ſtared at her with ſtupid ſurpriſe, made Sophia often bluſh for her: but her affected glances were chiefly di⯑rected to the beautiful youth, whoſe inſenſibility had ſo greatly mortified her pride: ſhe ſaw his eyes con⯑ſtantly turned towards the pew where ſhe ſat; but ſhe ſaw plainly that it was not her charms that drew them thither. She had no ſuſpicion that Dolly was the object of his affection, and, ſenſible to her great grief, of her ſiſter's power to charm, ſhe no longer doubted that this envied conqueſt was hers.

Thus diſappointed, ſhe appeared ſo much out of humour, and ſo impatient to return to town, that Mrs. Darnley, over whom her power was ab⯑ſolute, complied with her importunity, and ſet out with her for London, as ſoon as they returned from church; notwithſtanding all the endeavours of the good curate and his wife to detain them to dinner.

[499]Sophia was now left alone to her own melancholy reflections; this viſit from her mother and ſiſter had produced a ſad reverſe in her ſituation: hi⯑therto hope had not quite forſaken her; the idea of being ſtill beloved by Sir Charles leſſened all her griefs, and ſupported her amidſt the doubt and anxiety which his myſterious conduct had involved her in: his indifference, ſo apparent in her ſiſter's account of him, gave her pangs unfelt before: and never till now did ſhe think herſelf un⯑happy; for, unperceived by herſelf, ſhe had en⯑couraged a ſecret hope that the paſſion ſhe had inſpired him with would not be eaſily ſubdued; and that perhaps all which ſhe had thought ex⯑ceptionable in his conduct proceeded not from a ſettled deſign to the prejudice of her honour, but from that irreſolution and ſlowneſs with which a man, too ſenſible of his ſuperiority in birth and fortune, proceeds in an affair of marriage, where he has no obſtacles to fear, and where every thing depends upon himſelf.

She now perceived the neceſſity of baniſhing Sir Charles from her heart; but at the ſame time, ſhe perceived all the difficulty of the taſk. Though aſhamed of her tears, ſhe wept, and paſſionately exclaimed againſt her own weakneſs, which had kept her in a deluſion ſo fatal to her peace. She continued the whole day in her chamber, wholly abſorb'd in melancholy thoughts.

Dolly, who knew enough of her ſituation to gueſs the cauſe of this new affliction, was grieved to find herſelf excluded as well as the reſt of the family; and although ſhe ardently wiſhed to con⯑ſole [500] her, yet ſhe durſt not intrude uncalled upon her retirement. While ſhe waited impatiently for her appearance, a viſitor arrived, who ſhe knew would be welcome to her charming friend. As ſoon as ſhe perceived him, ſhe flew with eager haſte to inform Sophia, and, tapping at her door, told her in a joyful voice, that Mr. Herbert was juſt alighted.

Sophia, ſurpriſed at the news, inſtantly opened her chamber-door, and ſmiling tenderly upon the charming girl, to whom ſhe excuſed herſelf for her long abſence, haſtened to receive the good old man, who, after ſome affectionate enquiries concerning her health, rallied her upon the melan⯑choly that appeared in her countenance.

Sophia bluſhed and fixed her eyes on the ground, not a little ſurpriſed at his talking to her in that manner; and when with a baſhful air, ſhe looked up again, and ſaw a more than uſual chearfulneſs in his eyes, her confuſion encreaſed, and for a few moments ſhe could not help feeling ſome re⯑ſentment againſt her benefactor, for thus diverting himſelf with her uneaſineſs.

Mr. Herbert, whoſe thoughts were wholly em⯑ployed on the pleaſing news he brought, did not perceive how much his behaviour embarraſſed her: to prevent his renewing a ſubject ſo diſagreeable, ſhe talked of the viſit her mother and ſiſter had made her.

Mr. Herbert aſked her, ‘If they had men⯑tioned Sir Charles, and what ſhe thought of him now?’

[501] ‘I think of him as I ought to do, replied So⯑phia, with ſome warmth, I deſpiſe him.’

‘Be not too raſh, my dear child, ſaid Mr. Her⯑bert; if your ſiſter, whoſe malice I well know, has ſuggeſted any thing to Sir Charles's diſad⯑vantage, be aſſured ſhe deceives you; for I am convinced he not only loves you, but loves you with honour.’

Sophia, who from the firſt words Mr. Herbert uttered, had been in great agitation, as expecting ſomething extraordinary, was ſo overwhelmed with ſurpriſe at what ſhe heard, that her ſpeech and colour forſaking her, ſhe remained pale, ſilent, and motionleſs in her chair.

Mr. Herbert, perceiving how powerfully this news operated on her ſpirits, began to be apprehen⯑ſive of the conſequences, and was riſing haſtily to give her ſome aſſiſtance, when Sophia, rouzed to recollection by this motion of her venerable friend, and aſhamed of the extreme ſenſibility ſhe had diſ⯑covered, apologiſed for it with a charming modeſty, that greatly affected the good old man, who, if he had known in what melancholy thoughts ſhe had paſſed the day, would have told her with more caution, a circumſtance that raiſed her at once from deſpair to hope, and produced ſo great a change in her ſituation.

As we are never ſo ready to fear a diſappoint⯑ment as when we are neareſt the completion of our wiſhes, Sophia, with a ſweet apprehenſive⯑neſs, which yet ſhe laboured to conceal, hinted her doubts of the baronet's ſincerity; Mr. Herbert anſwering explicitly to theſe half expreſſed doubts, [502] told her, that he was fully perſuaded Sir Charles would act like a man of honour. "I will give you an exact account, ſaid he to her, of what has paſſed between us, from which you may judge yourſelf of his conduct:" he then took a letter out of his pocket, and deſired her to read it.

Sophia, trembling a little at the ſight of Sir Charles's hand writing, took the billet, and found it contained a meſſage from him to Mr. Herbert, requeſting in very earneſt terms, the favour of an interview, and an offer to wait upon him at any hour he ſhould appoint.

‘You may be ſure, ſaid Mr. Herbert, (receiving back the billet which Sophia gave him without ſpeaking a word) that I did not ſuffer Sir Charles to come to me; hearing from the meſſenger that his maſter was at home waiting for my anſwer, I attended him immediately. I perceived a little embarraſſment in his countenance upon my firſt entrance, but that ſoon wore off: he welcomed me with great politeneſs, and after thanking me for the honour I did him, in preventing his viſit, he entered immediately upon the affair which had occaſioned his ſending to me.’

‘You have, Sir, ſaid he, ſhewn ſo truly a pater⯑nal affection for the young lady to whom I have paid my addreſſes, and are ſo much eſteemed and reverenced by her, that I think I may without any impropriety, addreſs myſelf to you upon this occaſion—’

Here he pauſed, and ſeemed a little perplexed. ‘To be ſure, added he, I ought to have done this before; my conduct muſt have appeared capri⯑cious [503] both to her and you, and indeed it was capricious,—but—’

Here he pauſed again, and fixed his eyes on the ground. "His frankneſs, purſued Mr. Herbert, pleaſed me greatly, and diſpoſed me to give him a favourable attention."

‘I cannot blame Miſs Sophia, ſaid he, for acting as ſhe has done; my heart did homage to her vir⯑tue at the time that I ſuffered moſt from the con⯑temptuous behaviour it ſuggeſted to her. Fain would I hope, added he ſighing, that the pre⯑judices ſhe has conceived againſt me has not en⯑tirely baniſhed me from her remembrance; the delicacy of my paſſion would be but ill ſatisſfied by calling ſo deſerving a woman my own, unleſs I could likewiſe boaſt a preference in her heart that left me no room to doubt my fortune had any ſhare in determining her in my favour.’

"I know not, purſued Mr. Herbert, whether Sir Charles expected any anſwer to this declaration; it is certain he looked on me with a kind of anxious timidity, and ſtopped a moment; I continued ſilent, and he proceeded in this manner:" ‘I know, Miſs Sophia has an underſtanding too ſolid, and a mind too noble to ſuffer any conſiderations of rank and fortune to determine her ſolely in an affair upon which the happineſs of her life de⯑pends: ſhe would not ſurely give her hand where her heart did not acknowledge a preference. 'Tis thus I anſwer all thoſe doubts which my ſituation, and perhaps an overſtrained delicacy ſuggeſt: I am impatient to convince her of the purity of my paſſion; and, conſidering you as her friend, her [504] guardian, and one who is in the place of a father to her, I will take no ſteps in this affair but ſuch as have the ſanction of your approbation; I will not even preſume to viſit her without your per⯑miſſion: be you my advocate with her, tell her I lay myſelf and fortune at her feet, and will re⯑ceive her from your hand as the greateſt bleſ⯑ſing that heaven can beſtow on me.’

‘Now, my child, purſued Mr. Herbert, looking on Sophia with a ſmile, how would you have me anſwer to this diſcourſe? was it neceſſary, think you, to play off a few female artifices here, and keep Sir Charles in doubt and anxious ſuſpence, or did the apparent openneſs and candor of his procedure deſerve an equal degree of frankneſs on my part?’

‘It is not to be doubted, ſir, ſaid Sophia bluſhing, but that on this occaſion, as on every other, you acted with the utmoſt prudence.’

‘I find, reſumed Mr. Herbert, that you are re⯑ſolved beforehand, to approve of whatever I ſaid: well then, I told Sir Charles, that his preſent de⯑claration entirely ſatisfied me; that being fully convinced of his ſincerity, I looked upon his offer as highly honourable and advantageous to you; and that I was very ſure you would have all the ſenſe you ought to have of ſo generous an affection.’

‘He then begged me to ſet out immediately for this place, and prepare you to receive a viſit from him. This requeſt I could not poſſibly com⯑ply with, having buſineſs in town, which would neceſſarily detain me for ſome hours; but I pro⯑miſed him to go as ſoon as that was diſpatched, which probably might be in the afternoon.’

[505] ‘He modeſtly aſked my leave to accompany me; but this I declined, as fearing his ſudden ap⯑pearance, without your being previouſly acquaint⯑ed with what had paſt, might occaſion ſome perplexity and uneaſineſs to you; ſo it was agreed that he ſhould come to-morrow.’

"To-morrow," replied Sophia, with an emotion ſhe was not able to ſuppreſs.

‘Yes, my child, replied the good old man, have you any objections to this?’

‘I know not, replied Sophia, with downcaſt eyes and a faultering accent, what I ought to do; I have been ſo uſed to conſider Sir Charles's profeſ⯑ſions in an unfavourable point of view; my heart has been ſo accuſtomed to ſuſpect him—to guard itſelf againſt deluſive hopes, perhaps I ought not to admit his viſit ſo eaſily; perhaps I ought to reſent his former behaviour. I own I am greatly perplexed, but I will be determined wholly by your advice.’

Mr. Herbert ſaw her delicate ſcruples, and, to fa⯑vour her modeſty, anſwered, with the authority of a guardian, ‘When Sir Charles viſits you next, Miſs Sophia, he comes to offer you his hand; he has aſked my conſent as your guardian and your friend; and, I preſuming on my influence over you in both thoſe characters, have given it freely; and how indeed, having your intereſt and happineſs ſincerely at heart, could I do otherwiſe? but if you think his former behaviour, in which however there were only ſuſpicions againſt him, deſerves to be reſented, at a time when thoſe ſuſ⯑picions are abſolutely deſtroyed, you muſt go [506] through with your heroiſm, and ſee him no more; for as the poet ſays, ‘He comes too near who comes to be denied,’ ſo he has offended too much who needs a pardon.’

Sophia, who felt all the force of this reaſoning, anſwered only by a bluſhing ſilence. Mr. Herbert then told her, that Sir Charles had declared to him that he would make the ſame ſettlements on her as had been ſtipulated for his mother; for he added, with equal delicacy and tenderneſs, ‘Miſs Sophia, in virtue, wit, good ſenſe, and every female ex⯑cellence, brings me an immenſe portion.’

"Sir Charles, purſued Mr. Herbert ſmiling, by a ſtrange contradiction, which is, I ſuppoſe, always found in lovers, though he was impatient to have me with you, yet could not help detaining me to have the pleaſure of talking of you: he painted to me very naturally, the uneaſineſs he had ſuffered from your ſuppoſed contempt of him: he told me, that he was at one time determined to travel, in or⯑der to efface you from his remembrance;" ‘But, (ſaid he, riſing and unlocking a cabinet, from which he took out a paper and put into my hands,) you ſhall judge whether amidſt all my reſentment I did not ſtill love Miſs Sophia; that is my will, which I ordered to be drawn up pre⯑vious to my intended journey.’

"He then, to ſpare me the trouble of reading it all through, pointed to the place where you was mentioned, and I found he had bequeathed you an eſtate of four hundred pounds a year for life, and five thouſand pounds to be diſpoſed of as you pleaſed."

[507]This laſt circumſtance touched Sophia ſo much that tears filled her eyes: ſhe ſighed, and turned her head aſide to conceal her emotion, while Mr. Herbert, without ſeeming to obſerve it, continued to repeat to her ſeveral expreſſions uſed by Sir Charles, which ſhewed the greatneſs of his affection, and his veneration for her virtues.

‘We parted at length, purſued Mr. Herbert, extremely well ſatisfied with each other, and to⯑morrow, or next day at fartheſt, you may expect to ſee Sir Charles here; for he told me, that if he received no ill news from me, he would con⯑clude I had prepared him a favourable reception; and, preſuming on this hope, he would immedi⯑ately ſet his lawyer to work to prepare the wri⯑tings, that nothing might be left undone which could convince you of the ſincerity of his af⯑fections; therefore, my dear child, ſet your heart at reſt; and ſince providence has thought fit to reward your piety and virtue, receive with hum⯑ble gratitude that fortune to which you are raiſed, and which puts it ſo largely in your power to do good. I will now leave you, ſaid the good old man riſing, to your own reflections; I have ſcarce ſpoke a word yet to our kind friends here, for I was ſo impatient to ſee you, that I left them very abruptly.’

Mr. Herbert had no ſooner left the room, than Sophia, in an ardent ejaculation, thanked heaven for thus relieving her from her diſtreſs: but it was long ere the tumult in her mind raiſed by ſuch un⯑hoped for happy news ſubſided, and gave place to that calm recollection which ſupplied a thouſand [508] pleaſing ideas, and filled her with the ſofteſt emo⯑tions of gratitude, tenderneſs, and joy.

She was now freed from thoſe tormenting doubts, which made her conſider her tenderneſs for Sir Charles as a crime, and occaſioned ſo many pain⯑ful ſtruggles in her mind. What joy to reflect that the man ſhe loved was worthy of her affection! how pleaſing was the proſpect that opened to her view; to be bleſt with the power of ſhewing her gratitude to her friends, her piety to her mother; to repay her ſiſter's unkindneſs with acts of gene⯑roſity; and indulge the benevolence of her heart in relieving every diſtreſs which fell within her power to relieve!

Theſe were the advantages which ſhe promiſed herſelf in the change of her fortune, and for theſe her grateful heart lifted itſelf up every moment in thanks and praiſe to that providence that be⯑ſtowed them on her.

While Sophia was thus abſorb'd in thought, Dolly opened the door, and running up to her, eagerly cried, ‘Tell me true, my dear miſs, has not Mr. Herbert brought you ſome good news? I am ſure he has; I never ſaw him ſo joyful in my life, and you look glad too,’ purſued ſhe, peering in her face with a ſweet earneſtneſs. ‘May I not aſk you, Miſs Darnley, what this good news is?’

‘You may, my dear, ſaid Sophia ſmiling, but not now; you ſhall know all ſoon. At preſent I would rather talk of your affairs.’

‘Indeed I am greatly obliged to you, miſs, ſaid Dolly, for what you have done for me. Mrs. [509] Gibbons ſeems almoſt as kind to me as ever ſhe was, and you have talked ſo ſenſibly to my mo⯑ther, that ſhe repents of her behaviour to Mrs. Gibbons; and ſhe likes Mr. William ſo well, that I am ſure ſhe would be glad to be reconciled to her.’

‘That is what I have been labouring at all this time, reſumed Sophia. If Mrs. Lawſon can be perſuaded to make ſome conceſſions to the fan⯑taſtick old gentlewoman, all may go well yet: it ſhall be my care to bring them together; and if my endeavours to produce a reconciliation fail, perhaps I may be able to engage a more power⯑ful mediator in your intereſt.’

Sophia had Sir Charles in her thoughts, who ſhe doubted not would readily undertake the cauſe of the diſtreſſed lovers, and poſſibly add ſomething to her Dolly's portion, to leſſen the inequality there was between them in that point. She ſpoke with ſuch a chearful confidence, that Dolly, full of hope and joy, thanked her with artleſs tranſports of gra⯑titude that moved her even to tears.

The next day, though in expectation of ſeeing Sir Charles, her heart laboured with a thouſand emotions; yet kindly attentive to the affairs of her friend, ſhe reſolved to make Mrs. Gibbons a viſit, to prepare the way for the hoped for interview be⯑tween her and Mrs. Lawſon. As ſoon as ſhe had diſengaged herſelf from Mr. Herbert, ſhe ſet out alone for Mrs. Gibbons's houſe; but ſcarcely had ſhe croſſed the firſt field when ſhe ſaw William, who was as uſual, ſauntering about Mr. Lawſon's grounds, in hopes of ſeeing his miſtreſs.

[510]Sophia beckoned to him, and he flew to meet her; for, next to Dolly, he thought her the moſt charming woman in the world; and he adored her for the goodneſs with which ſhe intereſted herſelf in his and his Dolly's happineſs.

When he drew near, Sophia told him ſhe was going to viſit his aunt; the youth reſpectfully ex⯑preſſed his concern that his aunt could not have that honour; ſhe was gone, he ſaid, to viſit a relation who lived a few miles up the country.

Sophia then told him the deſign upon which ſhe was going, and the favourable diſpoſition Mrs Law⯑ſon was in. ‘I am perſuaded, ſaid ſhe, all might be made up, if we could but bring them together. Mrs. Lawſon only wants an opportunity to repair her fault; but how ſhall we contrive to give her this opportunity? what expedient can we find out to overcome your aunt's obſtinacy, and pre⯑vail upon her to enter Mrs. Lawſon's door again?’

‘I know one, madam, ſaid the youth ſmiling, which I think would do.’

Sophia concluding from the timidity of his look, that ſhe was concerned in this expedient, preſt him to ſpeak freely, aſſuring him ſhe would aſſiſt to the utmoſt of her power.

‘My aunt, madam, ſaid he, is as you know a great obſerver of forms: ſhe would not for the world fall under the cenſure of having failed in any part of ceremony or good breeding; now, madam, if you would be pleaſed to make a point of her returning your viſit, and permit me to tell her that you are offended with her neglect, [511] and that you inſiſt upon this proof of her polite⯑neſs, I am perſuaded ſhe will come.’

‘Well, ſaid Sophia, ſmiling, if you are of opi⯑nion this will do, you have my conſent to ſay whatever you think will affect her moſt; make me as angry and as ceremonious as you pleaſe.’

‘Nothing ſhall be wanting on my part to pro⯑mote the ſucceſs of this affair, added ſhe, with a graver look and accent; for I believe you have a ſincere affection for my young friend, and I ſhall not be at reſt till I ſee you both happy.’

The youth, in whoſe breaſt the ſweet benevolence of her looks and words excited the ſtrongeſt tranſ⯑ports of gratitude, not able to find words to ex⯑preſs his ſenſe of her goodneſs, ſuddenly threw him⯑ſelf at her feet, and kiſſed her hand with a mixture of tenderneſs and awe.

Sophia, ſmiling at this ſally, ſtepped back a little; upon which he roſe up, and with a graceful con⯑fuſion paid her his thanks: ſhe again repeated her promiſe of ſerving him, and took leave: he bowed low, following her for ſome time with his eyes, and ſent a thouſand kind wiſhes after her.

Sophia, at her return, acquainted Dolly with what had paſſed between her lover and her, and filled her with pleaſing hopes of the ſucceſs of his ſcheme: but now the day wore away, ſhe was in continual expectation of ſeeing Sir Charles; her heart throbbed with anxiety; every noiſe ſhe heard, ſounded like the trampling of horſes, and then a univerſal trembling would ſeize her. She dreaded, yet wiſhed for his arrival; and at every diſappoint⯑ment [512] ſhe ſighed, and felt her heart ſink with tender deſpondency.

Such were her agitations, till the evening being far advanced, ſhe gave up all hope of his coming that night. Mr. Herbert had aſſigned a very pleaſ⯑ing reaſon for his viſit being deferred till the next day; and, her mind growing more compoſed, ſhe went in ſearch of the good old man, who, Dolly told her, was gone to walk in the meadows behind the houſe; for ſhe had kept herſelf out of his ſight as much as poſſible, unwilling that he ſhould ob⯑ſerve her emotions. She ſaw him at a diſtance, walking with a ſlow pace, and ſhe perceived he ſaw her; but to her great ſurpriſe, ſhe ſaw him croſs into another field, and take a quite contrary way, on purpoſe to avoid her.

Struck with this little accident, ſhe ſtood ſtill and pauſed a few moments: ſhe felt herſelf ſtrange⯑ly alarmed, yet wondered why ſhe ſhould be ſo, and took her way back again to the houſe with ſad forebodings on her mind.

THE HISTORY OF BIANCA CAPELLO CONCLUDED.

THE furious Buonaventuri would not let her go on; but ſtarting up, and running to her in a fury, ſaid, ‘Go hang yourſelf, and then howl to thoſe that will hear you in the other world: in this, I'll follow my own way; there⯑fore do not pretend to whine to me, but take care of yourſelf, who are in more danger; for do you think, ſtrumpet, that I won't cut off that golden horn, which you have placed on my head, by ſtopping your windpipe with a knife one day or other.’

In the mean time the grand Duke being returned to his palace, could not reſt there, having obſerved in Bianca, (in ſpite of all her endeavours to hide it,) a great concern at his late diſcourſe; and impa⯑tient to give ſome ſatisfaction either to her or himſelf, returned back; and not finding her in her apartment, ſoftly deſcended the back-ſtairs, from the door of which he overheard every word that had paſſed: and Pietro thus anſwering his wife, in a great rage turned his back, and went out of the [530] houſe. Deaf to all her calls, and deſpiſing all her care, he left her overwhelmed with grief and tears; in which ſhe retired to her own apartment, without knowing Franciſco had been there, he having taken care to mount the ſtair-caſe firſt, and get out of ſight.

Here ſhe gave a looſe to all her ſorrows, enu⯑merating all her misfortunes, and lamenting the hour that brought her to the light of this world, where ſhe was doom'd to find them; and in a flood of tears, gave vent to the paſſion that filled her breaſt. Long would theſe reflections have em⯑ployed her time and thoughts, had not the grand Duke interrupted them, who coming into the room, and appearing ignorant of the matter, aſked the cauſe; ſaying, ‘To what are owing theſe tears, and theſe complaints? dearer than my ſoul, tell me what misfortune has befallen you?’ ‘Nothing, ſir, ſaid ſhe, occaſions my concern but compaſ⯑ſion for my huſband, who as you have com⯑manded, I have admoniſhed; but he ſeems ſo little to regard his ſafety, that I fear ſome miſ⯑chief will attend him.’

‘Is it nothing but that, (replied the grand Duke,) Oh, let him follow his own inclination, and at laſt he will find the conſequence: but why will you afflict and torment yourſelf for what you cannot prevent? a torrent muſt have way, or they that try to ſtop it may be drowned in it: Buonaventuri is headſtrong, and void of under⯑ſtanding, which will inevitably draw on his fate, if he does not quickly change his manners.’

[531]Yet after all this, the deſperate Pietro, full of indignation and revenge, meeting Ruberto Ricci next day at the column of the Santa Trinita, where he was talking with two other gentlemen; he clapt a piſtol to his breaſt, ſaying, ‘I don't know what hinders me, deſpicable, infamous wretch that you are, from ſhooting you this mi⯑nute through the heart: but ſtay and hear what I have to ſay to you, for you ſhall not eſcape me. I will go to your aunt, as often as I pleaſe, in defiance of you; and if ever I know, or but gueſs, that you make the leaſt murmur or com⯑plaint to the grand Duke, you ſhall not live an hour after it.’

Ricci being unarmed, and thus accoſted, re⯑mained immoveable as a ſtatue, till the other had done ſpeaking, and then, without the leaſt reply, went with his companions immediately to the grand Duke, who was at the Caſino, where he de⯑clared to him all that had paſſed juſt before at the Column; to which the two gentlemen witneſſing, the grand Duke, (who remembered his threats to his wife,) no longer doubting of his unbounded brutality, thought within himſelf, that there was no more time to be loſt in inflicting on Pietro the puniſhment he deſerved; and taking Ricci apart, they talked together for ſome time in the garden, where the grand Duke having given him what di⯑rections he thought proper, ſent him away, and the next morning by times mounting on horſeback, rode to his villa of Pratolino, where he ſtayed all that day and the next night. The reſult of their con⯑ference was, that Ricci ſhould get together twelve [532] companions, all men well armed, ſtrong, and re⯑ſolute; ſome of whom had cutlaſſes of ſuch a tem⯑per, that with one ſtroke, they were able to cut off the head of a bull; for he knew that Buona⯑venturi was ever provided with piſtols, and other arms from head to foot, in which equipage, he conſtantly went in the night to Bongianna's houſe, not returning home till very late; ſo that in order to be ſure of his prey, he divided his company, ſetting two or more in different places, through which Pietro might paſs; and his page (who per⯑ſonally knew him) as centinel at the beautiful bridge of la Santa Trinita, to give notice when he ſhould be there, for which Ruberto waited with great impatience, after he had made this diſpo⯑ſition of his forces.

And now the unlucky lover having ſpent the night with his miſtreſs, roſe before break of day, and taking leave of her went ſlowly to his own houſe. As he was walking over the bridge, the page gave two whiſtles, and then cry'd, alo! alo! the accuſtomed noiſe of the Florentine ruffians in thoſe days: at this the fierce Pietro, though unuſed to fear, felt ſome preſage of his approaching fate; and taking in his left hand a piſtol, held it ready cocked, and with his drawn ſword in his right, paſſed the bridge, that led directly to the great gate of his palace; but as his apartment was on the ground-floor, the door to it lay on the other ſide of the houſe; ſo that he was obliged, after deſcending the bridge, to turn down a little ſtreet, on the left hand of which, within a ſtone's throw, was the entrance that he always kept the [533] key of. Meeting in this narrow paſſage two armed men, he did not immediately think they had any deſign on him; but going a little farther, he ſaw four more, who ſtopt his way, and theſe having joined the two firſt, ſix others ſtarted out and encom⯑paſſed him, with Ricci in the midſt, crying out, kill, kill, the infamous traitor. Buonaventuri know⯑ing his voice, threw his cloak to the ground, and firing his piſtol, hit one of them; but whilſt he was taking another out of his pocket, they all fell on him at once; yet by means of his armour, he eſcaped for ſome time, making a very brave de⯑fence, and had already wounded two of them, when the aſſailants renewing their attack, by the ad⯑vantage of their ſhort arms, and the cloſeneſs of the ſtreet, ſtruck him at every blow, ſo that being driven to the wall, he could do little damage with his ſword: but as Ricci got under it, thinking to end him, he exerted all his force for one blow, and cut him quite thorough his iron head-piece to his ſkull; at the ſight of which a couſin of Ricci's, with a back ſtroke, wounded Pietro in the face, and repeating it with a ſecond, ſplit one ſide of his head, ſo that his brains ſtuck to the wall. Buonaven⯑turi finding himſelf dying, ſaid, oh! no more for mercy, ſince I am dead, and dropt down; after which they all fell on him, ſtabbing him in every part which his armour did not cover, and there left him, with no leſs than five and thirty mortal wounds. Ricci, as faſt as he could, got to the palace of the princeſs Iſabella, where, though his hurt was dan⯑gerous, he was by the help of a good ſurgeon, cured in a ſhort time.

[534]Not far from the place where this bloody ſcene was acted, ſtood an apothecary's ſhop, the people of which, having heard the claſh of arms and noiſe of men, with two of their boys, as it drew near day, went to ſee what was the matter, and there found the unfortunate Pietro bathed in his blood upon the ground, and by ſame faint ſhort ſighs, could juſt perceive he was not quite dead: upon which they run for a light, and immediately conveyed him to the neareſt church, named St. Jacopo, which ſtands upon the river Arno.

The ſun was no ſooner up than the death of Buonaventuri was ſpread about the whole city; and coming to the ears of the poor deluded, but ſtill affectionate Bianca, almoſt diſtracted her. She, with the utmoſt violence of paſſion, was ready to deſtroy herſelf, in order to follow him; which per⯑haps in the firſt rage of ſorrow ſhe might have done, (notwithſtanding the endeavours of all her friends and acquaintance who came to comfort her,) if the great Duke had not arrived at that juncture, to reſtrain and pacify her, which even he found difficulty in doing.

The next night after this had happened, as ſoon as it was quite dark, two armed men maſked got into Bongianna's houſe by the tiles, and cutting her throat left her dead on the floor: ſuch was the miſerable end of theſe thoughtleſs lovers, and ſuch the re⯑venge taken by this lady's relations, for the infamy ſhe had brought upon them.

The grand Duke, that he might not ſeem to know of this execution, put on all the appearance of anger and inquiſition after the actors in it; but [335] took care they never ſhould be diſcovered, ſo that by degrees the affair was dropt; and Ricci unſuſ⯑pected went about as before.

Time, which alleviates all affliction, had now re⯑ſtored Bianca to herſelf, whoſe charms and merits the Grand Duke grew every day more ſenſible of; and reflecting that his love alone had obſcured her virtues, which in themſelves were both great and many, and that her birth, though not royal, was illuſtrious, reſolved to give the utmoſt proof of a ſincere paſſion, by ſharing his power and title with her who had already all his heart; and on the evening of the 22d of June, 1579, publicly married her; commanding the ſenate of forty eight, to do her homage as grand Dutcheſs, and the next day ſhe went out as ſuch, with the German guard, and a train of eight coaches. To compleat her glory, the ſenate of Venice, when they heard ſhe was be⯑come great Dutcheſs of Tuſcany, not only repealed their former acts againſt her, but made a new one, by which ſhe was adopted daughter of that ſtate, which ſent a ſolemn embaſſy with it to the grand Duke, and a dowry ſuitable to the dignity they had given her.

When the ſudden marriage of Franciſco was effected, the cardinal Ferdinando, his next brother, reſided at Rome, where he received the news of it with the greateſt indignation, his haughty ſoul not enduring any alliance below that of a crowned head; and he eſteemed his blood ſo much diſgraced by this marriage, that he ſet a thouſand machines at work, to take away (what he called) the ſhame of his family, by the death of Bianca; whom he [536] oftentimes attempted to poiſon, either by means of her ſervants, or preſents that he ſent her. His deſigns by one accident or other, being diſcovered, made her very cautious, nor was he leſs ſuſpicious of her, fearing to meet the ſame fate he had deſigned to give; ſo that a mutual hate reign'd in both, though both diſguiſed it, out of regard to the grand Duke.

It happened one time amongſt others, that the cardinal being at Florence, and they all dining together, the grand Dutcheſs had that morning taken a fancy to make a tart with her own hands, which, towards the latter end of the dinner was ſerved up with other things of the ſame ſort; and when Ferdinando was deſired to taſte of it, he put it off, and began ſome gay diſcourſe, that he might not appear to have any thought about it. At laſt the grand Duke, (after having aſked his brother ſeveral times to taſte what Bianca had made,) ſaid, ſince none elſe will begin, I muſt, and took a piece and eat it: after which the grand Dutcheſs did the like, and the converſation continued for ſome time with the ſame good humour, when all of a ſudden they both felt ſuch violent and ſtrong pains in their bowels, that they were obliged to retire to their apartment, and go to bed; where they waited in vain for remedies and phyſicians, the cardinal having given ſtrict commands, that none ſhould come near them, himſelf and his crea⯑tures keeping guard at the doors for that purpoſe; whilſt the poor unhappy princes expired in tor⯑tures, on the 28th of October, 1586. He buried them by each other, with all due honours: himſelf [537] renouncing the cardinal's hat, was immediately ac⯑knowledged grand Duke of Tuſcany; through all which he cauſed a report to be ſpread, that Bi⯑anca Capello intended to poiſon him, which he pretended he diſcovered by means of a ring he al⯑ways wore, the ſtone in it being of a nature to change colour at the approach of poiſon; and ſo he avoided taſting the tart, which ſhe ſeeing her huſband do, rather than outlive him, or diſcover her treachery, choſe to eat the reſt; but however this ſtory was ſtrengthened by authority, very few believed it; for beſides the improbability of her killing herſelf, with that coolneſs, when ſhe might have found a hundred pretences to hinder Fran⯑ciſco from eating the tart, without diſcovering her⯑ſelf, (and would no doubt if ſhe had known it to be poiſoned) many circumſtances concurred to make it plainly a contrivance of the cardinals, who had bribed the ſervant that provided the materials for the tart, to put poiſon amongſt them. But as Franciſco dying without a ſon, left Ferdinando his heir, the nobles thought it wiſer to receive with a good grace their living prince, than hazard their ſafeties, by a vain inquiry after the dead one, tho' a man beloved and eſteemed, a fine gentle⯑man and great governor, all the arts and ſciences being in perfection in his time, as may be ſeen by their beſt poets and hiſtorians, who all dedicated their works to him.

THE HISTORY OF THE COUNT DE COMMINGE CONTINUED.

AFTER ſuffering fifteen days the agonies of a moſt violent fever, I began, tho' by ſlow de⯑grees, to recover. The firſt thing I did when I was able to attend to any thing, was to ſeek for the letter I had received from Adelaida. My mother, who had taken it from me, for fear it ſhould increaſe my affliction, was obliged to reſtore it to me. After I had read it ſeveral times, I put it into a little ſilk bag, and placed it on my heart, where I had always kept her picture; and whenſoever I was alone, it was always my employment to gaze upon that lovely picture, and read that letter.

My mother, who was of a ſoft and tender diſpo⯑ſition, ſhared my grief: ſhe likewiſe thought it beſt to yield to my firſt tranſports, and leave it to time to finiſh my cure. She permitted me to ſpeak of Adelaida, and ſometimes was the firſt to mention her to me; and perceiving that the only thing which gave me conſolation was the thought of being loved by her, ſhe told me that it was ſhe herſelf that had determined Adelaida to marry.

[539] ‘I ask your pardon, my dear ſon, ſaid ſhe, for the grief I have cauſed you; I did not imagine you would have felt her loſs ſo deeply. I trembled for your health, and even your life, while you continued under that cruel confinement. I knew your father's inflexible temper, and was con⯑vinced he would never ſet you at liberty while there was a poſſibility of your marrying made⯑moiſelle de Luſſan. I reſolved to ſpeak to that generous young lady: I told her my fears for your health; ſhe partook in them, ſhe felt them perhaps with more force than I did. From that moment I ſaw her uſe every endeavour to haſten her marriage; for her father, juſtly ir⯑ritated at the proceedings of monſieur de Com⯑minge, had long preſſed her to marry: hitherto ſhe had reſiſted his ſolicitations, and even his commands. I asked her which of thoſe perſons who addreſſed her, ſhe would chuſe? It matters not which, replied ſhe; they are all equal to me, ſince I cannot be his to whom I have given my heart. Two days after I had this conſervation with her, I learned that the marquis de Bena⯑vides was preferred to all his rivals; every one was ſurpriſed at her choice, and I as much as any other. Benavides has a diſagreeable per⯑ſon, his underſtanding is mean, and his temper extremely bad: this laſt circumſtance made me tremble for poor Adelaida. I was reſolved to tell her my apprehenſions: I went for that pur⯑poſe to the houſe of the counteſs de Garlande, where we uſed to meet.’

‘I am prepared, ſaid ſhe, for miſery, but I muſt marry; and ſince I know it is the only [540] means of procuring your ſon's liberty, I reproach myſelf every moment that I delay this ſacrifice: yet this marriage, which I conſent to only for his ſake, will perhaps be the moſt cruel of his miſfortunes. I will at leaſt convince him by my choice, that his intereſt was the ſole motive which engaged me to it. Pity me, dear Ma⯑dam, I deſerve your pity; and, by my behavi⯑our to Monſ. Benavides, I will endeavour to render myſelf worthy of your eſteem.’

My mother afterwards told me, that Adelaida was made acquainted by my father himſelf, with my having burnt the writings: he publicly upbraided her with it on the day that he loſt his proceſs. ‘She confeſſed to me, added my mother, that ſhe was more affected with your extreme delicacy in con⯑cealing ſo generous an action, than with the ac⯑tion itſelf.’ We paſſed the days in ſuch conver⯑ſations: my melancholy was exceſſive; yet, tho' deprived of hope, I found a kind of ſweetneſs in the idea of my being ſtill loved.

After a ſtay of two months, my mother received orders from my father to return to him. He had expreſſed no concern for my illneſs, and his cruel treatment of me had extinguiſhed every ſentiment of tenderneſs for him. My mother preſſed me to go with her; but I intreated her to conſent to my ſtaying in the country: ſhe yielded to my reaſons, and left me. I was now once more alone in the midſt of my woods, and found ſo much ſweetneſs in ſolitude, that I would then have abandoned every thing, and taken up my habitation in ſome hermit's cell, had I not been reſtrained by my ten⯑derneſs [541] for my mother. I often reſolved to en⯑deavour to ſee Adelaida, but the fear of diſpleaſing her ſtopt me. At length after long irreſolution, I thought I might at leaſt attempt to ſee Adelaida without being ſeen by her.

Accordingly, I reſolved to ſend a perſon in whom I could confide to Bourdeaux, to know where ſhe was, and for this purpoſe I fixed upon a man who had attended me from my infancy. My mother, during my illneſs, had reſtored him to his place about me: he had been with me at the baths; he knew Adelaida; and when I mentioned my deſign to him, he informed me that he had friends in the houſe of Benavides. After having given him his orders, which I repeated a thouſand times, I cauſed him to ſet out from the caſtle. When he arrived at Bourdeaux, he was informed that Benavides had carried his lady a ſhort time after his marriage to an eſtate which he had in Biſcay. Saint Laurent, for that was my ſervant's name, wrote to me to know what he was to do next: I ſent him orders to go immediately into Biſcay. My deſire of ſeeing Adelaida was ſo much increaſed by the hope I had conceived, that it was not poſſible for me to op⯑poſe it any longer.

Saint Laurent returned at the expiration of ſix weeks, which my anxiety and impatience had lengthened into ſo many ages. He told me, that, after many fruitleſs attempts, Benavides having oc⯑caſion for an architect, he had prevailed upon his friend to preſent him to him in that quality; that having acquired ſome knowledge of the art from an uncle, under whoſe care he had been brought [542] up, he made no ſcruple to undertake the buſineſs Benavides employed him in. ‘I believe, ſaid he, that Madame de Benavides knew me, for ſhe bluſhed when ſhe firſt ſaw me.’

He then told me that ſhe lived the moſt retired and melancholy life imaginable: that her huſband hardly ever quitted her a moment; and that it was ſaid in the houſe, he was exceſſively fond of her; but that he gave her no other proof of it, than by his extreme jealouſy, which he carried ſo far, that even his brother had not the liberty of ſeeing her, but when he was preſent. I aſked my ſervant ſome queſtions about that brother; he told me that he was a very amiable young man, and that the world ſpoke as much in his favour as they did to the diſadvantage of Benavides; and that he ap⯑peared to be greatly attached to his ſiſter-in-law.

This diſcourſe made no impreſſion upon me at that time; the unhappy ſituation of Madame de Benavides, and the deſire of ſeeing her, employed my whole ſoul. Saint Laurent aſſured me he had taken proper meaſures for introducing me into the houſe of Benavides. ‘He has occaſion for a painter, ſaid he to me, to paint an apartment: I promiſed to bring a good one, and you muſt un⯑dertake this buſineſs.’

Nothing now remained but to regulate our de⯑parture; I wrote to my mother, and told her I was going to paſs ſome time at the houſe of one of my friends. This done I ſet out with Saint Laurent for Biſcay: during our journey, I was continually aſking him queſtions concerning Madame de Be⯑navides; I was deſirous of knowing the ſlighteſt [543] particulars relating to her. Saint Laurent was not able to ſatisfy my curioſity; he had but few op⯑portunities of ſeeing her: ſhe was ſhut up in her own apartment, with no other company but a little dog, of which ſhe was extremely fond. This ar⯑ticle touched me particularly: I had preſented her with that dog, and I flattered myſelf that ſhe loved it for my ſake. Theſe little things, which eſcape one in good fortune, affect one ſenſibly in miſery: the heart, in the need it has of conſolation, faſtens upon every thing which is likely to afford it.

Saint Laurent often mentioned to me the great attachment of young Benavides to his ſiſter-in-law; he added, that he often oppoſed the furious ſallies of his brother's temper, and, but for his good of⯑fices, Adelaida would be ſtill more miſerable than ſhe was. He earneſtly intreated me to be con⯑tented with the pleaſure of ſeeing her, and to make no attempt to ſpeak to her, ‘not becauſe it would endanger your life, added he: that, I know, is too weak a motive to reſtrain you; but becauſe ſhe will ſuffer by any imprudence you may be guilty of.’

The liberty of ſeeing Adelaida appeared to me ſo great a bleſſing, that I was fully perſuaded that alone would ſatisfy me, and reſolved within myſelf, and promiſed Saint Laurent, to behave with the utmoſt circumſpection. After a moſt tedious journey, as my impatience made it ſeem, we arrived at Biſcay, and was preſented to Benavides, who ſet me to work immediately.

The ſuppoſed architect and I were lodged in the ſame apartment, and to him was committed the [544] care of overſeeing the workmen. I had been ſe⯑veral days at work before I ſaw madame de Bena⯑vides; at length I perceived her one evening from a window in my own room going to walk in the garden. She had only her little favourite dog with her: her dreſs was negligent, a kind of languiſhing melancholy appeared in her looks and motions, and her fine eyes ſeemed to dwell on the objects around her, without regarding them. Oh heavens! what ſweetly painful emotions did my ſoul feel at the ſight of her. I continued leaning on the window the whole time ſhe ſtaid in the garden: it was dark when ſhe returned; ſo that I could not diſtinguiſh her when ſhe paſſed by my window, but my heart knew it was her.

I ſaw her a ſecond time in the chapel of the caſtle; I placed myſelf in ſuch a manner, that I could look at her the whole time without being obſerved. She never once turned her eyes upon me: I ought to have rejoiced at this circumſtance, ſince I well knew that if ſhe diſcovered me, ſhe would be obliged to go out of the chapel; yet I was af⯑flicted at it, and returned to my chamber in greater diſquiet than when I left it. I had not yet formed any deſign of making myſelf known to her; but I was ſenſible that I ſhould not be able to reſiſt do⯑ing it, if an opportunity offered.

The ſight of young Benavides gave me likewiſe ſome kind of uneaſineſs; he often came to ſee me work, and notwithſtanding the ſeeming diſtance of our rank, he behaved to me with an obliging fami⯑liarity, which ought to have excited my eſteem; yet it had no effect on me. His great merit, and [545] the amiableneſs of his perſon, which I could not but be ſenſible of, with-held my gratitude. I was afraid of a rival in him, and a certain impaſſioned ſadneſs that I perceived in him, which was too like my own not to proceed from the ſame cauſe, gave me a ſuſpicion which he ſoon confirmed.

After aſking me one day ſeveral queſtions re⯑lating to my condition in life; ‘You are in love, (ſaid he to me, ſighing imperceptibly to himſelf,) the melancholy in which I perceive you continually plunged, perſuades me that your heart is not well: tell me the truth; can I do any thing for you? The miſerable in general have a claim to my compaſſion; but there is one ſort of grief which I pity more than any other.’ I believe I thanked Don Gabriel, (that was his name,) with a very ill grace, for the kind offers he made to me; however, I could not help owning to him that I was in love: but I told him that time only could produce any change in the ſtate of my for⯑tune. ‘You are not abſolutely unhappy, replied he, ſince you may hope for a change; I know perſons who are much more to be pitied than you.’

When I was alone I reflected upon the conver⯑ſation that had paſſed betwen Don Gabriel and my⯑ſelf; I concluded that he was in love, and that his charming ſiſter-in-law was the object of his paſſion: his whole behaviour, which I examined with the utmoſt attention, convinced me I was not miſ⯑taken; I obſerved him always aſſiduous about Adelaida; he gazed on her with eyes like mine, yet I was not jealous: my eſteem for Adelaida [546] would not admit of ſuch an injurious ſentiment; but I could not help fearing, that the company of an agreeable man, who was continually rendering her ſervices that ſoftened the horrors of her preſent ſituation, would make her reflections on me be greatly to my diſadvantage, whoſe paſſion had been productive of nothing but misfortunes to her.

I was full of theſe thoughts, when one day I ſaw Adelaida enter the room where I was painting, led by Don Gabriel. ‘Why, ſaid ſhe, do you preſs me to come and look at the ornaments of this apartment? you know I have no taſte for theſe things.’ ‘I hope, madam, (ſaid I, looking earneſtly upon her, and bowing low,) that if you will deign to caſt your eyes upon what is here, you will find ſomething not unworthy your at⯑tention.’

Adelaida, ſtruck with the ſound of my voice, turned inſtantly towards me. I perceived ſhe knew me, for ſhe bluſhed and bent her eyes on the ground, and, after pauſing a moment, ſhe left the room without giving me a look, ſaying, that the ſmell of the paint was diſagreeable to her.

I remained behind, terrified, confuſed, and over⯑whelmed with grief. Adelaida had not deigned to give me a ſecond look; ſhe would not even ſhew that ſhe was enough intereſted in my diſguiſe to expreſs any ſigns of reſentment at it. What have I done, ſaid I, I am indeed come hither contrary to her commands; but if ſhe ſtill loves me, ſhe would pardon a fault that proceeded from the exceſs of my paſſion for her. I now concluded, that ſince Adelaida no longer loved me, ſhe muſt of neceſ⯑ſity [547] have beſtowed her heart upon another. This idea filled me with a grief ſo new and violent, that I thought I had never been truly miſerable till then.

Saint Laurent, who came from time to time to ſee me, entering the room that moment, found me in an agitation that made him tremble. ‘What ails you, ſir, ſaid he to me, what has happened to you?’ ‘I am undone, replied I; Adelaida no longer loves me: ſhe no longer loves me, re⯑peated I; it is but too true, alas! I never had reaſon to complain of my fate till this cruel mo⯑ment: what torment would I now endure to pur⯑chaſe this bleſſing which I have loſt! this bleſ⯑ſing which I preferred to all things, and which in the midſt of my greateſt miſeries, filled my heart with ſo ſoft a joy.’

I continued a long time to exclaim in this man⯑ner, while Saint Laurent in vain endeavoured to draw from me the cauſe of my grief. At length I related to him what had happened. ‘I ſee no⯑thing in all this, ſaid he, which ought to drive you to the deſpair I ſee you in. Madam de Be⯑navides is certainly offended at your raſh at⯑tempt. She was deſirous of puniſhing you by appearing indifferent; and perhaps ſhe was ap⯑prehenſive of betraying herſelf, if ſhe had looked upon you.’

‘No, no, interrupted I, they who love have no ſuch command over themſelves in thoſe firſt emotions; the heart alone is liſtened to. I muſt ſee her, added I, I muſt reproach her with her change. Alas! after giving herſelf to another, [548] ought ſhe to take away my life by ſo cruel an indifference? why did ſhe not leave me in my priſon, there I ſhould have been happy, had I been aſſured of her love.’

Saint Laurent fearing that any one ſhould ſee me in the condition I was in, obliged me to retire to the chamber where we both lay. I paſt the whole night in tormenting myſelf; my thoughts were at ſtrife with each other; in one moment I condemned my ſuſpicions, and the next relapſed into them again. I thought it unjuſt to wiſh that Adelaida ſhould preſerve a tenderneſs which ren⯑dered her miſerable. In thoſe moments, I re⯑proached myſelf for loving her leſs than my own ſatisfaction. ‘Why ſhould I wiſh to live, ſaid I to Saint Laurent, if ſhe loves another: I will en⯑deavour to ſpeak to her, only to bid her an eter⯑nal adieu: ſhe ſhall hear no reproaches from my mouth; my grief, which I cannot conceal from her, ſhall ſpeak for me.’

When this point was reſolved upon, it was agreed that I ſhould leave Biſcay as ſoon as I ſhould have an interview with her; we then began to conſider upon the neceſſary means of procuring it. Saint Laurent told me that we muſt ſeize the firſt op⯑portunity that offered, when Don Gabriel went to hunt, as he often did, and Benavides was employed in his domeſtic affairs; for which he always ſet apart two mornings in the week. He then made me promiſe, that to avoid giving any ſuſpicion, I ſhould go on with my painting, as uſual; but that I ſhould likewiſe declare, that I was under a neceſſity of re⯑turning ſoon to my own country.

[549]Accordingly I reſumed my former employment. I had almoſt, without perceiving it, ſome hope that Adelaida would come again into that apartment; every noiſe that I heard gave me an emotion I was ſcarce able to bear. In this ſituation I remained ſeveral days, and then loſing all hope of ſeeing Ade⯑laida in that manner, I eagerly ſought for ſome moment in which I might be ſo fortunate as to find her alone. At length this moment came; I was going as uſual to my work, when I ſaw Ade⯑laida paſſing to her own apartment. I knew that Don Gabriel went out early that morning to hunt, and I had heard Benavides talking in a low hall of the caſtle, to one of his farmers; ſo that I was pretty certain of finding her alone.

I entered her apartment with ſo much precipi⯑tation, that Adelaida ſaw me not till I was very near her: ſhe would have retired to her cloſet as ſoon as ſhe perceived me, but I catched hold of her robe, and prevented her. ‘Do not fly from me, madam, ſaid I to her, ſuffer me this laſt time to enjoy the bleſſing of beholding you: I ſhall ne⯑ver importune you more. I am going far from you, to die with grief for the miſeries I have been the cauſe of to you; and for the loſs of your heart. I wiſh Don Gabriel may be more for⯑tunate than I have been.’

Adelaida, whoſe ſurpriſe had hitherto prevented her from ſpeaking, interupted me at theſe words, and giving me a look of mingled tenderneſs and anger, ‘What, ſaid ſhe, dare you make me re⯑proaches? dare you ſuſpect me?—you—.’ The tone with which ſhe pronounced theſe laſt words, [550] brought me inſtantly at her feet. ‘No, my dear Adelaida, interupted I, no, I have no ſuſpicion that is injurious to you: pardon a few diſtracted words, which my heart diſavows.’

‘I pardon you all, ſaid ſhe to me, provided you depart immediately, and never attempt to ſee me more. Reflect, that it is for your ſake I am the moſt miſerable creature in the world; would you give me cauſe to reproach myſelf with being the moſt criminal.’ ‘I will do every thing you command me, replied I, but only promiſe that you will not hate me.’

Although Adelaida had ſeveral times deſired me to riſe, yet I ſtill continued at her feet. To thoſe who truly love, this attitude has a thouſand ſecret charms. I was ſtill kneeling, when Benavides ſud⯑denly opened the chamber door. Tranſported with rage, he flew towards his wife, and drawing his ſword, "Thou ſhalt die, perfidious woman," cried he, and would have infallibly killed her, had I not thrown myſelf between them, and put by his ſword with my own.

‘Wretch! cried Benavides, you firſt ſhall feel my vengeance,’ and at the ſame time gave me a wound on my ſhoulder. I did not love life well enough to be ſolicitous for the preſervation of it; but my hatred to Benavides would not ſuf⯑fer me to abandon it to his fury: this cruel attempt upon the perſon of his wife, deprived me almoſt of reaſon. I threw myſelf upon him, and plunging my ſword in his body, he fell at my feet without ſenſe or motion. The ſervants, drawn by the cries of madame de Benavides, entered the room that mo⯑ment, [551] and ſeveral of them throwing themſelves upon me, diſarmed me, while I made no effort to defend myſelf. The ſight of madame de Benavides bathed in tears, and kneeling by her huſband, left me no ſenſibility of any thing but her grief. I was dragged out of her chamber into another, and the door faſtened upon me.

There it was, that delivered up to my own re⯑flections, I ſaw the abyſs into which I had plunged madame de Benavides: the death of her huſband, killed before her eyes, and killed by me, could not fail of giving riſe to ſuſpicions againſt her. How did I not reproach myſelf! I had been the cauſe of her firſt misfortunes, and I had now com⯑pleted her ruin by my imprudence. My imagi⯑nation continually repreſented to me the dreadful condition in which I had left her. I acknowledge that ſhe had juſt reaſons to hate me, and I did not murmur at it. The only conſolation I had, was in the hope that I was not known. The idea of being taken for an aſſaſſin, and a robber, which on any other occaſion would have made me tremble with horror, now gave me joy. Adelaida knew the in⯑nocence of my, intentions, and Adelaida was the whole world to me.

Impatient to be interrogated, that I might clear the honour of Adelaida, I paſſed ſeveral hours in the moſt racking inquietude: in the middle of the night my chamber door was opened, and I ſaw Don Gabriel enter.

THE HISTORY OF HARRIOT AND SOPHIA CONTINUED.

WHEN Mr. Herbert returned from his walk, and met the curate, and his little family at ſupper, Sophia, who heedfully obſerved him, ſaw an alteration in his countenance, which realized all her melancholy apprehenſions, and convinced her that ſome new misfortune awaited her: his eyes, which ſtudiouſly avoided her's, ex⯑preſſed nothing but grief and confuſion; but he retired ſo early to his chamber, that Sophia, finding there was no hopes of his explaining himſelf that night, paſſed it in an anxiety of mind which ſuffered her not to taſte the leaſt repoſe. Early in the morning he knocked at her door, and deſired her to join him in the garden; ſhe was already dreſt, and inſtantly complied.

As ſoon as ſhe came up to him, he took her hand, and preſſed it affectionately, but ſpoke not a word.

Sophia, who feared, as much as ſhe wiſhed to know what had happened, had not power to aſk for an explanation; ſo they both continued ſilent for ſome minutes.

At length Mr. Herbert told her he was going to London: Sophia, in a faultering accent, aſked [570] him what had happened to occaſion this ſudden reſolution?

‘Alas! my dear child, ſaid the good old man, in great emotion, I am aſhamed and grieved to tell you that —Sir Charles has, I fear, de⯑ceived me.’

Although Sophia had reaſon to expect ſome ſad reverſe of fortune, and had endeavoured to prepare herſelf for it, yet this fatal confirmation of her fears ſhocked her ſo much, that Mr. Herbert, who ſaw a death-like paleneſs overſpread her face, and felt her hand cold and trembling, fearing ſhe would faint, made haſte to lead her to a little bench of turf which was near them.

Sophia recovering, ſaw ſo much concern in his looks, that ſtruggling to repreſs her own anguiſh, ſhe endeavoured to comfort him, and ſmiling through the tears that filled her charming eyes, ‘Let not this inſtance of my weakneſs alarm you, ſir, ſaid ſhe; and doubt not but, with the aſſiſt⯑ance of heaven, I ſhall bear this ſtrange inſult with proper fortitude.’

‘How worthy are you, my good child, of bet⯑ter fortune!’ ſaid Mr. Herbert; then taking a letter out of his pocket, ‘My firſt deſign, purſued he, was to ſeek ſome explanation of this myſte⯑rious letter before I made you acquainted with it, but I perceived that my too apparent uneaſineſs had alarmed you, and I thought it would be leſs cruel to inform you of the whole matter, than to leave you in doubt and uncertainty: this let⯑ter was delivered to me yeſterday in the evening, by one of Sir Charles's ſervants, juſt as was [571] walking out towards the road, in hopes of meet⯑ing his maſter. My ſurpriſe at receiving a letter when I expected to ſee himſelf, made me open it inſtantly, without aſking the ſervant any que⯑ſtions, and while I was reading it he went away, doubtleſs being directed to do ſo.’

Mr. Herbert then gave the letter to Sophia, who unfolding it with trembling emotion, found it was as follows:

Although this letter gave Sophia a ſad certainty of her misfortune, yet it relieved her from thoſe worſt pangs which a heart in love can feel, the be⯑lief of being abandoned through indifference, or inconſtancy: unperceived by ourſelves, pride mixes [572] with our moſt tender affections, and either aggra⯑vates or leſſens the ſenſe of every diſappointment, in proportion as we feel ourſelves humbled by the circumſtances that attend it.

This ill-diſguiſed jealouſy, the perſonated calm⯑neſs, the ſtruggling reſentment that appeared in this letter, convinced Sophia that Sir Charles was far from being at eaſe, and that to whatever cauſe his preſent unaccountable behaviour was owing, yet ſhe was ſure at leaſt of not being indifferent to him.

It was not difficult to perceive that he had been deceived by ſome malicious reports, and her ſuſ⯑picions fell immediately upon Harriot; but reject⯑ing this thought, as too injurious to her ſiſter, ſhe returned the letter to Mr. Herbert without ſpeaking a word, but with a look much more ſerene and compoſed than before.

Mr. Herbert, who ſaw nothing in this letter like what her penetration had diſcovered, and who conceived it to be only a poor artifice to diſengage himſelf from promiſes which he now repented of, was ſurpriſed to find her ſo much leſs affected with it than he expected, and aſked her what ſhe thought of it?

Sophia told him, that ſhe was fully perſuaded Sir Charles had been prejudiced againſt her.

‘Do you think ſo, my dear, ſaid he, after a little pauſe; then it is your ſiſter to whom you are obliged for this kind office.’

‘I hope not, ſir, replied Sophia, ſighing; that circumſtance would aggravate my concern—in⯑deed [573] I think it would be a crime in me to ſuſ⯑pect her of being capable of ſuch unkindneſs.’

‘Well, reſumed Mr. Herbert, I will, if poſſible, diſcover this myſtery before night; you ſhall hear from me to-morrow; in the mean time calm your mind, and reſign yourſelf entirely to that providence, which while you continue thus good and virtuous, will never forſake you.’

Mr. Herbert now left her, to go and take leave of the curate and his family; and Sophia, whoſe fortune had undergone ſo many revolutions in ſo ſhort a time, retired to her chamber, where ſhe paſſed great part of the day alone, at once to indulge her melancholy and to conceal it from obſervation.

In the afternoon Dolly came up, in a great hurry of ſpirits, to acquaint her that Mrs. Gibbons was come to wait upon her, that ſhe had been met at the door by her mother, and that ſeveral courteſies had paſſed between them.

The poor girl, though tranſported with joy at this favourable beginning, no ſooner perceived by the penſive air in Sophia's countenance, and the ſighs that eſcaped her, that her ſuſpicions of ſome new diſappointment having happened to her were true, than inſtantly forgetting the proſperous ſitu⯑ation of her own affairs, her ſweet face was over⯑ſpread with tender grief, and a tear ſtole from her eyes; but Sophia, whom nothing could have a⯑wakened from that ſtupifying ſorrow in which any great and ſudden misfortune plunges the mind, but the deſire of being uſeful to her friends, ſoon aſſumed a more chearful look, and haſtened to re⯑ceive her viſitor.

[574]Mrs. Gibbons was in full dreſs, and had omit⯑ted no ſuperfluous ornament that could ſerve to ſhew Sophia how well ſhe underſtood every ſort of punctilio. As ſoon as the firſt compliments were over, ‘You ſee, madam, ſaid ſhe, what affluence your commands have over me; I once little thought that I ſhould ever have entered this im⯑poliſhed houſe again; my nephew attended me to the door, but I would not ſuffer him to come in, becauſe I am not ſure that you are willing to let theſe people know the honour you do him by receiving his adorations.’

Sophia, though a little ſtartled at theſe words, yet ſuppoſed ſhe had no particular meaning in them, and aſcribed all to her fantaſtick manner of ex⯑preſſing herſelf; but Mrs. Gibbons being reſolved to haſten the concluſion of an affair which ſhe had very much at heart, ſpoke ſo intelligibly at laſt, that Sophia could no longer be ignorant of her de⯑ſign, all the ill conſequences of which ſuddenly ſtriking her imagination, ſhe exclaimed in a tone of ſurpriſe and terror, ‘Sure I am the moſt un⯑fortunate creature in the world! is it poſſible, Mrs. Gibbons, that you can be ſerious? have you really given any cauſe for a report, that I receive your nephew's addreſſes? if you have, you have done me an irreparable injury.’

Sophia's ſpirits were ſo greatly agitated that ſhe did not perceive how much of her ſituation theſe words diſcovered; ſo that Mrs. Gibbons, who ſaw the tears flow faſt from her eyes, immediately com⯑prehended the whole truth.

[575] ‘I ſee plainly, ſaid ſhe, in great concern, that I have been deceived, and others perhaps have been ſo too; I ſhall never diſculpate myſelf for being the cauſe of any misfortune to you: ſome more advantageous treatiſe has been on the tapeſtry, and this unlucky affair has done miſ⯑chief.’

‘Give me leave to aſk you, madam, interupted Sophia, with ſome peeviſhneſs, what foundation you had for believing that I conſidered your nephew as my lover? you know his heart has been long ſince engaged.’

‘I acknowledge I have been to blame, my dear miſs, reſumed Mrs. Gibbons, I was too ſan⯑guinary in my hopes; but I beg you will diſclaim no more, this will do no good, only tell me if it is poſſible to repair the harm I have done by my fooliſh ſchemes.’

To this Sophia made no anſwer; but Mrs. Gib⯑bons, who wanted neither tenderneſs nor candor, and who was greatly concerned at the uneaſineſs ſhe ſaw her under, urged her ſo frequently, and with ſo much earneſtneſs, to tell her if ſhe could be of any uſe in clearing up a miſtake that had poſſibly been diſadvantageous to her, that Sophia, ſtill attentive amidſt all her own diſtreſſes to the intereſt of her friend, thought this a favourable opportunity to ſerve her; and therefore told Mrs. Gibbons, that if ſhe was really ſincere in her offers, there was one way.

‘I underſtand you, madam, interrupted Mrs. Gibbons, and I believe I may venture to ſay that I thought of this expedition before you did. I [576] cannot, indeed, Miſs Darnley, I cannot conſent to my nephew's marriage with the young woman here; you know I have been affronted.’

Sophia now urged ſome arguments in favour of Mrs. Lawſon, but chiefly reſted her defence upon her ignorance of thoſe form's of politeneſs and good breeding which Mrs. Gibbons was ſo perfectly mi⯑ſtreſs of.

This compliment put the old lady into ſo good a humour, that ſhe cried out, ‘Well, my dear Miſs Darnley, in regard to you, I will take off the probition I laid on my nephew to viſit here no more; and this I hope, added ſhe ſmiling, will ſet matters right in another place; as for the reſt, I ſhall take no reſolution till I ſee how they behave.’

Sophia, in her tranſport at having ſucceeded ſo well with the old lady, felt all her own griefs ſuſ⯑pended; and indeed when ſhe reflected upon what had happened with regard to herſelf, ſhe found ſhe had leſs cauſe for reflection than Mr. Herbert, or her own fears, had ſuggeſted.

Mrs. Gibbons acknowledged that ſhe had flat⯑tered herſelf with the hope of her nephew's being well received by her; and that, in conſequence of it, ſhe had talked of their marriage as an event which was very likely to happen, and which would give her great joy. Sophia, being fully perſuaded that theſe reports had reached Sir Charles, though by what means ſhe was not ſo well able to determine, eaſily accounted for that jealouſy and reſentment which had produced ſo ſtrange an inconſiſtency in his behaviour, and which Mr. Herbert conſidered as a piece of artifice to palliate his lightneſs and in⯑conſtancy.

[577]The good old man, animated by his affection for the poor afflicted Sophia, rode with the utmoſt ſpeed to town, and alighted at the houſe of the young baronet. The ſervants informed him, that their maſter was in the country, which was all the intelligence they could give him; for they neither knew where he was, nor when he would return. Mr. Herbert, perplexed and concerned at this new diſappointment, repaired immediately to Mrs. Darnley's, hoping to hear ſome news of him there.

Harriot, in anſwer to his enquiries, told him with an air of triumph, that the ſame day they re⯑turned from viſiting Sophia, Sir Charles had waited on her mamma and her, and had as uſual paſt great part of the afternoon with them.

Mr. Herbert, who was ſtruck with this incident, endeavoured to make ſome diſcoveries concerning their converſation, and Harriot's malice made this no difficult matter: for ſhe could not forbear throwing out ſome ſarcaſms againſt her ſiſter, whoſe extreme ſenſibility, ſhe inſinuated, had already found out a new object.

Mr. Herbert, by his artful queſtions, drew her into a confeſſion of all that had paſſed between her and the baronet upon this ſubject; and was con⯑vinced that her malignant hints had poiſoned his mind with ſuſpicions unfavourable to Sophia.

He went away full of indignation at her trea⯑chery, and ſtill doubtful of Sir Charles's ſincerity, who he could not ſuppoſe would have been ſo eaſily influenced by Harriot's ſuggeſtions, (whoſe envious diſpoſition he well knew,) if his intentions had been abſolutely right.

[578]The next morning he received a letter from Sophia, in which ſhe acquainted him with the diſ⯑coveries ſhe had made; and modeſtly hinted her belief that Sir Charles had been impoſed upon by this report of her intended marriage, which ſhe found was ſpread through the village, and which, as it was very probable, he had intelligence from thence, had confirmed any idle raillery to that pur⯑poſe, which her ſiſter might have indulged her⯑ſelf in.

Mr. Herbert reflecting upon all theſe unlucky circumſtances, began to ſuppoſe it poſſible that Sir Charles had been really deceived. He went a⯑gain to his houſe, but had the mortification to hear from a ſervant whom he had not ſeen the day before, that the baronet was at his ſeat in—

Thither the good old man reſolved to go; the inconveniencies and expence of ſuch a journey, which in his years, and narrow circumſtances were not inconſiderable, had not weight enough with him to make him balance a moment whether he ſhould tranſact this affair by letter, or in perſon. The happineſs of his dear and amiable charge de⯑pended upon his ſucceſs: he therefore delayed no longer than to make the neceſſary preparations for his journey, and, after writing to Sophia to ac⯑quaint her with his deſign, he ſet out for Sir Charles's ſeat, where he met with a new and more ſevere diſappointment. The firſt news he heard was, that the baronet was not in that part of the country; and, upon a fuller enquiry of his ſervants, he was informed that their maſter had the morning before ſet out for Dover with an intention to go to Paris.

[579]Mr. Herbert, diſpirited with this news, and fa⯑tigued with his fruitleſs journey, retired to his inn, where he paſſed the lonely hours in melancholy reflections upon the capricious behaviour of Sir Charles, and the undeſerved diſtreſſes of the inno⯑cent Sophia.

Sir Charles, however, notwithſtanding appear⯑ances, was at preſent more unhappy than guilty. His reſolution to marry Sophia, though ſuddenly formed, was not the leſs ſincere: he had always loved her with the moſt ardent paſſion, and had not the light character of her mother and ſiſter con⯑curred with thoſe prejudices which his youth, his fortune, and his converſe with the gay world led him into, his heart, which never ceaſed to do homage to her virtue, would have ſooner ſuggeſted to him the only means of being truly happy.

An overſtrained delicacy likewiſe proved another ſource of diſquietude to him. The inequality of their circumſtances gave riſe to a thouſand tor⯑menting doubts: he was afraid, that dazzled with the ſplendor of his fortune, ſhe would ſacrifice her inclinations to her intereſt, and give him her hand without her heart; and when doing juſtice to the greatneſs of her mind, and the real delicacy of her ſentiments, he rejected this ſuppoſition as too inju⯑rious to her, his buſy imagination conjured up new forms of diſtruſt: he trembled left, mistaking gratitude for love, ſhe ſhould be deceived by her own generoſity and nice ſenſe of obligation, and imagine it was the lover ſhe prefered, when the benefactor only touched her heart.

[580]Such was the perplexed ſtate of his mind, when Mrs. Darnley and Harriot propoſed making her a viſit. With ſome difficulty he conquered his de⯑ſire of accompanying them; but his impatience to hear of her, carried him again to Mrs. Darnley's much earlier in the evening than it was likely they would return; preſuming on his intimacy in the family, he ſcrupled not to go up ſtairs, telling the ſervant he would wait till the ladies came home.

He ſat down in the dining room, where he gazed on Sophia's picture a long time. At laſt a ſudden fancy ſeized him to viſit her apartment, which he knew was on the ſecond floor: he aſcended the ſtairs without being perceived, and with a tender emotion entered the room where his beloved So⯑phia uſed to paſs ſo many of her retired hours.

It was ſtill elegantly neat, as when its lovely in⯑mate was there; for Harriot, who hated this room, becauſe it contained ſo many monuments of her ſiſter's taſte and induſtry, never went into it; and it remained in the ſame order that ſhe had left it.

The firſt thing that drew the young baronet's attention, was a fire ſcreen of excellent workman⯑ship; it was a flower-piece, and executed with pe⯑culiar taſte and propriety: the wainſcot was a⯑dorned with ſeveral drawings, neatly framed and glaſſed. In this art Sophia took great delight, having while her father lived, appropriated all her pocket-money to the payment of a maſter to in⯑ſtruct her in it. Sir Charles conſidered the ſubjects of theſe drawings with peculiar pleaſure. The deli⯑cate pencil of Sophia had here repreſented the [581] virtues and the graces, from thoſe lively ideas which exiſted in her own charming mind.

Her little library next engaged his notice: many of the books that compoſed it he had preſented her; but he was curious to ſee thoſe which her own choice had directed her to, and in this exami⯑nation he met with many proofs of her piety as well as of the excellence of her taſte.

Several compoſitions of her own now fell into his hands; he read them with eagerneſs, and, charm⯑ed with this diſcovery of thoſe treaſures of wit, which ſhe with modeſt diffidence ſo carefully con⯑cealed, he felt his admiration and tenderneſs for her encreaſe every moment.

While he was anxiouſly ſearching for more of her papers, a little ſhagreen caſe fell from one of the ſhelves upon the ground. He took it up, and as every thing that belonged to her excited his curioſity, he opened it immediately, and with equal ſurpriſe and pleaſure, ſaw his own miniature in water colours, which was evidently the performance of Sophia herſelf.

Had it been poſſible for her to imagine the ſudden and powerful effect the ſight of this picture would have upon the heart of Sir Charles, ſhe would not have ſuffered ſo much uneaſineſs for the loſs of it as ſhe really had; for forgetting where ſhe had laid it, ſhe ſuppoſed it had dropt out of her pocket, and was apprehenſive of its having fallen into her ſiſter's hands, who ſhe knew would not fail to turn this incident to her diſadvantage.

While Sir Charles gazed upon this artleſs teſti⯑mony of Sophia's affection for him, the ſofteſt gra⯑titude, [582] the tendereſt compaſſion filled his ſoul. ‘Oh my Sophia, ſaid he, do you then truly love me! and have I cruelly trifled with your tender⯑neſs!’

This thought melted him even to tears; he felt in himſelf a deteſtation of thoſe depraved principles which had ſuggeſted to him a deſign of debaſing ſuch purity! he wondered at the hardneſs of his own heart, that could ſo long reſiſt the influence of her gentle virtues, and ſuffer ſuch ſweet ſenſi⯑bility to waſte itſelf in anxious doubts, and diſap⯑pointed hope.

Being now determined to do juſtice to her merit, and make himſelf happy, his firſt deſign was to go immediately to Mr. Lawſon's; but, reflecting that Sophia had great reaſon to be diſſatisfied with his conduct, and that to remove her preju⯑dices, the utmoſt caution and delicacy was to be obſerved, he conceived it would be more proper to make a direct application to Mr. Herbert, whom ſhe loved and reverenced as a father, than to preſent himſelf before her, while her mind yet la⯑boured with thoſe unfavourable ſuſpicions for which he had given but too much cauſe; and hence new fears and doubts aroſe to torment him. He dreaded left her juſt reſentment for his injurious deſigns ſhould have weakened thoſe tender impreſſions ſhe had once received, and that in the pride of offended virtue every ſofter ſentiment would be loſt.

Impatient of this cruel ſtate of ſuſpenſe and in⯑quietude, he left Sophia's apartment, and repairing to the dining-room, rang the bell for the ſervant, of whom he enquired where Mr. Herbert lodged. [583] Having obtained a direction, he went immediately to the houſe; Mr. Herbert was not at home, and Sir Charles grieved at this diſappointment, and at Mrs. Darnley's not returning that night, from whom he hoped to have heard ſome news of Sophia; the agitation of his mind made him think it an age till the next day, in which he determined to put an end to all his perplexities, and to fix his fate.

After his interview with Mr. Herbert, and the good old man's departure to prepare Sophia for his intended viſit, the young baronet reſigned his whole ſoul to tenderneſs and joy. His impatience to ſee Sophia encreaſed with his hope of finding her ſen⯑timents for him unchanged, and he regretted a thouſand times his having ſuffered Mr. Herbert to go away without him.

Mean time a card came from Mrs. Darnley and Harriot, acquainting him that they were returned, and thanking him for the uſe of his ſervants and chariot. Sir Charles, eager to hear news of his So⯑phia, went immediately to wait on them, and ſcarce were the firſt compliments over, when he enquired for her with ſuch apparent emotion, that, Harriot mortified to the laſt degree, reſolved to be even with him, and ſaid every thing that ſhe thought would torment him, and prejudice her ſiſter.

She told him that Sophia was the moſt contented creature in the world, and that ſhe was ſo charmed with her preſent way of life, and her new compa⯑nions, that ſhe ſeemed to have forgot all her old friends, and even her relations. ‘She is grown a meer country girl, ſaid ſhe, is always wandering about in the fields and meadows, followed by a [584] young ruſtic who has fallen in love with her. I rallied her a little upon her taſte; but I found ſhe could not bear it, and indeed he is extremely handſome, and ſhe ſays, has had a genteel edu⯑cation.’

Harriot was at once pleaſed and grieved at ob⯑ſerving the effect theſe inſinuations had on Sir Charles; his colour changed, he trembled, and fixing his eyes on the ground, he remained penſive and ſilent, while Harriot, notwithſtanding her mo⯑ther's ſignificant frowns, proceeded in a malicious detail of little circumſtances partly invented, and partly miſtaken, which fixed the ſharpeſt ſtings of jealouſy in his heart.

If in dealing with cunning perſons we were al⯑ways to conſider their ends, in order to interpret their ſpeeches, much of their artifice would loſe its effect; but Sir Charles had ſo contemptible an opi⯑nion of Harriot's underſtanding, that although he knew ſhe was malicious, he never ſuſpected her of being capable of laying ſchemes to gratify her ma⯑lice, and did not ſuppoſe ſhe was miſtreſs of inven⯑tion enough to form ſo plauſible a tale as that ſhe had told.

Impatient under thoſe cruel doubts which now poſſeſſed him, he reſolved to go, late as it was in the evening, to Mr. Lawſon's houſe, and taking an abrupt leave of Mrs. Darnley and her daughter, he went home, and ordered his horſes to be got ready. He ſcarce knew his own deſign by taking this journey at ſo improper a time; but in the ex⯑treme agitation of his mind, the firſt idea of relief that naturally preſented itſelf was to ſee Sophia, [585] who alone could deſtroy or confirm his fears; and this he eagerly purſued without any farther re⯑flection.

The ſervant to whom he had ſent his orders, made no haſte to execute them, as conceiving it to be a moſt extravagant whim in his maſter to ſet out upon a journey ſo late, and in that manner. While he with ſtudied delays protracted the time, hoping for ſome change in his reſolutions, Sir Charles racked with impatience, counted moments for hours; meſſage after meſſage was diſpatched to the groom. The horſes at length were brought, and Sir Charles with only one ſervant gallop'd away, never ſtopping till he came to the place where Sophia reſided.

It was now night, and the indecorum of making a viſit at ſuch a time in a family where he was a ſtranger firſt ſtriking his thoughts, he reſolved to alight at an inn which he ſaw at a ſmall diſtance, and there conſider what it was beſt for him to do.

A gueſt of his appearance ſoon engaged the at⯑tention of the hoſt and his wife. They quitted two men with whom they had then been talking, and, with a great deal of officious civility, attended upon Sir Charles, who deſired to be ſhewn into a room. As he was following the good woman, who declared he ſhould have the beſt in her houſe, the two men with whom ſhe had been talking, bowed to him when he paſſed by them; the ſalute of the younger having a certain grace in it that drew his attention, he looked back on him, and at the ſight of a very handſome face, and a perſon uncommon⯑ly [586] genteel, his heart, by its throbbing emotion, immediately ſuggeſted to him, that this beautiful youth was the lover of his Sophia.

The jealouſy which Harriot's inſinuations had kindled in his heart, now raged with redoubled force; this rival, whom ſhe had called a ruſtic, and whom he fondly hoped to find ſuch, poſſeſſed the moſt attractive graces of form, and probably wanted neither wit nor politeneſs. Sophia's youth, her tenderneſs, her ſenſibility wounded by his diſſem⯑bled indifference, and the cruel capriciouſneſs of his conduct, all diſpoſed her to receive a new im⯑preſſion, and who ſo proper to touch her heart as this lovely youth, whoſe paſſion, as innocent as it was ardent and ſincere, baniſhed all doubt and ſuſ⯑picion, and left her whole ſoul open to the ſoft pleadings of gratitude and love?

While he was wholly abſorb'd in theſe torment⯑ing reflections, and incapable of taking any reſolu⯑tion, the officious landlady entered his chamber to take his orders for ſupper.

Sir Charles, ſurpriſed to find it was ſo late, re⯑ſolved to ſtay there all night, and after giving the good woman ſome directions, his reſtleſs curioſity impelled him to aſk her ſeveral queſtions concern⯑ing the old man and the youth whom he had ſeen talking to her.

The hoſteſs, who was as communicative as he could deſire, told him, that the old man was one farmer Gibbons, of whom ſhe had been buying a load of hay; that the young one was his ſon, and a great ſcholard. ‘His aunt, purſued ſhe, breeds [587] him up to be a gentleman, and ſhe has a power of money, and deſigns to leave it all to him, much good may it do him, for he is as handſome a young man as one would deſire to ſee. Some time ago it was all over our town that he was going to be married to the parſon's youngeſt daughter, and ſhe is a pretty creature, and diſ⯑arves him if he was more richer, and handſomer than he is; but whatever is the matter, the old folks have changed their mind, and his aunt, they ſay, wants to make up a match between him and a fine London lady that boards at the par⯑ſon's; but I'll never believe it till I ſee it, for ſhe and the parſon's daughter are great friends, they ſay, and it would not be a friendly part to rob the poor girl of her ſweetheart. To ſay the truth, I believe there is ſome juggling among them; but this I keep to myſelf, for I would not make miſchief; therefore I never tell my thoughts to any body, but I wiſh the young folks well.’

Sir Charles, who had liſtened to her with great emotion, diſmiſſed her now, that he might be at liberty to reflect on what he had heard, which al⯑though it did not lead him to a full diſcovery of the truth, yet it ſuggeſted thoughts which relieved him in ſome degree from thoſe dreadful pangs of jealouſy with which he had hitherto been tortured, and balanced at leaſt his fears and his hopes.

His impatience to free himſelf from this ſtate of perplexity and ſuſpence, allowed him but little repoſe that night; he roſe as ſoon as the day appear⯑ed, and it was with ſome difficulty that he pre⯑vailed [588] upon himſelf to defer his viſit till a ſeaſon⯑able hour; and then being informed that Mr. Law⯑ſon's houſe was ſcarce a mile diſtant, he left his ſervant and horſes at the inn, and walked thither, amidſt a thouſand anxious thoughts, which made him dread as much as he wiſhed for an interview, which was to decide his fate.

As he drew near the houſe, he perceived a young man ſauntering about in an adjacent field, whoſe air and mien had a great reſemblance of the youth whom he had ſeen in the inn. Sir Charles, eager to ſatisfy his doubts, followed him at a diſtance, and the youth turning again his wiſhing eyes towards the houſe, the baronet had a full view of his face.

At the ſight of his young rival his heart throbbed as if it would leave his breaſt: he haſtily retreated behind the hedge, determined to watch his mo⯑tions; for he imagined, and with reaſon, that he came there to meet his miſtreſs; and who that mi⯑ſtreſs was, whether Sophia, or the curate's daugher, was the diſtracting doubt, which he now expected to have ſatisfied.

He walked along by the ſide of the hedge, ſtill keeping William in ſight, who ſuddenly turning back, rather flew than ran to meet a woman who beckoned to him. Sir Charles ſaw at once his So⯑phia, and the fatal ſign, which planted a thouſand daggers in his heart. Trembling and pale he leaned againſt a tree, which concealed him from view, and ſaw her advance towards his rival, ſaw her in earneſt diſcourſe with him; and, to compleat his diſtraction and deſpair, ſaw the happy youth throw himſelf at [589] her feet, doubtleſs to thank her for the ſacrifice ſhe made to him of a richer lover.

Such was the inference he drew from this action; and now rage and indignation ſucceeding to grief, in theſe firſt tranſports, he was upon the point of diſcovering himſelf, and ſacrificing the hated youth to his vengeance; but a moment's reflection ſhewed him the diſhonour of a conteſt with ſo deſpicable a rival, and turned all his reſentment againſt Sophia, who having quitted her ſuppoſed lover, took her way back again to the houſe. Sir Charles followed her with diſordered haſte, reſolved to load her with reproaches for her inconſtancy; then, unwilling to gratify her pride by ſuch an acknowledgment of his weakneſs, he turned back, curſing love, women, and his own ill fate. In this temper he wandered about a long time; at laſt he again returned to the inn, where after giving orders to have his horſes got ready, he wrote that letter to Mr. Herbert, in which he ſo well diſguiſed the anguiſh of his heart, that the good old man believed his breaking off the affair was the effect of his lightneſs and incon⯑ſtancy only, though Sophia's quicker penetration eaſily diſcovered the latent jealouſy that had dic⯑tated it.

Sir Charles ordered his ſervant to deliver the let⯑ter into Mr. Herbert's hands; then mounting his horſe, he bid him follow him as ſoon as he had ex⯑ecuted his commiſſion. The young baronet, who retired to his country ſeat to conceal his melan⯑choly, and fondly flattered himſelf that he ſhould ſoon overcome that fatal paſſion which had been [590] the ſource of ſo much diſguſt to him, found his mind ſo cruelly tortured with the remembrance of Sophia, that he reaſſumed his firſt deſign of going abroad, and unfortunately ſet out for Dover, the day before Mr. Herbert's arrival.

The good old man being obliged to ſend Sophia this bad news, filled his letter with tender conſo⯑lations, and wiſe and prudent counſels: he ex⯑horted her to bear this ſtroke of fortune with that dignity of patience which diſtinguiſhes the good and wiſe.

‘The virtue of proſperity, ſaid he, is tempe⯑rance, the virtue of adverſity fortitude; it is this laſt which you are now called upon to ex⯑ert, and which the innocence of your life may well inſpire you with; for be aſſured, my dear child, that it is the greateſt conſolation under misfortunes to be conſcious of having always meant well, and to be convinced that nothing but guilt deſerves to be conſidered as a ſevere evil.’

Sophia in her anſwer diſplayed a mind ſtrug⯑gling againſt its own tenderneſs, offering up its diſappointed hopes, its griefs, and deſires, in pious ſacrifice to the will of Providence, and ſeeking in religion all its conſolation and ſupport.

‘Can a virtuous perſon, ſaid ſhe, however oppreſſed by poverty, and in conſequence ne⯑glected by the world, be ſaid to want friends and comforters who can look into his own mind with modeſt approbation, and to whom recol⯑lection furniſhes a ſource of joy? Every good action he has performed is a friend, every in⯑ſtance [591] of pious reſignation is a comforter, who cheer him with preſent peace, and ſupport him with hopes of future happineſs. Can he be ſaid to be alone, and deprived of the pleaſures of ſociety, who converſes with ſaints and angels? is he without diſtinction and reward whoſe life his almighty Creator approves?’

THE HISTORY OF THE COUNT DE COMMINGE CONTINUED.

‘BE not apprehenſive of any harm, ſaid he to me, as he approached; I come by the com⯑mand of madame de Benavides: ſhe has had eſteem enough for me, to truſt me with every thing relating to you, probably, (added he, with a ſigh which he could not ſuppreſs,) ſhe would have judged differently if ſhe had known me well; but I will be juſt to her confidence; I will ſave you, and I will ſave her, if I can.’

‘You ſhall not ſave me, replied I; it is my duty to juſtify the innocence of madame de Be⯑navides, and I will do it at the expence of a thouſand lives, if I had them to loſe.’ I then acquainted him with my deſign of keeping my⯑ſelf concealed, and paſſing for an aſſaſſin, to prevent any imputation falling upon her.

‘This project might be neceſſary, replied Don Gabriel, if my brother was dead, as I perceive you think, but his wound, although great, is pro⯑bably not mortal, and the firſt ſign of life and [610] ſenſe he gave, was to order that madame de Bena⯑vides ſhould be confined to her own apartment: this proves that he ſuſpects you are her lover, and if you perſiſt in your deſign, you will loſe your own life, without preſerving hers. Let us go, added he, the ſafety I offer you to-day, I pro⯑bably cannot afford you to-morrow.’

‘And what will become of madame de Benavides? cried I; no, I can never reſolve to withdraw my⯑ſelf from danger, and to leave her in it.’

‘I have already told you, replied Don Gabriel, that your preſence will only render her ſituation worſe.’ ‘Well, ſaid I, ſighing, I will fly, ſince you will have it ſo, and that her intereſt demands it. I had hoped that by the ſacrifice I had in⯑tended to make her of my life, I ſhould at leaſt have been pitied by her; but I deſerve not to have this conſolation: I am an unhappy wretch, who am not even worthy to die for her. Pro⯑tect her, added I, to Don Gabriel, the tears ſtreaming from my eyes as I ſpoke: you are ge⯑nerous; her innocence, her misfortunes muſt move you.’

‘You may judge, ſaid he, by what has eſcaped me, that I am too much for my own quiet con⯑cerned in the fate of madame de Benavides. I will do every thing for her. Alas! added he, I ſhould have thought myſelf well paid, if I could have hoped that ſhe had loved no one. How is it poſſible that you ſhould not be ſatisfied with your good fortune in having touched a heart like hers? but let us go, purſued he, let us take advantage of the night.’ Then taking my hand [611] and turning a dark lanthorn, he led me through the courts of the caſtle. Tranſported with rage againſt myſelf for what I had done, in the wildneſs of my deſpair, I wiſhed myſelf ſtill more miſerable than I was.

Don Gabriel, when he left me, adviſed me to retire to a convent of religious, which was within a quarter of a league of the caſtle. ‘You muſt, ſaid he, keep yourſelf concealed in their houſe for ſome days, that you may not be in danger from the ſearch I myſelf ſhall be obliged to make for you; and here is a letter for one of thoſe religious, which will procure you admiſ⯑ſion into the houſe.’

I loitered a long time about the caſtle after he left me, not being able to remove myſelf from the place where Adelaida was; at length the deſire of hearing all that happened to her, determined me to ſet out for the convent. I arrived there juſt at day-break, the religious to whom I preſented Don Gabriel's letter received me very civilly, and con⯑ducted me into a chamber near his own. My pale⯑neſs, and the blood he obſerved on my cloaths, made him apprehenſive that I was wounded. He was beginning to enquire after my health, when I fainted away. With the aſſiſtance of a ſervant he put me to bed, and ſent for a ſurgeon belonging to the convent to examine my wound: he declared that it was in a dangerous condition, through the fatigue and cold I had ſuffered.

When I was alone with the good father to whom I was recommended, I intreated him to ſend to a houſe in a certain village, which I named to him, [612] to enquire for Saint Laurent, for I ſuppoſed he would take refuge there: I was not miſtaken; he came with the meſſenger I had ſent to him: the poor fellow was in exceſſive affliction when he heard that I was wounded: he approached my bed-ſide, and anxiouſly enquired how I did.

‘If you would ſave my life, ſaid I to him, you muſt learn in what ſtate madame de Benavides is, inform yourſelf of all that has paſſed; haſte, loſe not a moment, and remember that what I ſuffer in this uncertainty, is ten thouſand times worſe than death.’ Saint Laurent promiſed to do every thing I deſired, and went away to take proper meaſures to ſatisfy me.

Mean time I was ſeized with a violent fever, my wound grew more dangerous, they were obliged to make great inciſions, but the torments of my mind made me almoſt inſenſible to thoſe of my body; the image of madame de Benavides bathed in tears, as I had ſeen her when I left her chamber, and kneeling by her huſband, whom I had wounded, was continually before my eyes. I took a re⯑view of the misfortunes of her life; I found my⯑ſelf in all: her marriage, to which ſhe was forced on my account, her fatal choice of the moſt jealous and brutal man in the world for a huſband, was made for my ſake; and I had lately compleated all her misfortunes, by expoſing her reputation to injurious cenſures. I called to my remembrance the unjuſt jealouſy I had diſcovered, which al⯑though it had laſted but a few moments, and was ba⯑niſhed by a ſingle word from her, yet I could never pardon myſelf for. Adelaida could not but think [613] me unworthy of her eſteem; ſhe could do no other⯑wiſe than hate me.

Saint Laurent returned the next day; he informed me that Benavides was ſtill extremely ill of his wound; that Adelaida was in the utmoſt affliction; and that Don Gabriel made a ſhew of ſeeking for me every where. This news was not very likely to calm the perturbation of my mind. I know not what I ought to wiſh for, every thing was againſt me. I could not even wiſh for death; I thought I owed the prolonging of my wretched life to the juſtification of madame de Benavides.

The good father to whom I was recommended beheld me with great compaſſion: he heard me ſigh continually, and always found my face bathed in tears. He was a man of ſenſe and politeneſs, who had been long in the world, and whom a con⯑currence of ſtrange accidents had driven into a cloiſter: he did not endeavour to reaſon me out of my grief, or to conſole me by the uſual methods; he only expreſſed great ſenſibility of my misfor⯑tunes. This way ſucceeded; by degrees he entirely gained my confidence, perhaps alſo I only wanted an opportunity to ſpeak and to complain to him. I conceived ſo great an affection and eſteem for him, that I related to him my whole ſtory. He became ſo neceſſary to me after a few days ſtay in the convent, that I could not bear him to be ab⯑ſent from me a moment. I never met with a man that had more goodneſs of heart: I repeated to him the ſame things a thouſand times over; he al⯑ways liſtened to me with the utmoſt attention, and ſympathiſed in all my griefs.

[614]It was through him that I learned every thing that paſſed in the houſe of Benavides: he had been in great danger from his wound, but it was at length cured. I was informed of it by Don Jerome, ſo was my friend the religious called. He after⯑wards told me, that all ſeemed quiet in the caſtle; that madame de Benavides lived more retired than before, and that ſhe was in a very languiſhing ſtate of health. He added, that I muſt reſolve to re⯑move as ſoon as I was able; for if it ſhould be diſ⯑covered that I was concealed there, it would expoſe the lady to new diſtreſſes.

It was not likely that I ſhould be ſoon in a con⯑dition to leave the convent; I was waſting away with a continual fever, and my wound was not yet healed. I had been in this religious houſe above two months, when one day I obſerved Don Jerome to be penſive and melancholy; he always turned his eyes away when they met mine; he ſeemed ſtudiouſly to avoid looking at me, and with dif⯑ficulty anſwered my queſtions. I had conceived a very tender friendſhip for him; misfortunes give ſenſibility to the heart. I was going to expreſs my concern for his uneaſineſs, and to enquire into the cauſe, when Saint Laurent entering my chamber, told me that Don Gabriel was in the convent, and that he had juſt met him.

‘Don Gabriel here, ſaid I, looking at Don Je⯑rome, and you never to mention to me his coming! what is the meaning of this reſerve? you fill me with the moſt dreadful apprehenſions; what is become of madame de Benavides? for pity draw me out of this cruel uncertainty.’ [615] "Would I could leave you always in it." ſaid Don Jerome at length, embracing me.

‘Ah, cried I, ſhe is dead, Adelaida is dead; Benavides has ſacrificed her to his rage. You anſwer me not—alas! then I have nothing to hope: Ah! it was not Benavides, but I who have plunged the poniard into her breaſt: had it not been for my fatal paſſion ſhe might have been ſtill alive—Adelaida is dead; I ſhall never behold her more—I have loſt her for ever, ſhe is dead, and I ſtill live! why do I not follow her? why do I delay to revenge her upon her murderer? alas! death would be too great an indulgence to me; it would ſeparate me from my⯑ſelf, and I am made up of horror and anguiſh.’

The violent agitation I was in cauſed my wound, which was not well healed, to open again. I loſt ſo much blood that I fell into a ſwoon, which laſted ſo long that they thought me dead: but after con⯑tinuing ſeveral hours in this happy ſtate of inſen⯑ſibility, I woke to grief unutterable. Don Jerome, apprehenſive that I ſhould make an attempt upon my own life, charged Saint Laurent to watch me with the ſtricteſt attention. My deſpair now took another form: I complained not, I ſhed not a tear; then it was that I formed a reſolution to go and inhabit ſome ſolitude, where I might, without con⯑troul, deliver myſelf up a prey to my affliction.

I was deſirous of ſeeing Don Gabriel, for I eagerly caught every thing that could heighten my deſpair. I intreated Don Jerone to bring him, and the next day they came together into my chamber; Don Gabriel ſeated himſelf upon the ſide of my bed. [616] We continued along time ſilent; neither of us was able to ſpeak, he looked upon me with eyes ſwim⯑ming in tears. ‘You are very generous, monſieur, ſaid I at length, to viſit a wretch whom you have ſo much reaſon to hate.’

‘You are too miſerable, replied he, to make it poſſible for me to hate you.’

‘Ah, cried I, tell me, I beſeech you, every cir⯑cumſtance of my misfortunes, leave me ignorant of nothing; the explanation I deſire of you may poſſibly; prevent my taking ſome meaſures which you have an intereſt to hinder.’

‘I ſhall redouble your affliction and my own, replied he, but I cannot help it—I will ſatisfy you; and in the recital I am going to make you, you will find you are not the only perſon to be pitied. Take then the incidents in order as they happened; we ſhall too ſoon come to the melan⯑choly cataſtrophe.’

‘I had never ſeen madame de Benavides till ſhe became my ſiſter-in-law. My brother, who had ſome affairs of conſequence to ſettle at Bour⯑deaux, ſaw her there, and fell in love with her, and although he had ſeveral rivals, whoſe birth and riches were ſuperior to his, yet madame de Benavides, for reaſons I never could gueſs at, preferred him to them all. A ſhort time after their marriage, he brought her to his eſtate in Biſcay, and there it was that I ſaw her for the firſt time; if her beauty excited my admiration, I was ſtill more charmed with the graces of her mind, and the extreme ſweetneſs of her temper, which my brother put every day to new trials. [617] However, the paſſion I then had for a very ami⯑able young perſon, made me believe that I was ſecured from the influence of her charms, which it was impoſſible to behold without love: I even deſigned to make uſe of my ſiſter-in-law's inte⯑reſt with my brother, to prevail upon him to conſent to our marriage. The father of my mi⯑ſtreſs, offended at my brother's refuſal, had given me but a very ſhort time to bring him to a com⯑pliance, declaring that when it was expired, he would marry his daughter to another.’

‘The friendſhip and eſteem which madame de Benavides expreſſed for me, gave me courage to implore her aſſiſtance. I often went to her apartment with an intention to ſpeak to her; but the ſlighteſt obſtacle imaginable reſtrained me. Mean while, the time which had been preſcribed to me drew towards a period; I had received ſe⯑veral letters from my miſtreſs, in which ſhe preſt me to uſe every method to gain my brother's conſent. My anſwers did not ſatisfy her: with⯑out my perceiving it, an air of coldneſs ran through them, which drew many complaints from her; theſe complaints appeared to me to be unjuſt, and I reproached her with it. She now believed herſelf abandoned, and reſentment, joined to the commands of her father, determined her to marry the perſon he propoſed to her. She herſelf in a letter ſhe wrote to me, informed me of her marriage; ſhe reproached me, but it was with tenderneſs, and concluded with ear⯑neſtly intreating me never to ſee her more. I had loved her paſſionately; I imagined I ſtill [618] loved her, and I could not learn that I had loſt her for ever without feeling a real affliction. I was afraid ſhe was unhappy, and I reproached myſelf with being the cauſe of it. Abſorbed with theſe reflections, I continued walking in a melancholy manner, in the little wood which you uſed often to viſit; there I was met by madame de Benavides, who, obſerving my uneaſi⯑neſs, kindly deſired to know the cauſe of it. A ſecret repugnance which I felt within myſelf restrained me from telling her: I could not re⯑ſolve to own to her that I had been in love; but the pleaſure of ſpeaking to her of that paſ⯑ſion carried it over that conſideration. All theſe emotions paſſed in my heart without my per⯑ceiving the cauſe: as yet I had not dared to ex⯑amine into the nature of what I felt for my ſiſter-in-law. I related my ſtory to her: I ſhewed her the letter which Iſabella had wrote me.’

‘Why did you not mention this ſooner to me? ſaid madame de Benavides; perhaps I might have been able to obtain the conſent of your bro⯑ther, though he refuſed it to you. My God! how much I pity you, how greatly I am con⯑cerned for her: ſhe doubtleſs will be miſerable.’

‘The compaſſion which madame de Benavides expreſſed for Iſabella, made me apprehenſive that ſhe would think hardly of me, as the perſon who had made her unhappy. To diminiſh therefore this compaſſion, I eagerly told her that the huſband of Iſabella was a man of birth and merit; that he held a very conſiderable rank in [619] the world; and that it was highly probable his fortune would be ſtill more ſo.’

‘You are deceived, anſwered my lovely ſiſter-in-law, if you think all theſe advantages can make her happy; nothing can make a mends for the loſs of what one loves. It is a cruel misfortune, added ſhe, when we are obliged to act contrary to our inclination, to comply with our duty.’

‘She ſighed ſeveral times during this converſation; I even perceived that it was with difficulty ſhe reſtrained her tears. She left me ſoon afterwards; I had not power to follow her, I remained in a trouble and confuſion I am not able to deſcribe. I now for the firſt time perceived what I had hitherto induſtriouſly concealed from myſelf, that I was in love with my ſiſter-in-law, and I thought I could diſcover a ſecret paſſion in her heart; a thouſand circumſtances then ruſhed upon my memory, which before I had given no attention to: her taſte for ſolitude, her indifference for all thoſe amuſements which make the delight of perſons of her ſex and age. Her extreme melancholy, which I had attributed to my brother's bad treat⯑ment of her, now ſeemed to me to proceed from another cauſe. How many ſad reflections now roſe in my mind! I found myſelf in love with a perſon whom I ought not to love, and this per⯑ſon's heart in the poſſeſſion of another.’

‘If ſhe loved nothing, ſaid I, my paſſion al⯑though without hope would not be without ſweetneſs: I might pretend to the bleſſing of her friendſhip; in that I would place my felicity. But this friendſhip will not ſatisfy my heart, [620] ſince ſhe has ſentiments more tender for another. I was ſenſible I ought to uſe my utmoſt endea⯑vours to vanquiſh a paſſion ſo dangerous to my quiet, and which honour would not permit me to entertain. I took a resolution to fly from my too lovely ſiſter; and I returned to the caſtle to tell my brother that ſome affairs called me from him, but the ſight of madame de Benavides left me no power to follow the dictates of my reaſon. All my reſolutions vaniſhed into air; yet to fur⯑niſh myſelf with ſome pretence to continue near her, I perſuaded myſelf that I was neceſſary to her, in being ſometimes able to calm the tem⯑peſtuous humour of her huſband. About this time you arrived; I found in your air and be⯑haviour ſomewhat greatly above the condition you appeared in: I treated you with familiarity and kindneſs. I would have entered into your confidence and have made you my friend. My in⯑tention was to prevail upon you afterwards to draw a picture of madame de Benavides for me; for notwithſtanding the deluſive reaſons my paſ⯑ſion found for ſtaying with my ſiſter, yet I re⯑ſolved ſome time or other to leave the caſtle: but in this ſeparation ſo juſt, ſo neceſſary, I was willing at leaſt to have her picture. The man⯑ner in which you received the advances I made you, ſhewed me that I had nothing to hope for from you; and I was gone to bring another painter into the houſe that unhappy day when you wounded my brother. Judge of my ſurpriſe at my return, when I was informed of what had happened. My brother, who was deſperately [921] kept a gloomy ſilence, caſting from time to time a terrible look upon madame de Benavides. As ſoon as he ſaw me, he called me to his bed-ſide. Deliver me, ſaid he, from the ſight of a woman who has betrayed me; cauſe her to be conducted to her own apartment, and give ſtrict orders not to ſuffer her to ſtir out of it.’

‘I would have ſaid ſomething againſt this ri⯑gorous order to my brother; but he interrupted me at the firſt word.’

‘Do as I deſire you, ſaid he, or never ſee me more. I was obliged to obey; and, approaching my ſiſter-in-law, I intreated her to let me ſpeak to her in her own chamber. Let us go, ſaid ſhe weeping, execute the order you have re⯑ceived.’

‘Theſe words, which had the air of a reproach, pierced me to the ſoul: I durſt not make her any anſwer in the place we were then in; but no ſooner had I led her to her chamber, than looking on her with that grief and tenderneſs my heart was full of, what madam, ſaid I, do you confound me with your perſecutor; I who feel your trouble as ſenſible as you do yourſelf; I who would ſacrifice my life to ſave you? I grieve to ſay it, but I tremble for you; retire for ſome time to a place of ſafety, I will endea⯑vour to have you conducted wherever you pleaſe, provided it is a ſecure aſylum from your furious huſband.’

‘I know not whether monſieur de Benavides has any deſign to take away my life, but I know it is my duty not to abandon him, and I will [622] fulfil it, though I periſh.’ Then after a ſhort pauſe me added, ‘I am going, by placing an en⯑tire confidence in you, to give you the greateſt mark of my eſteem it is in my power to give; and indeed the confeſſion I have to make you is neceſſary to preſerve yours for me. But go and attend your brother, a longer converſation may make you ſuſpected by him; return hither as ſoon as you conveniently can.’

‘I obeyed madame de Benavides, and went to my brother's apartment; the ſurgeon had viſited him, and deſired that no one might be allowed to come into his chamber. I flew back again to his wife, agitated with a thouſand different thoughts: I was anxious to know what ſhe had to ſay to me, and yet I feared to hear it. She related to me the manner in which ſhe became acquainted with you, the paſſion you conceived for her the moment you ſaw her, the generous ſacrifice you had made her, and ſhe did not con⯑ceal the tenderneſs with which you had inſpired her.’

‘Ah, interupted I, have I then been dear to the moſt perfect woman upon earth, and have I loſt her?’ This idea filled my ſoul with ſuch tender ſorrow, that my tears which had hitherto been reſtrained by the exceſs of my deſpair, began now to ſtream in great abundance from my eyes.

‘Yes, continued Don Gabriel, with a ſigh, you were beloved. Good heaven! what tenderneſs did I not diſcover for you in her heart! Notwith⯑ſtanding her misfortunes, and the horror of her preſent ſituation, I perceived that ſhe indulged [623] with pleaſure the thought, that her affection for you was authoriſed by what you had done for her. She confeſſed to me, that when I led her into the chamber where you was painting, ſhe knew you; and that ſhe had wrote to you, to command you to leave the caſtle, but that ſhe could not find an opportunity to give you her letter: ſhe afterwards related to me how her huſ⯑band had ſurpriſed you together, at the very moment when you was bidding her an eternal farewel, that he attempted to kill her, but that you interpoſed and wounded him in defending her.’

‘Save this unhappy man, added ſhe, you only can preſerve him from the fate that waits him; for I know that in the fear of expoſing me to the leaſt ſuſpicion, he will ſuffer the moſt cruel death, rather than declare who he is.’

‘He is well rewarded for all he can ſuffer, madam, replied I, by the good opinion you have of him.’

‘I have owned my weakneſs to you, ſaid ſhe; but you have ſeen that if I am not miſtreſs of my affections, I have at leaſt been ſo of my conduct; and that I have taken no ſteps which the moſt rigorous virtue could condemn.’

‘Alas! madam, interupted I, it is not neceſſary that you ſhould condeſcend to juſtify yourſelf to me. Too well am I convinced by my own ex⯑perience, that it is not always in our power to diſpoſe of our own hearts: I will uſe my utmoſt endeavours to obey you and deliver the count de Comminge; but, oh madam, permit me to [624] aſſure you, that I am more miſerable than he is.’

‘I left the room as I pronounced theſe words, without daring to raiſe my eyes to madame de Benavides. I ſhut myſelf up in my own cham⯑ber, to conſider what I had to do. I had already taken a reſolution to deliver you; but I was doubtful whether I ought not to fly from the caſtle myſelf. The torments I had ſuffered du⯑ring the relation madame de Benavides had made me, ſhewed me the exceſs of my paſſion for her. It was neceſſary that I ſhould ſuppreſs ſentiments ſo dangerous to our virtue; and in order to ſuppreſs them, it was neceſſary I ſhould ſee her no more; but it ſeemed cruel to abandon her in ſuch a diſtreſsful ſituation; to leave her unprotected, in the hands of a huſband who be⯑lieved himſelf wronged by her. After con⯑tinuing long irreſolute, I determined at once to aſſiſt madame de Benavides, and to avoid ſeeing her as much as poſſible. I could not inform her of your eſcape till next day: ſhe ſeemed to be a little more eaſy on your account; but I thought I could perceive that her grief was in⯑creaſed, and I doubted not but the declaration I had made of my ſentiments was the cauſe. I quitted her immediately, in order to free her from the embarraſſment my preſence threw her into. I was ſeveral days without ſeeing her; my bro⯑ther grew worſe, and his phyſician thought him in great danger. I was obliged to make her a viſit to acquaint her with this news.’

[625] ‘If I had loſt Monſieur Benavides, ſaid ſhe, in the ordinary methods of providence, his death would have leſs ſenſibly affected me; but the part I have unfortunately had in it, makes it an inſupportable affliction to me. I am not ap⯑prehenſive of the ill treatment I may meet with from him; I am only afraid of his dying in a per⯑ſuaſion that I have wronged him. If he lives I may hope that he will one day be convinced of my innocence, and reſtore me to his eſteem.’

‘Suffer me, madam, ſaid I, to endeavour to merit yours; I implore your pardon for theſe ſentiments I have dared to let you perceive. I was not able to prevent their birth, or to conceal them from you; I even know not whether I can ſubdue them, but I ſwear to you that I will never importune you with them. I had taken a reſolution to fly from you, but your intereſt re⯑tains me here.’

‘I confeſs to you, replied Madame de Bena⯑vides, that you have given me great uneaſineſs; Fortune ſeemed deſirous of taking from me the conſolation I have found in your friendſhip.’

The tears ſhe ſhed when ſhe ſpoke to me were more powerful than all the efforts of my reaſon; I was aſhamed of having augmented the miſeries of one already ſo unhappy. ‘No, madam, replied I, you ſhall never be deprived of that friendſhip you have the goodneſs to ſet ſome value upon; and I will endeavour to render myſelf worthy of yours, by my ſolicitude to make you forget the extravagance I have been guilty of.’

[626] ‘In effect, when I left her, I found myſelf more calm and eaſy than I had ever been ſince I firſt beheld her. Far from leaving her, I endeavour⯑ed, by the reſolutions I vowed to take when in her preſence, to furniſh myſelf with arguments for performing my duty. This method ſucceed⯑ed; I accuſtomed myſelf by degrees to reduce my former ſentiments to friendſhip and eſteem: I told her ingenuouſly the progreſs I made in my cure. She thanked me for it as for ſome conſide⯑ble ſervice I had rendered her, and to reward me, gave me every day new marks of her con⯑fidence. Still my heart would ſometimes revolt, but reaſon always got the victory. My brother, after languiſhing a long time, at length began to recover: he would never be prevailed upon to give his wife permiſſion to ſee him, though ſhe often requeſted it. He was not yet in a con⯑dition to leave his chamber, when Madame de Benavides fell ill in her turn. Her youth ſaved her this time, and I was full of hope that her illneſs had ſoftened her huſband's heart; for though he had continued obſtinately reſolute not to ſee her during his own danger, notwith⯑ſtanding her earneſt entreaties, yet he ſhewed ſome ſolicitude in enquiring for her when ſhe was ill. She was almoſt recovered, when my bro⯑ther ordered me to be called to him.’

THE HISTORY OF HARRIOT AND SOPHIA CONTINUED.

THE loſs of Sir Charles having clouded all Sophia's views of happineſs, ſhe earneſtly intreated Mr. Herbert's permiſſion to ſettle her⯑ſelf in that humble ſtation to which providence ſeemed to call her; and as ſhe believed Mrs. Gib⯑bons might be very uſeful to her upon this occaſion, ſhe reſolved to apply to her as ſoon as ſhe had his anſwer.

Notwithſtanding all her endeavours to bear this ſhock of fate with patience, a fixed melancholy took poſſeſſion of her mind, convinced that Sir Charles had loved her, and that by an unfortunate concur⯑rence of circumſtances he had been prevented from giving her the utmoſt proof of his affection; her tenderneſs no longer combatted by ſuſpicions to his prejudice, gained new force every day, and all his actions now appeared to her in a favourable point of view: ſo true it is, that when a perſon is found leſs guilty than he is ſuſpected, he is con⯑cluded more innocent than he really is.

Mr. Herbert, after a long ſilence, at length ac⯑quainted her, that he was ill, and deſired her not to leave Mr Lawſon's till ſhe heard further from him.

[646]The ſhortneſs of this billet, the trembling hand with which it appeared to be written, filled So⯑phia with the moſt dreadful apprehenſions. Sir Charles was now forgot, and all her thoughts were taken up with the danger of her worthy friend: ſhe determined to go to him; and although Mr. Lawſon and his wife endeavoured to, diſſuade her from taking ſuch a journey, and William, urged by Dolly, and his own eagerneſs to ſerve her, offered to go and bring her an exact account of the ſtate of his health, yet her purpoſe remained unalterable.

‘My dear benefactor is ill, ſaid ſhe, and has none but ſtrangers about him: it is fit that I ſhould go and attend him; and if I muſt loſe him, purſued ſhe, burſting into tears, it will be ſome comfort to me to reflect that I have done my duty.’

She ſet out early the next, morning in the ſtage-coach: Dolly wept at parting, and engaged her lover to attend Sophia to her journey's end; that if Mr. Herbert ſhould be worſe than they appre⯑hended, he might be near to aſſiſt and comfort her.

Sophia, when ſhe ſaw him riding by the ſide of the coach, attempted to perſuade him to return; but William charmed to have an opportunity of expreſſing his zeal for her ſervice, would not quit her; and her ſpirits being too weak to conteſt this point with him, ſhe was obliged to ſuffer his at⯑tendance.

They reached the place where Mr. Herbert was, in the evening of the third day: he had taken [647] lodgings at the houſe, of a farmer, where he was attended with great tenderneſs and care.

Sophia, appeared with ſo deep a concern upon her countenance, and enquired for him with ſuch extreme emotion, that the good woman of the houſe concluding ſhe was his daughter, thought it neceſ⯑ſary before ſhe anſwered her queſtions, to preach patience and ſubmiſſion to her, wiſely obſerving, that we are all mortal, and that death ſpares no⯑body, from the ſquire to the plowman.

She ran on in this manner till ſhe perceived Sophia grow as pale as death, and cloſe her eyes: ſhe had juſt time to prevent her from falling, and with William's aſſiſtance, placed her in a chair, where while ſhe applied remedies to recover her from her ſwoon, the youth with tears in his eyes, aſked her ſoftly how long Mr. Herbert had been dead.

‘Dead! repeated the farmer's wife, who told you he was dead? no, no, it is not ſo bad as that neither.’

William rejoiced to hear this, and as ſoon as Sophia ſhewed ſome ſigns of returning life, he greeted her with the welcome, news. She caſt a look full of doubt and anguiſh upon the country⯑woman, who confirmed his report, and offered to go with her to the gentleman's room. Sophia inſtantly found her ſtrength return; ſhe fol⯑lowed her with trembling haſte; and, left her preſence ſhould ſurpriſe Mr. Herbert, ſhe directed the good woman to tell him, that a friend of his was come to ſee him.

[648]She heard him anſwer in a weak voice, but with ſome emotion, "It is my dear child, bring her to me."

Sophia immediately appeared, and throwing her⯑ſelf upon her knees at his bed-ſide, burſt into tears, and was unable to ſpeak.

The good old man holding one of her hands preſt in his, tenderly blamed her for the trouble ſhe had given herſelf in coming ſo far to viſit him; but acknowledged at the ſame time, that this in⯑ſtance of her affection was extremely dear to him, and that her preſence gave him inexpreſſible comfort.

Sophia entered immediately upon the office of a nurſe to her benefactor, and performed all the du⯑ties of the moſt affectionate child to the beſt of parents.

Mr. Herbert employed the little remaining ſtrength he had in endeavours to comfort her, and in pious exhortations. ‘Weep not for me, my dear child, would he ſay, but rather rejoice that the innocence of my life has diverted death of his terrors, and enabled me to meet him with calm reſignation, and with humble hope. At this awful hour how little would it avail me, that I had been rich, that I had been great and powerful? but what comforts do I not feel from an unreproving conſcience? theſe comforts every one has it in his power to procure; live virtuous then, my dear Sophia, that you may die in peace: how ſmall is the difference between the longeſt and the ſhorteſt life! if its pleaſures be few, its miſeries are ſo likewiſe; how little do they enjoy whom the world calls happy! how little [649] do they ſuffer whom it pronounces wretched! one point of fleeting time paſt, and death reduces all to an equality. But the diſtinction between virtue and vice, and its future happineſs and miſery are eternal.’

Sophia had need of all the conſolation ſhe de⯑rived from her reflections on the virtue and piety of her friend, to enable her to bear the apprehenſions of his approaching death with any degree of for⯑titude; but when ſhe leaſt expected it, his diſtem⯑per took a favourable turn, and in a few days the moſt dangerous ſymptoms were removed.

The Bath waters being judged abſolutely neceſ⯑ſary for the entire reeſtabliſhment of his health, he reſolved to go thither as ſoon as he had recovered ſtrength enough to bear the journey.

Sophia at his earneſt deſire conſented to return to Mr. Lawſon's, and remain there till he came from Bath, but ſhe would not quit him till he was able to take this journey; and by the ſweetneſs of her con⯑verſation, her tender aſſiduity, and watchful care, contributed ſo much towards his recovery, that he was ſoon in a condition to travel with ſafety.

He accompanied her the firſt day's journey to Mr. Lawſon's; and being met at the inn by this worthy friend and young William, he conſigned his beloved charge to their care, and purſued his way to Bath.

Sophia was received with great joy by Mrs. Law⯑ſon and her daughters: Dolly hung a long time upon her neck in tranſports, and as ſoon as they were alone, informed her that Mrs. Gibbons and her mother were perfectly reconciled; that ſhe had [650] conſented to her nephew's marriage, and even ſhewed an impatience to conclude it: but I pre⯑vailed, ſaid ſhe, to have the ceremony delayed till you, my dear friend, could be preſent; for I could not think of being happy, while, you to whom I owe all, was afflicted.

Sophia embraced her tenderly, congratulated her upon her change of fortune, and gave many praiſes to her lover, to whom ſhe acknowledged great ob⯑ligations for his care and attention to her.

Dolly's cheeks glowed with pleaſure while ſhe heard her William commended by one whom ſhe ſo much loved and revered.

The young lovers were married a few days af⯑terwards; and Sophia, who had ſo earneſtly en⯑deavoured to bring about this union, and had ſuf⯑fered ſo much in her own intereſt by her ſolicitude concerning it, was one of thoſe to whom it gave the moſt ſatisfaction.

Mean time Mr. Herbert continued indiſpoſed at Bath, and Sophia uneaſy, left in this increaſe of his expences, her reſidence at Mr. Lawſon's ſhould lay him under ſome difficulties, reſolved to eaſe him as ſoon as poſſible of the charge of her main⯑tenance: ſhe explained her ſituation to Mrs. Gib⯑bons, and requeſted her aſſiſtance in procuring her a place.

Mrs. Gibbons expreſſed great tenderneſs and concern for her upon this occaſion, and aſſured her ſhe would employ all her intereſt in her ſervice. She accordingly mentioned her with great praiſe to a widow lady of a very affluent fortune, who had eſtabliſhed ſuch a character for generoſity and [651] goodneſs, that ſhe hoped if ſhe could be induced to take Sophia under her protection her fortune would be made.

Mrs. Howard, ſo was the lady called, no ſooner heard that a young woman of merit, well born, and genteely educated was reduced to go to ſer⯑vice for ſubſiſtence, than ſhe exclaimed with great vehemence againſt the avarice and luxury of the rich and great, who either hoarded for their un⯑thankful heirs, or laviſhed in expenſive pleaſures thoſe ſuperfluous ſums which ought to be applied to the relief of the indigent. ‘Oh that I had a fortune, cried ſhe, as large as my heart, there ſhould not be one diſtreſſed perſon in the world! I muſt ſee this young lady Mrs. Gibbons, and I muſt do ſomething for her. You have obliged me infinitely by putting it in my power to gra⯑tify the unbounded benevolence of my heart upon a deſerving object.’

Mrs. Gibbons, when ſhe related this converſa⯑tion to Sophia, filled her with an extreme impa⯑tience to ſee the lady, not from any mean conſide⯑rations of advantage to herſelf, but admiration of ſo excellent a character. She accompanied Mrs. Gibbons in a viſit to her at her country-ſeat, which was but a few miles diſtant from the village where they lived; and Mrs. Howard was ſo pleaſed with her at this firſt interview, that ſhe gave her an invitation to ſpend the remainder of the ſummer with her, and this in ſo obliging a manner, that Sophia immediately complied, not thinking it ne⯑ceſſary to wait till ſhe had conſulted Mr. Herbert upon this offer, as ſhe was fully perſuaded he could [652] have no objections to her accepting it, Mrs. Howard being ſo conſiderable by her family and fortune, and ſo eſtimable by her character.

This lady, who had made an early diſcovery of Sophia's economical talents, ſet her to work im⯑mediately after her arrival; her taſk was to embroider a white ſattin negligee, which ſhe undertook with great readineſs, pleaſed at having an opportunity of obliging a woman of ſo generous a diſpoſition, and in ſome degree to requite her for her hoſpitality.

Mrs. Howard indeed always prevented thoſe on whom ſhe conferred favours from incurring the guilt of ingratitude; for ſhe took care to be fully repaid for any act of benevolence; and having a wonderful art in extracting advantage to herſelf from the neceſſities of others, ſhe ſometimes ſought out the unfortunate with a ſolicitude that did great honour to her charity, which was ſure to be its own reward. A few oſtentatious benefactions had ſufficiently eſtabliſhed her character; and while her name appeared among the ſubſcribers to ſome faſhionable charity, who could ſuſpect that her table was ſerved with a parſimony which would have diſgraced a much ſmaller fortune; that her rents from her indigent tenants were exacted with the moſt unrelenting rigor, and the naked and hungry ſent ſighing from her gate?

Nothing is more certain than what is called libe⯑rality is often no more than the vanity of giving, of which ſome perſons are fonder than of what they give. But the vanity of giving publicly is moſt prevailing; and hence it happens, that thoſe who are moſt ce⯑lebrated [653] for their charity, are in reality leaſt ſen⯑ſible to the feelings of humanity: and the ſame perſons from whom the moſt affecting repreſen⯑tation of private diſtreſs could not force the leaſt relief, have been among the firſt to ſend their con⯑tributions to any new foundation.

Sophia knew not how to reconcile many circum⯑ſtances in Mrs. Howard's conduct, with her general profeſſions of benevolence and generoſity; but that lady had been ſo uſed to diſguiſe herſelf to others, that at laſt ſhe did not know herſelf; and the warmth and vehemence with which ſhe delivered her ſentiments impoſed almoſt as much upon her⯑ſelf as her hearers.

Sophia's amiable qualities however ſoon produced their uſual effects, and inſpired Mrs. Howard with as much friendſhip for her as ſo intereſted a tem⯑per was capable of. She wiſhed to ſee her fortune eſtabliſhed, and was very deſirous of ſerving her as far as ſhe could, conſiſtent with her prudent maxims, which were to make other perſons the ſource of thoſe benefits, the merit of which ſhe arro⯑gated to herſelf.

Chance ſoon furniſhed her with an opportunity of exerting her talents in favour of Sophia, and of engaging, as ſhe conceived, her eternal gratitude. A country lady of her acquaintance coming one day to viſit her, with her ſon, a clowniſh igno⯑rant youth, Mrs. Howard was encouraged by the frequent glances he gave Sophia, to form a ſcheme for marrying her to him; and in this ſhe foreſaw ſo many poſſible advantages to [654] herſelf from Sophia's grateful diſpoſition, that ſhe purſued it with the moſt anxious ſolicitude.

Mr. Barton, ſo was the young ſquire called, having conceived a liking for Sophia, repeated his viſits frequently, emboldened by Mrs. Howard's civilities, who took every occaſion of praiſing So⯑phia, and inſinuating that he would be extremely happy in ſuch a wife.

She ſometimes left him alone with Sophia, in hopes that he would declare his paſſion to her: but the ruſtic, awed by the dignity of her perſon and manners, durſt not even raiſe his eyes to look on her; ſo that Mrs. Howard finding the affair did not advance ſo faſt as ſhe wiſhed, rallied Sophia upon her: ill-timed reſerve, and hinted her views in her favour, which ſhe conſidering as an effect of her friendſhip, liſtened to with reſpect and even grati⯑tude, though her heart refuſed to concur in them.

This converſation paſſed in the preſence of Mrs. Howard's only ſon, a youth about nineteen, who had come from the univerſity to paſs a few days with his mother. As ſoon as ſhe had quitted So⯑phia he approached her, and with a look of tender⯑neſs and concern, told her, ‘He was ſorry to find his mother ſo zealous an advocate for Mr. Barton, who could not poſſibly deſerve her.’

‘Nor can I poſſibly deſerve him, replied Sophia with a ſmile; he is too rich.’

‘Love only and merit can deſerve you, reſumed the young ſtudent, ſighing, and if love was merit, I know one who might—hope—’

He pauſed and heſitated, and Sophia, to whom the language of love in any mouth but Sir Charles's [655] was odious, ſuddenly quitted him, to avoid the con⯑tinuance of a diſcourſe which ſhe conſidered as mere unmeaning gallantry.

Mean time, her ruſtic lover not having courage enough to declare his paſſion to her, had recourſe to the indulgence of his mother, who till that time had never refuſed any of his deſires.

He told her that he never liked any young wo⯑man ſo well in his life as Mrs. Sophia Darnley; and that he was ſure ſhe would make a good wife, be⯑cauſe Mrs. Howard had told him ſo, and encou⯑raged him to break his mind to her, but he was aſhamed: he declared he would marry no body elſe, and begged his mother to get her for him.

Mrs. Barton, full of rage againſt her neighbour, for thus endeavouring to enſnare her ſon into a marriage, as ſhe conceived unworthy of him, re⯑ſolved to go to her and load her with reproaches. While her chariot was getting ready, ſhe continued to queſtion her ſon, and heard a great many par⯑ticulars from him which convinced her that his af⯑fections were more deeply engaged than ſhe had imagined.

After ordering the young ſquire to be locked up till her return, ſhe flew to Mrs. Howard, and with the moſt violent tranſports of rage, upbraided her with the treacherous part ſhe had acted, by ſeducing her ſon into a liking for a poor creature who was a dependent upon her charity, and whom ſhe took this method to get rid of.

Mrs. Howard, who held Mrs. Barton in great contempt, on account of her ignorance, and va⯑lued herſelf extremely upon her philoſophic com⯑mand [656] over her paſſions, liſtened with an affected calmneſs to all Mrs. Barton's invectives; and when ſhe found ſhe had railed herſelf out of breath, ſhe began to declaim in a ſolemn accent againſt ava⯑rice, and that vile and fordid diſpoſition of parents, who in the marriage of their children preferred the droſs of riches to the real treaſures of wiſdom and virtue. She very charitably lamented Mrs. Barton's want of diſcernment, and littleneſs of mind; and concluded that Miſs Sophia's, merit rendered her deſerving of a huſband even more conſiderable than Mr. Barton.

‘Then marry her to your own ſon, replied Mrs. Barton, with a ſneer; no doubt but he will be more worthy of her.’

‘If my ſon ſhould declare a paſſion for Miſs Sophia, reſumed Mrs. Howard, it would ſoon be ſeen how far my ſentiments are exalted above yours.’

‘I am glad to hear this, returned Mrs. Barton, for I am very ſure Mr. Howard is in love with this wonderful creature whom you praiſe ſo much; and ſince you are ſo willing to make her your daughter-in-law, I ſhall be under no fear of my ſon's marrying her.’

Mrs. Howard, at this unexpected ſtroke, turned as pale as death, and with a faultering voice, aſked her, ‘What reaſon ſhe had for ſuppoſing her ſon was in love with Miſs Sophia?’

Mrs. Barton, who enjoyed her perplexity and con⯑fuſion, ſuffered her to repeat her queſtions ſeveral times, and then maliciouſly referred her to the young gentleman himſelf, ‘Who, ſaid ſhe, upon [657] finding you ſo favourably diſpoſed, will, I doubt not, be ready enough to own his inclinations.’

Mrs. Howard was now ſo far humbled, that ſhe condeſcended to intreat Mrs. Barton to tell her what ſhe knew of this affair.

‘All my information, ſaid Mrs. Barton, comes from my ſon, to whom Mr. Howard, conſidering him as his rival, declared his better right to the lady, as having acquainted her with his paſſion.’

At this intelligence Mrs. Howards rage got ſo much the better of her prudence, that ſhe uttered a thouſand invectives againſt the innocent Sophia, which drew ſome ſevere ſarcaſms from Mrs. Barton, who being now fully revenged, roſe up to be gone; but Mrs. Howard, ſenſible that a quarrel upon this occaſion might have conſequences very unfavour⯑able to her reputation, ſeized her hand, and led her half reluctant, again to her chair, where, after ſhe had ſoothed her into good humour, by ſome flattering expreſſions, which coming from one of her acknowledged underſtanding, had great weight. She told her with the moſt unbluſhing confidence, that ſhe was now convinced ſhe had been deceived in the character of the young woman on whom ſhe had with her uſual generoſity conferred ſo many benefits. ‘I find to my inexpreſſible concern, purſued ſhe, that this modeſt, ſenſible, and vir⯑tuous young creature, as I once believed her, is in reality an artful hypocrite, whoſe only aim is to make her fortune, by enſnaring ſome unex⯑perienced youth into a marriage. Let us join our endeavours then, my dear Mrs. Barton, to preſerve our ſons from this danger: this is a [658] common cauſe, all mothers are concerned in it; we will ſhew the young diſſembler in her true colours, and prevent her impoſing upon others as ſhe has done on us.’

Mrs. Barton, who never carried her reflections very far, was ſo well pleaſed with Mrs. Howard's preſent behaviour, that ſhe forgot all the paſt: theſe two ladies became on a ſudden the beſt friends in the world, and this union was to be ce⯑mented with the ruin of Sophia's fame; ſuch be⯑ginnings have certain female friendſhips, and ſuch are the leagues in which the wicked join.

Mrs. Barton propoſed to have her ſent for into their preſence, and after reproaching her ſeverely, diſmiſs her with contempt; but the more politic Mrs. Howard, whoſe views were at once to deſtroy Sophia's reputation, and to ſecure her own, diſap⯑proved of this harſh treatment, as ſhe called it, and charitably reſolved to ruin her with all poſſible gen⯑tleneſs.

She wrote to Mrs. Gibbons, and acquainted her, that having diſcovered an intrigue carrying on be⯑tween Sophia and her ſon, ſhe thought it neceſſary to diſmiſs her immediately out of her family; but that the poor young creature might be expoſed as little as poſſible to cenſure, ſhe begged ſhe would come herſelf to fetch her away, and deliver her to her friends, with a caution to watch her conduct carefully.

She recommended ſecrecy to her for Sophia's ſake; and aſſured her that if it had not been for this diſcovery of her bad conduct, ſhe had reſolved to have provided for her handſomely.

[659]Mrs. Gibbons, whom this letter threw into the utmoſt aſtoniſhment, immediately communicated the contents of it to Dolly and William, with whom ſhe now lived.

Dolly burſt into tears of grief and indignation, and earneſtly intreated her to go immediately and take Miſs Sophia out of a houſe where her merit was ſo little underſtood; but William, who looked farther into the conſequences of this affair than either his wife or his aunt, believed it neceſſary for the juſtification of Sophia's honour, that Mr. Law⯑ſon ſhould wait upon Mrs. Howard, and demand an explanation of thoſe cenſures which ſhe had caſt upon a young lady confided to his care; rightly judging, that if malice was the ſource of her accu⯑ſation, ſhe would not dare to purſue it with a man of his character; and if it aroſe from the infor⯑mation of others, he would be able to detect the falſhood of it.

Theſe reaſons prevailed with Mrs. Gibbons, who had been very deſirous to ſhew her eloquence upon this occaſion, and was reſolved, ſhe ſaid, not to have ſpared Mrs. Howard for her immature con⯑clusions.

William went immediately to his father-in-law, and acquainted him with what had happened. Mr. Lawſon was grieved from the conſideration of what Sophia's delicate ſenſibility would feel from ſuch an attack upon her reputation; and this was the worſt that he apprehended could happen from ca⯑lumnies which the purity of her manners and the innocency of her life would be always a ſufficient refutation of. A wiſe and virtuous perſon, he [660] knew, was out of the reach of fortune, though not free from the malice of it. All attempts againſt ſuch a one are, as the poet ſays, like the arrows of Xerxes; they may darken the day, but cannot ſtifle the ſun.

His impatience to take Sophia out of the hands of a woman whom he conceived to be either very malicious, or very imprudent, made him defer his viſit no longer than till the afternoon.

When he ſent in his name, Mrs. Howard, who had no ſuſpicion of the occaſion of his coming, ordered him to be ſhewn into a parlour, where ſhe ſuffered him to wait near an hour before ſhe ad⯑mitted him to her preſence; a country curate be⯑ing in her opinion a perſon too inſignificant to lay claim to any degree of conſideration, and beſides, this ſort of neglect being affected by many perſons of quality, to whom it certainly gives great im⯑portance and dignity, their imitators never loſe any opportunity of exerciſing it.

Mr. Lawſon was at laſt ſummoned to the lady's dreſſing-room, where he expected to have found Sophia, but was glad to ſee Mrs. Howard alone. She aſked him with a little ſuperciliouſneſs, if he had any buſineſs with her; to which he replied, with a ſolemnity in his look and accent that ſur⯑priſed her, ‘That being a friend to miſs Sophia Darnley, and the perſon to whoſe care ſhe was confided by her relations, he thought it his duty to enquire what part of her conduct had given occaſion for thoſe unfavourable ſuſpicions which were entertained of her.’

[661] ‘Mrs. Gibbons, madam, purſued he, has com⯑municated to me a letter which ſhe has received from you, wherein there is a heavy charge againſt miſs Sophia; a charge which none who know her can think it poſſible for her to deſerve. There muſt certainly be ſome miſtake here, madam; you have been miſinformed, or appearances have de⯑ceived you, and in juſtice to you, as well as to one of the moſt virtuous and amiable young wo⯑men in the world, I am reſolved to trace the ſource of theſe calumnies, that her innocence may be fully cleared. I beg of you then, madam, let me know what foundation you have for be⯑lieving that Miſs Sophia—’

Mrs. Howard, whom this ſpeech had thrown into great confuſion, interrupted him here, to pre⯑vent his repeating thoſe expreſſions in her letter, the meaning of which, though obvious, ſhe durſt not avow.

‘I find, ſaid ſhe, that you and Mrs. Gibbons have ſeen this affair in a worſe light than I intend⯑ed you ſhould; my ſon has been fooliſh enough to entertain a liking for this girl, whom I took under my protection, with a view to provide for her handſomely, and ſhe has been wiſe enough purſued ſhe, with an ironical ſmile, to give him encouragement, I ſuppoſe; but with all her ex⯑cellencies, I am not diſpoſed to make her my daughter-in-law.’

Mrs. Howard threw in this laſt ſoftening expreſ⯑ſion, in hopes it would ſatisfy Mr. Lawſon, and added, that to prevent any thing happening, which might [662] be diſagreeable to her, ſhe begged he would take Sophia home with him.

‘Moſt willingly, madam, ſaid he; but ſince it ſeems to be your opinion, that this young gen⯑tlewoman has encouraged the clandeſtine ad⯑dreſſes of your ſon, I think it will be proper to examine firſt into the truth of theſe ſuſpicions, that you may not part with worſe thoughts of her than ſhe deſerves.’

Mrs. Howard being thus preſt, and unwilling to enter into an explanation that would expoſe all her artifices, was forced to acknowledge that ſhe had no other foundation for her fears than the paſ⯑ſion her ſon had owned for her; and having made this unwilling conceſſion, ſhe left him with a coun⯑tenance inflamed with ſtifled rage, ſaying ſhe would ſend Sophia to him.

Accordingly ſhe went into the room where ſhe was at work, and told her, her friend the curate was waiting to carry her home. Obſerving her to look extremely ſurpriſed, ‘If you conſider, ſaid ſhe, what returns you have made me for the be⯑nefits I have conferred upon you, you will not think it ſtrange that we ſhould part in this manner.’

‘Bleſs me, cried Sophia, what have I done to deſerve ſuch reproaches?’

‘I cannot ſtay to talk to you now, ſaid Mrs. Howard; I have explained myſelf to Mr. Lawſon, I am ſorry to ſay, that I now can only wiſh you well.’

She hurried out of the room when ſhe had ſaid this; and Sophia, in the utmoſt perplexity and con⯑cern, [663] flew down ſtairs to Mr. Lawſon, who was already at the gate waiting to help her into the chaiſe: ſhe gave him her hand, aſking him at the ſame time, with great emotion, ‘What Mrs. Howard accuſed her of?’

As ſoon as they drove away, Mr. Lawſon re⯑lated all that had paſt between that lady and him, which filled Sophia with new aſtoniſhment: ſhe could not comprehend Mrs. Howard's motives for acting in the manner ſhe had done with regard to her; all her conduct appeared to her highly extra⯑vagant and inconſiſtent; ſhe aſked Mr. Lawſon a thouſand queſtions, full of that ſimplicity which ever accompanies real goodneſs of heart.

He gave her ſome notion of the dangerous cha⯑racter of Mrs Howard, and greatly blamed her for having ſo ſuddenly accepted her invitation, without firſt conſulting Mr. Herbert. ‘It is a maxim, purſued he, of one of the wiſeſt of the antients, that in forming new connections of every ſort, it is of great importance in what manner the firſt approaches are made, and by whoſe hands the avenues of friendſhip are laid open.’

Mr. Lawſon, by this hint, gave Sophia to under⯑ſtand, that he did not think Mrs. Gibbons, a pro⯑per perſon to introduce her into the world. She was now ſenſible that ſhe had been too precipitate; but her motives were ſo generous, that Mr. Her⯑bert, whom in a letter ſhe acquainted with the whole affair, eaſily juſtified her in his own opinion, though he earneſtly, recommended it to her not to let her apprehenſions of being burthenſome to him draw her into new inconveniencies.

[664]Mr. Lawſon having, as he imagined, prevented Mrs. Howard from making any future attack upon Sophia's reputation, by obliging her to acknow⯑ledge her innocence, was ſurpriſed to hear where⯑ever he went, of the calumnies ſhe invented againſt her.

Nothing is more common than for perſons to hate with extreme inveteracy thoſe whom they have injured; and although Mrs. Howard was con⯑vinced, that Sophia would not admit a viſit from her ſon, (who now openly avowed his paſſion for her;) that ſhe refuſed to receive his letters, and ſhunned every place where ſhe thought it poſſible to meet him; yet pretending to be apprehenſive that the youth would be drawn into a clandeſtine marriage, ſhe ſent him away precipitately upon his travels, and this gave a colour to new invectives againſt Sophia, who truſting only to her innocence for her juſtification, had the ſatisfaction to find that innocence fully acknowledged in the eſteem and reſpect with which ſhe was treated by all the per⯑ſons of faſhion in the neighbourhood.

Mr. Herbert, who in every new trial to which ſhe was expoſed, found greater cauſe for admi⯑ration of her character, praiſed the gentleneſs and forgiving ſpirit which ſhe diſcovered upon this oc⯑caſion; but Mrs. Gibbons was not wholly ſatisfied with her conduct, ‘You ought to diſcriminate upon Mrs. Howard, ſaid ſhe, and tell the world how deſirous ſhe was to have you married to her friend's ſon, though ſhe makes ſuch a clutter about her own: indeed you want ſpirit, miſs [665] Sophia,’ added the old lady, with a little con⯑tempt.

‘I am not of your opinion, madam, replied So⯑phia; for in taking revenge upon our enemies, we are only even with them; in paſſing over their malice we are ſuperior.’

‘Well, well, interrupted Mrs. Gibbons, I have no notion of ſuch ſuperiouſneſs: I always reſent injuries, and Mrs. Howard ſhall feel my reſent⯑ment for her malice to you. I have not returned her laſt viſit yet, and perhaps I may not this month; this is pretty ſevere I think.’

Sophia, compoſing her countenance as well as ſhe could, thanked Mrs. Gibbons for this inſtance of her friendſhip to her; but ſhe had no opportunity to obſerve whether ſhe kept her word, for ſhe was ſummoned to town by a letter from her mother, which gave her a melancholy account of her affairs.

Mrs. Darnley acquainted her that the gentle⯑man was dead who paid her the annuity which Sir Charles had ſtipulated for her when he procured him her late huſband's place. She deſired her to come immediately to town to aſſiſt her under her misfortunes; and added in a poſtſcript, as if reluc⯑tantly, that Harriot had left her, and was not ſo du⯑tiful as ſhe could wiſh.

Sophia read this letter with tears; and, impatient to comfort her afflicted mother, ſhe inſtantly pre⯑pared for her little journey.

All Mr. Lawſon's family parted from her with great regret; but Dolly's affliction was extreme, and Sophia amidſt ſo many greater cauſes of ſorrow, [666] felt a new pang when ſhe took leave of her tender and innocent friend.

To ſpare Mr. Lawſon the trouble of conducting her to town, ſhe accepted a place in the coach of a lady with whom ſhe had lately become acquaint⯑ed, and who profeſſed a particular eſteem for her.

On her arrival at her mother's houſe, ſhe found only a ſervant there, who informed her that her miſtreſs had taken lodgings at Kenſington for the air, having been indiſpoſed for ſome weeks paſt.

Sophia ordered her to get a hackney coach to the door, and was hurrying away without daring to enquire for her ſiſter, when the maid told her Miſs Darnley deſired to ſee her before ſhe went to Kenſington.

"Where is my ſiſter," ſaid Sophia, with a faul⯑tering accent.

The anſwer ſhe received was a ſtroke of fortune more cruel than any ſhe had yet experienced: her ſiſter, ſhe found, lived in the houſe which Sir Charles had once offered to her.

Trembling and pale ſhe ordered the coachman to drive thither, and drawing up the windows, re⯑lieved her labouring heart with a ſhower of tears.

THE HISTORY OF THE COUNT DE COMMINGE CONCLUDED.

‘I HAVE ſome important buſineſs, ſaid he, which demands my preſence in Saragoſſa; my health will not permit me to take this journey, I muſt intreat you therefore to go in my ſtead; I have ordered my equipage to be got ready, and you will oblige me by ſetting out immediately.’

‘The Marquis de Benavides is older than me by a great number of years; I have always had the ſame reſpect for him as for a father, and he has held the place of one to me. Beſides, I had no reaſon to urge which could diſpenſe with my doing as he deſired. I was obliged therefore to reſolve to go; but I thought this ready compliance gave me a right to ſpeak to him in favour of Madame de Benavides. What did I not ſay to ſoften him! he appeared to me to be ſhaken; I even fancied I ſaw tears in his eyes.’

‘I have loved Madame de Benavides, ſaid he to me, with the moſt ardent paſſion, it is not yet extinguiſhed in my heart; but time and her fu⯑ture [674] conduct can only efface the remembrance of what I have ſeen.’

‘I durſt not enter into any diſcourſe with him concerning the cauſe of his complaints; that would have again recalled his former rage; I on⯑ly deſired permiſſion to acquaint my ſiſter-in-law with the hopes he had given me. He granted my requeſt. This poor lady received the news I brought her with a kind of joy.’

‘I know, ſaid ſhe, that I can never be happy with Monſieur de Benavides; but I ſhall at leaſt have the conſolation of being where my duty calls me.’

‘After having again aſſured her of my brother's good diſpoſition to her, I took my leave of her. One of the chief domeſtics of the houſe, in whom I confided, had promiſed to be ſtrictly attentive to every thing that regarded her, and to give me information.’

‘After theſe precautions, which I thought ne⯑ceſſary, I ſet out for Saragoſſa. I had been there fifteen days without having any news from the caſtle, and was beginning to be very uneaſy at this long ſilence, when I received a letter from the faithful domeſtic I mentioned. He informed me that three days after my departure, Monſieur de Benavides had diſcharged him and all the reſt of his ſervants, except one man whom he named to me, and the wife of that man. I trembled as I read this letter, and without troubling myſelf any further about the buſineſs with which I was charged, I hired poſt-horſes to return to the caſtle. When I was within a day's journey of this place, [675] received the fatal news of the death of Madame de Benavides. My brother, who wrote to me himſelf, appeared ſo greatly affected, that I could not ſuppoſe he had been acceſſary to it. He told me, the great love he had for his wife had ſubdued his reſentment, and that he was ready to pardon her when death matched her from him: that ſhe had relapſed a ſhort time after my de⯑parture, and her fever encreaſing, ſhe died upon the fifteenth day of her illneſs. Since I came hither to ſeek ſome conſolation in the company of Don Jerome, I have been informed my bro⯑ther is plunged in the deepeſt ſadneſs; that he ſees no one, and he has even entreated me to defer ſeeing him for ſome time.’

‘I find no difficulty in complying with his re⯑queſt, continued Don Gabriel; thoſe places in which I have ſeen the unfortunate Madame de Benavides, and where I ſhall no more ſee her, would increaſe my grief. Her death ſeems to have awakened all my former ſentiments, and I know not whether the tears I ſhed do not more proceed from love than friendſhip: I have de⯑termined to go into Hungary, where I hope either to find death in the war, or to recover the peace I have loſt.’

Here Don Gabriel ceaſed to ſpeak. I was not able to anſwer him, but with tears; my voice was loſt in ſighs, Don Gabriel alſo wept bitterly: at length he left me without my being able to utter a ſingle word. Don Jerome attended him out, and I was left alone. The melancholy relation I had juſt heard increaſed my impatience to ſee myſelf [676] in a place where I might abandon myſelf, without interruption, to the exceſs of my grief.

The deſire of executing this ſcheme haſtened my cure: after having been long in a languiſhing con⯑dition, my wound was healed, my ſtrength re⯑turned, and I found myſelf able in a little time to leave the convent.

The parting between Don Jerome and me was on his ſide full of tenderneſs and friendly concern; but the loſs of Adelaida had left me inſenſible to all other impreſſions. I would not acquaint him with my deſign, leſt he ſhould endeavour to oppoſe it: I wrote to my mother, and ſent my letter by Saint Laurent, making him believe that I would wait for an anſwer, in the place I then was.

This letter contained an account of all that had happened to me ſince I ſaw her laſt: I earneſtly aſked her pardon for leaving her, as I reſolved to do, for ever. I added, that in tenderneſs to her maternal affection, I choſe to ſpare her the ſight of a miſerable wretch, who had now nothing left to wiſh for but death; and laſtly, I conjured her not to make any attempts to diſcover the place of my retreat, and recommended the faithful Saint Lau⯑rent to her protection.

When I parted with him, I gave him all the money I had about me, reſerving only what was ſufficient to defray my expences during my journey. The letter I had received from Madame de Bena⯑vides, and her picture, which I wore next my heart, was all the wealth I was poſſeſſed of. I travelled with an impatience which hardly allowed me to ſtop a moment, to the abbey de la F— [677] Upon my arrival I demanded the habit of the order. The father abbot obliged me to undergo the probationary forms; and when they were finiſh⯑ed, aſked me whether the wretched diet, and other auſterities did not appear more than equal to my ſtrength. Abſorbed in grief, I had not even per⯑ceived the difference of my diet, and the auſterities he mentioned: my inſenſibility was taken for a mark of zeal, and I was received.

The certainty I now had that my tears might flow uninterrupted, and that I might paſs my whole life in this ſad employment, gave me ſome conſo⯑lation; the horrid ſolitude, the melancholy ſilence that reigned in this cloiſter, the mortified counte⯑nances of all about me, left me wholly devoted to that grief which was become ſo precious to me, that it ſupplied the place of all I had loſt. I per⯑formed, all the exerciſes of the cloiſter without thinking of their ſeverity, for every thing was alike indifferent to me. I went every day into the thickeſt part of the wood; there would I read over the letter, and gaze on the picture of my Adelaida, bathe them both with my tears, and replacing them upon my heart, return with greater weight of grief.

Three years I led this melancholy life, while time neither alleviated my ſorrow, nor brought the period to it which I ſo earneſtly deſired, when one morning I was ſummoned by the tolling of the bell to be preſent at the death of one of the reli⯑gious. He was already laid upon the aſhes, the laſt ſacrament was going to be adminiſtred to him, when he deſired to ſpeak to the father abbot.

[678] ‘What I am going to ſay father, ſaid the dying penitent, will animate with new fervour all who ſhall hear me, ſince by methods ſo extraordinary, I have been drawn out of the abyſs of ſin and miſery into which I was plunged, and conducted into the port of ſalvation; I am unworthy of the name of brother, with which theſe holy religious have honoured me: in me you behold an un⯑happy woman, whom a profane paſſion has led to this ſanctified place. I loved and was beloved by a young man of a rank equal to my own; the mutual hatred of our fathers was an inſur⯑mountable obſtacle to our marriage: I was even obliged for the ſafety of my lover, to give my hand to another perſon, and in the choice of my huſband, I endeavoured ſtill to give him proofs of the conti⯑nuance of my paſſion. The man who could not be ſuppoſed to inſpire me with any ſentiments but thoſe of hatred or contempt, was preferred to every other who addreſſed me, becauſe the ſacrifice I made him ſhould be compleat, and that he might have no cauſe for jealouſy. The Almighty decreed that a marriage contracted with ſuch criminal views ſhould prove a ſource of miſery to me. Although I would never after conſent to ſee my lover, yet my huſband and he met and wounded each other before my eyes. Terror and grief threw me into a violent illneſs; I was ſcarcely re⯑covered when my huſband ſhut me up in a pri⯑vate apartment of his caſtle, and cauſed it to be reported that I was dead.’

‘I continued two years in that melancholy confinement, with no other conſolation, than [679] what the compaſſion of her who daily brought me my food afforded me. My huſband, not ſatisfied with the miſeries he inflicted on me, had the cruelty to inſult me under them. Oh my God, what do I ſay! dare I accuſe of cruelty the inſtrument thou waſt pleaſed to make uſe of for my puniſhment? theſe afflictions did not bring me to a juſt ſenſe of the extravagances of my conduct: inſtead of weeping for my faults, I wept only for my lover.’

‘The death of my huſband ſet me at liberty. The woman who ſerved me, being the only per⯑ſon who knew the truth of my condition, came to open the doors of my priſon, and informed me that I had paſſed for dead from the moment I entered it. Not doubting but the treatment I had met with from my huſband had given riſe to very unfavourable ſuſpicions of my virtue, I deliberated whether it was not neceſſary I ſhould paſs the reſt of my days in a convent; and I was confirmed in this deſign when I learned that the only perſon who could retain me in the world had not been heard of for a long time. I diſguiſed myſelf in the habit of a man, that I might leave the caſtle without being known.’

‘The convent to which I reſolved to retire was that in which I was educated, and is but a few leagues diſtant from hence. I was travelling to it when the ſolitarineſs of this place ſtriking my imagination as I paſſed by, I alighted from my chaiſe, in order to indulge my ſad reflections a few moments: a ſecret impulſe which I could not reſiſt led me into your chapel. Scarce had I en⯑tered [680] when among the voices that ſung the praiſes of our Lord, I diſtinguiſhed one too well ac⯑cuſtomed to reach my heart. I thought at firſt that my diſordered imagination had deceived me by a fancied reſemblance; but when I approached, notwithſtanding the alteration which time, grief, and the auſterities of a cloiſter had made in his countenance, I immediately knew that lover ſo dear to my remembrance.’

‘Great God! what became of me at this ſight! what were the cruel agitations of my mind! far from praiſing the Almighty for calling him to ſo holy a profeſſion, I blaſphemed againſt him for having deprived me of him: you puniſhed not my impious murmurs, oh my God! and you made uſe of my own folly and miſery to draw me to your ſelf!’

‘I was not able to leave a place which incloſed what I loved; and that we might no more be ſeparated, I diſcharged my guide, and preſented myſelf, father, to you. Deceived by the eager⯑neſs I diſcovered to be admitted into your cloiſter, you received me willingly. Alas! what were the diſpoſitions I brought to your holy exerciſes? a heart filled with a profane paſſion, and every thought employed on the dear object of its ten⯑derneſs.’

‘The Almighty, who by abandoning me to my wild affections, would give me greater cauſe for humbling myſelf one day before him, doubtleſs permitted thoſe impoiſoned delights which I taſted in breathing the ſame air, and living in the ſame houſe with him I loved. I followed [681] him every where: I aſſiſted him in his labours as much as my ſtrength would allow, and in thoſe moments I thought myſelf over-paid for all that I had ſuffered; but yet my imprudent tender⯑neſs did not carry me ſo far as to make myſelf known to him. But what was the motive that hindered me? the fear of diſturbing the quiet of him for whom I had loſt my own: but for this fear I ſhould perhaps have attempted to ſnatch from God a ſoul which I believed wholly devoted to him.’

‘Two months are now elapſed, ſince in obe⯑dience to a regulation of our holy founder, who was deſirous by a continual idea of death, to ſanctify the lives of his religious, we have been obliged each to dig his own grave. I followed as uſual him to whom I was attached by ties ſo ſhameful. The ſight of his grave, the ardour with which he dug it, pierced my heart with ſuch an exceſs of ſorrow, that I was obliged to leave him, and retire to the moſt unfrequented part of the wood, to give free courſe to my tears. From that moment I was in continual apprehenſions of loſing him; the idea of his death was ever preſent to my mind; my tender⯑neſs increaſed, I followed him every where; and if I was ſome hours of the day without ſeeing him, I feared I ſhould never ſee him more.’

‘But now the happy moment arrived when God was pleaſed to draw me to himſelf. I went with the man my ſoul ſo fondly loved, into the foreſt to get wood for the uſe of the houſe; after ſome time ſpent in this employment, I perceived that [682] my companion had left me: anxious and uneaſy at his abſence, I could not help going to ſeek for him. After having wandered through great part of the foreſt, I ſaw him at length in one of the moſt retired parts of it, employed in gazing earneſtly upon ſomething he had taken from his boſom: he was in ſo profound a revery, that I came up cloſe to him, and had leiſure to look upon what he held in his hand, without his per⯑ceiving me. How great was my aſtoniſhment when I ſaw it was my own picture!’

‘I was now ſenſible, that far from enjoying that quiet I had been ſo unwilling to interrupt, he was like me, the miſerable victim of a criminal paſſion. I ſaw the powerful hand of God ready to fall upon him; that fatal paſſion which I had carried with me even to the foot of his altar, ſeemed to have drawn the vengeance of heaven upon him who was the object of it.’

‘Full of this terrifying idea I came to proſtrate myſelf before thoſe altars; I implored of God my own converſion, in order to obtain that of my lover. Yes, oh my God, it was for him that I offered up my ſupplications to thee! for him I ſhed tears of remorſe and grief; it was the de⯑ſire of his ſalvation that brought me to thee. Thou hadſt compaſſion upon my weakneſs; my prayer, profane as it was, thou didſt not reject: my heart became ſenſible of the healing power of thy grace: from that bliſsful moment I ex⯑perienced the peace of a ſoul which is with thee, and deſires only thee; thou waſt pleaſed to purify me by ſufferings; I was ſeized with ſickneſs [683] ſoon after. If the partner of my wild affections ſtill groans under the weight of his profane paſſion, let him caſt his eyes upon me: let him view the wretch whom he has ſo madly loved: let him reflect upon that tremendous moment to which I am now arrived, and to which he ſhall ſhortly arrive. Oh, let him ſeek God ere he has ſilenced his mercy to liſten only to his juſtice. But I feel the time of my laſt ſacrifice approach⯑ing. I beſeech theſe holy religious to offer up their prayers for my departing ſoul. I humbly intreat their pardon for the offence I have given them, and I acknowledge myſelf unworthy to partake of their ſepulchre.’

The ſound of that adored voice, now undiſ⯑guiſed, and always preſent to my remembrance, made me know Adelaida at the firſt words ſhe pro⯑nounced. What language can convey an idea of what I then felt! all that the moſt ardent love, all that the tendereſt companion, all that the moſt po⯑ignant grief, and wildeſt deſpair could inſpire, tore my diſtracted ſoul that moment. I was proſtrate on the ground, like the other religious, while ſhe was ſpeaking: the fear of loſing any one of her words reſtrained my cries; but when I found, that in uttering the laſt ſhe had expired, the houſe ecchoed with my agonizing ſhrieks.

The religious running to me raiſed me from the ground; I tore myſelf put of their arms, flew to the corps of Adelaida, and kneeling down be⯑ſide it, I bathed one of her lifeleſs hands with my tears. ‘I have loſt you then a ſecond time, my dear Adelaida, cried I, and I have loſt you for [684] ever. What! have you been ſo long with me, and did not my ungrateful heart acknowledge you? but we will never more be ſeparated: death, added I, folding her in my arms, death, leſs cruel than my inexorable father, ſhall now, in ſpite of him, unite us for ever.’

True piety is never ſevere. The father abbot, moved at this light, endeavoured by the tendereſt condolences, and the moſt holy exhortations to ſoften my grief, and prevail upon me to abandon the corps of Adelaida, which I held faſt locked in my arms: finding me deaf to all he could urge, he was obliged to uſe force; they dragged me from the lovely body into my own cell, whither the father-abbot followed me: he ſtaid with me the whole night, vainly attempting to calm my mind, my deſpair was increaſed by the conſolations he offered me.

‘Give me Adelaida, ſaid I, why have you ſe⯑parated us? oh, why did not my ſoul take its flight with hers? Alas! I can live no longer in a place where I have loſt her, and where ſhe ſuffered ſo many miſeries. Permit me, added I, throw⯑ing myſelf at his feet, permit me to leave this cloiſter; what will you do with a miſerable wretch whoſe deſpair will trouble your repoſe? ſuffer me to retire to ſome other ſolitude, there to wait for a final end to all my ſorrows. My dear Adelaida will obtain of God that my peni⯑tence and prayers may be affectual for my ſal⯑vation: and oh, father, do not refuſe my laſt requeſt, promiſe me that the ſame tomb ſhall unite our aſhes, and I in return engage not to [685] haſten that moment which my ſoul ſo ardently pants after.’

The father-abbot moved with compaſſion for my misfortunes, and perhaps deſirous of removing from the eyes of his religious, an object which gave ſo much ſcandal to their piety, granted my requeſt, and promiſed to do what I deſired. I left the con⯑vent that moment, and came to this ſolitary wild, where I have lived ſeveral years, having no other conſolation than that of weeping for what I have loſt.

THE HISTORY OF HARRIOT AND SOPHIA CONTINUED.

THE firſt thought that ſtruck the amazed So⯑phia was, that Sir Charles, either following the motions of his natural inconſtancy, or in re⯑venge of her ſuppoſed contempt of him, had mar⯑ried Harriot. Certain that ſhe had now loſt for ever this lover, who with all his real or imputed faults, ſhe had never been able to baniſh from her heart, ſhe reſigned herſelf up to the ſharpeſt ago⯑nies of deſpair, and had already arrived at her ſiſter's houſe before ſhe was able to ſtop the courſe of her tears.

A ſervant in the livery of her own family opened the door. This circumſtance ſurpriſed Sophia, who pulling her hat over her eyes to conceal her diſ⯑order, aſked him, with ſome heſitation, if his miſtreſs was at home.

The fellow replied, he believed ſhe was, and opening the coach-door, ſhewed her into a parlour, telling her, with a ſmart air, that he would enquire of his lady's woman whether ſhe was viſible yet or no.

[725]Sophia having ſummoned all her fortitude to enable her to go through this ſevere trial with dig⯑nity, had time enough to recollect and compoſe herſelf before any one appeared; and now ſeveral circumſtances ruſhed upon her memory which in the firſt tranſports of her aſtoniſhmentt and grief had eſcaped her attention.

Mrs. Darnley, in her letter, had not mentioned Harriot's marriage, but barely ſaid ſhe had left her. The ſervant who delivered her meſſage called her miſs Darnley; and though ſhe lived in a houſe that belonged to Sir Charles, yet it was ſcarcely ſuitable to the quality of his wife.

A few moments reflection upon theſe appear⯑ances made the generous Sophia change the ob⯑ject of her concern. The misfortune for which ſhe had grieved ſo much, ſeemed light, compared with that ſhe apprehended: ſhe wept no longer for the inconſtancy of her lover; ſhe trembled for the ho⯑nour of her ſiſter; and her greateſt fear now was, that Sir Charles was not married.

While ſhe was abſorbed in theſe melancholy thoughts, Harriot's maid entered the room, who after glancing over Sophia, with a ſupercilious eye, (for ſhe was very ſimply dreſt,) aſked her, ‘If ſhe had any buſineſs with her lady.’

‘Tell her, replied Sophia, that her ſiſter is here.’

The girl bluſhed, courteſied, and flew to ac⯑quaint her miſtreſs; and Sophia was inſtantly de⯑ſired to walk up ſtairs.

She found Harriot in her dreſſing-room, in an elegant diſhabille, having juſt finiſhed her mor⯑ning's [726] work, which appeared in a ſuit of ribbons made up with great taſte.

As ſoon as ſhe ſaw Sophia, ſhe roſe from her chair, and ſaluted her with affected dignity; but at the ſame time with an air of embarraſſment that encreaſed every moment: ſo that being unable to bear the ſweet but penetrating looks of her ſiſter, ſhe reſumed her work, altering and unripping, without any apparent deſign, yet affecting to be extremely buſy, and to ſhew how perfectly ſhe was at eaſe, talked of the moſt trifling matters ima⯑ginable, while Sophia gazed on her in ſilent an⯑guiſh, anxious to know the truth of her ſituation, yet dreading to have it explained. At length ſhe told her that ſhe was going to Kenſington to her mother, and deſired to know if ſhe had any meſ⯑ſage to ſend to her.

Harriot ſuddenly interupting her, as if ſhe fear⯑ed ſome further queſtions, began to exclaim a⯑gainſt her mother's unreaſonable temper, ſaying, that ſhe had offended her violently only becauſe ſhe had it not in her power to comply with ſome very extravagant expectations which ſhe had formed.

‘Siſter, ſaid Sophia, I am wholly ignorant of your affairs; I know not what cauſe of diſcon⯑tent you have given my mother, but I ſee there is a great alteration in your condition of life, and I hope—’

‘What do you hope, pray miſs? interrupted Harriot, reddening: I ſuppoſe I am to have ſome of your ſatirical flings; your temper is not altered I find.’

[727] ‘Dear Harriot, reſumed Sophia, with tears in her eyes, this cauſeleſs anger confirming her ſuſ⯑picions, why do you reproach me with being ſatirical? is it a crime to be anxious for your happineſs?’

‘I wiſh you would not trouble yourſelf about me, replied Harriot, I know beſt what will make me happy; you ſhould not pretend to inſtruct your elders, miſs Sophy; I am older than you; you know, you have often upbraided me with that.’

‘Siſter, ſaid Sophia calmly, you deſired to ſee me, have you any thing to ſay to me?’

‘I know, anſwered Harriot, that I ſhall meet with ungrateful returns for my kindneſs, never⯑theleſs I ſhall act like a ſiſter towards you, and it was to tell you ſo that I wiſhed to ſee you: I very much doubt whether, if you were in proſperity, you would do the ſame by me.’

‘Have I behaved ſo ill in adverſity then, ſaid Sophia, that you form this harſh judgment of me, ſiſter?’

‘Pray don't upbraid me with your behaviour, miſs, ſaid Harriot; other people may have be⯑haved as well as you, though they are not prudes.’

‘You ſay you are in proſperity, ſiſter, ſaid So⯑phia, but perhaps you and I have different no⯑tions of proſperity: let me know the truth of your ſituation, and if I find you happy accord⯑ing to my notions of happineſs, you will ſoon be convinced that I can take a ſiſter's ſhare in it.’

[728] ‘I am not obliged to give an account of my conduct to you, replied Harriot, who had liſtened to this ſpeech with great emotion; and I muſt tell you, ſiſter Sophy, that if you go on taking this liberty of queſtioning and cenſuring me, I ſhall not care how ſeldom I ſee you. As to my mother, I know that it is my duty to do every thing for her that is in my power; and this I have offered to do already.’

Saying this, ſhe rang the bell, and her maid ap⯑pearing, ſhe gave her ſome orders which neceſſa⯑rily required her attendance in the room; ſo that Sophia, finding ſhe could have no further diſ⯑courſe with her ſiſter, roſe up and took leave of her with an aching heart. Her griefs all aggra⯑vated by the apprehenſion of her ſiſter's diſhonour, and the hatred which ſhe felt for Sir Charles, as her ſeducer, ſtruggling with a tender remembrance, her gentle boſom was torn with conflicting paſſions, and ſhe proved but too well the truth of that maxim, That philoſophy eaſily triumphs over paſt and future evils, but the preſent triumph over her.

Mrs. Darnley received her daughter with unu⯑ſual tenderneſs: ſhe felt how much ſhe ſtood in need of her filial care; and her behaviour was dic⯑tated by that intereſted kindneſs which only gives in expectation of receiving back doublefold.

Sophia ſaw her pale and emaciated, and was greatly affected with the ſight: ſhe would not mention her ſiſter, for fear of diſcompoſing her; but Mrs. Darnley ſoon introduced the ſubject that was moſt in her thoughts, and exclaimed againſt [729] Harriot's undutifulneſs and want of affection with the moſt violent tranſports of paſſion.

‘I have been the beſt of mothers to her, ſaid ſhe, melting into tears; I have always indulged her in all her wiſhes, and impaired my circum⯑ſtances to ſupport her extravagancies, and how has ſhe returned this kindneſs! would you think it, my dear Sophy, though ſhe is in affluent cir⯑cumſtances, and I, by the loſs of my annuity, am plunged into all my former diſtreſſes, ſhe has refuſed to pay thoſe debts which I contracted during the time ſhe lived with me; and thinks it ſufficient to invite me to reſide in her houſe, where, no doubt, I ſhould feel my dependence ſeverely.’

‘Sir Charles, ſaid Sophia ſighing, does not act with his uſual generoſity; if he has married my ſiſter, why does he ſuffer you to be in di⯑ſtreſs?’

"Married your ſiſter!" repeated Mrs. Darnley, in aſtoniſhment.

‘Ah, madam, reſumed Sophia, is ſhe not mar⯑ried then to Sir Charles?’

‘Why, is it poſſible that you can wiſh him to be married to Harriot?’ ſaid Mrs. Darnley.

‘Alas! cried Sophia, ought I not to wiſh it, when I ſee her in his houſe?’

‘Oh, reſumed Mrs. Darnley, I perceive your miſtake; but that houſe is not Sir Charles's now; Lord L— bought it of him, with the fur⯑niture, ſome time ago; it might have been yours, and without any offence to your virtue too, yet you thought fit to refuſe it: but I [730] will not pretend to reprove one ſo much wiſer than myſelf—’

‘Well, madam, interrupted Sophia eagerly, then it is not to Sir Charles that my ſiſter is married, to whom is ſhe married?’

"You have ſeen her, have you not?" ſaid Mrs. Darnley, looking a little confuſed.

‘I have indeed ſeen her, ſaid Sophia, but ſhe did not explain her ſituation to me.’

‘And do you imagine, reſumed Mrs. Darnley peeviſhly, that ſhe would be leſs reſerved with her mother? and if ſhe was afraid of telling you the truth, is it likely ſhe would own it to me?’

‘Then I fear it is bad indeed with Harriot, cried Sophia, in a melancholy accent, ſince ſhe has ſo much to conceal from a mother and a ſiſter.’

‘You were always cenſorious, Sophy, ſaid Mrs. Darnley, with ſome paſſion; for my part, I am reſolved to think the beſt. If Lord L—is married privately to your ſiſter, her character will one day be cleared to the world, and ſhe thinks no prudent perſon can blame her, for chuſing to bear for a time a few undeſerved cenſures, rather than to ſtruggle with poverty and contempt.’

Sophia, now convinced of Harriot's unhappy conduct, burſt into tears. Mrs. Darnley after look⯑ing at her in ſilence a moment, ſaid, with ſome confuſion; ‘Then you do not believe your ſiſter is married, Sophy?’

‘Ah, madam, replied Sophia, you do not ſay that you know ſhe is, and whatever reaſons there [731] might be for concealing her marriage from the world, certainly there are none for hiding it from you.—In vain, added ſhe, with ſtill greater emotion, would your parental tenderneſs ſeek to deceive yourſelf.’

‘Reproach me no more with my tenderneſs for your ſiſter, interrupted Mrs. Darnley, angrily; I am too much affected with her ingratitude al⯑ready.’

‘I am ſorry ſhe is ungrateful, ſaid Sophia; but oh! my dear mama, it is not fit you ſhould ac⯑cept of her aſſiſtance.’

‘I hope, ſaid Mrs. Darnley, calling down her eyes, that I know what is fit for me to do as well as my daughter.—But Sophy, added ſhe, after a little pauſe, I am ſorry to tell you, if you do not know it already, that if you have ſtill any thoughts of Sir Charles, you deceive yourſelf; I am very well informed, that a match has been propoſed to him, and he has given ſo favourable an anſwer, that it is expected the marriage will be concluded, as ſoon as he comes from Paris: I heard it all from one of the young lady's rela⯑tions.’

This was a ſevere ſtroke to poor Sophia, who had juſt begun to breathe again, after the anguiſh ſhe had ſuffered, in the belief that Sir Charles had for⯑ſaken her for her ſiſter, and added perfidy and baſeneſs to his inconſtancy.

Mrs. Darnley, who ſaw her turn pale, and her eyes ſwimming in tears, while ſhe ſtruggled to con⯑ceal her emotions, could not help being affected [732] with her diſtreſs, and endeavoured to conſole her.

Sophia, more ſoftened by this tenderneſs, ſuffer⯑ed her tears to flow a few moments unreſtrained; then ſuddenly wiping her charming eyes, ‘Par⯑don this weakneſs, madam, ſaid ſhe; this indeed is not a time to weep for myſelf, your ſorrows claim all my tears.’

‘Aye, I have ſorrows enough, Heaven knows, ſaid Mrs. Darnley, my debts unpaid, my annuity gone, what have I to truſt to?’

‘Providence, interrupted Sophia, your piety and my induſtry. Alas! my dear mama, your greateſt affliction is not the loſs of your annuity, or the debts with which you are encumbered, it is my ſiſter's unhappy fall from virtue. That parent, purſued ſhe, who ſees a beloved child become a prey to licentious paſſions, who ſees her publicly incur ſhame and reproach, expel⯑led the ſociety of the good and virtuous, and lead a life of diſhonour, embittered with the contempt of the world, and the ſecret upbraidings of her own conſcience; that parent can beſt judge of your anguiſh now: I have only a ſiſter's feelings for this misfortune! but theſe feelings are ſtrong enough to make me very unhappy.’

Mrs. Darnley appeared ſo much moved with this diſcourſe, that Sophia purſued it, till ſhe brought her mother to declare, that ſhe would rather ſuffer all the inconveniencies of poverty, than give a ſanction to Harriot's guilt, by partak⯑ing of its reward.

[733]Sophia, to relieve her anxiety, laid down a plan for their future ſubſiſtence, and proved to her, that by her ſkill in ſeveral little uſeful arts, it would be eaſy for her to ſupply her with all the neceſſaries of life. "We will firſt, ſaid ſhe, pay your debts."

"How is that to be done?" ſaid Mrs. Darnley, haſtily.

‘The furniture of your houſe, ſaid Sophia, the plate, and other pieces of finery, which Sir Charles Stanley preſented to you, will, if con⯑verted into money, not only pay your debts, but provide a little fund for preſent expences, and a reſerve for future exigencies; mean while, my induſtry and care will, I hope, keep want far from you. I have friends, who will find em⯑ployment for my little talents; and if I can but make your life eaſy and comfortable, I ſhall think myſelf happy.’

Mrs. Darnley, with tears in her eyes, embraced her daughter, bid her diſpoſe of every thing as ſhe pleaſed, and aſſured her ſhe would endeavour to bear her new condition of life with patience and reſignation.

Sophia immediately wrote to a gentleman of the law, who had been an intimate friend of her fa⯑ther's▪ and he undertook to manage their little af⯑fairs in town. A few days afterwards he brought them fifty pounds, which was all that remained from the ſale, after every demand upon Mrs. Darn⯑ley was paid.

She read over the accounts with great emo⯑tion, bitterly regretting every trinket ſhe had [734] parted with, and told Sophia, that it was abſolute⯑ly neceſſary they ſhould ſettle in ſome village near town, for ſhe could not bear the thoughts of ex⯑poſing her poverty to her acquaintance, and of be⯑ing ſeen in a worſe condition than formerly.

Sophia, who thought her declining health a bet⯑ter reaſon for not reſiding in London, hired in an adjacent village, at a very ſmall rent, a little houſe, or rather cottage, ſo neat, and ſituated ſo happily, that an imagination lively as hers was, and a little romantick, could not fail of being charmed with it. To this place ſhe removed her books, and being pro⯑vided by her friend Dolly, with an innocent coun⯑try girl for a ſervant, ſhe conducted her mother to her rural abode, and had the ſatisfaction to find her pleaſed with it, novelty having always charms for her, and here for a few days, it ſupplied the place of thoſe other gratifications to which ſhe had been accuſtomed.

In the midſt of theſe cares, Sophia did not forget her unhappy ſiſter: ſhe wrote ſeveral letters to her, in which ſhe employed all the power of virtuous eloquence to bring her to a ſenſe of her errors, but in vain.

Harriot did not deign to anſwer her, but in a let⯑ter to her mother, ſhe complained of the injurious treatment ſhe received from Sophia, and earneſtly intreated her to leave her ſiſter, and reſide with her.

Although Mrs. Darnley refuſed this offer with ſeeming ſteadineſs, yet her diſcontent was but too apparent. A life of retirement, which often obliged [735] her to ſeek in herſelf, thoſe reſources againſt lan⯑guor and melancholy, which ſhe uſed to find in the diſſipations of the town, could not be grateful to one who had never accuſtomed herſelf to reflection, whoſe mind was filled with trifles, and its whole ſtock of ideas derived from dreſs, cards, and every other faſhionable folly.

To be capable of enjoying a rural life, there is ſomething more neceſſary than a good underſtand⯑in: innocence and purity of manners muſt contri⯑bute to give a reliſh to pleaſures, which are found⯑ed in reaſon, virtue, and piety.

Hence it was, that Sophia, in the bloom of youth, found happineſs in the ſolitude of a village, while her mother, in a declining age, panted after the va⯑nities of the town.

In vain, did Mr. Herbert fill the letters he wrote to Mrs. Darnley, with maxims of morality and pious admonitions; he experienced here the truth of that obſervation, that it is a work of great dif⯑ficulty, to diſpoſſeſs vice from a heart, where long poſſeſſion ſeems to plead preſcription.

Sophia, who knew her mother's taſte for living at eaſe, that ſhe might be able to gratify it, applied herſelf diligently to her work, which was a piece of embroidery, that had been beſpoke by a bene⯑volent lady, in order to give her preſent employ⯑men; and, by exhibiting it as a proof of her inge⯑nuity, to procure her more. She likewiſe exerciſed her invention in drawing little deſigns for fan⯑mounts; and always choſe ſuch ſubjects as convey⯑ed ſome moral leſſon to the mind, while they plea⯑ſed the imagination.

[736]Some of theſe drawings were diſpoſed of, by the lady her friend, ſo advantageouſly, that Sophia was encouraged to purſue her labour; and Mrs. Darn⯑ley, flattered by the proſpect of more eaſy circum⯑ſtances, began to enlarge her ſcheme of expence, made little excurſions about the country in a poſt-chaiſe, talked of hiring a better houſe, and of paſſing two months at leaſt in London during the winter.

Mean time Harriot became more earneſt in her ſolicitations to her mother, to come and live with her; her ſituation began to be ſo generally ſuſpec⯑ted, that ſhe was in danger of being wholly ne⯑glected.

She wrote to her in a ſtrain of tenderneſs and duty, that revived all the ill-judging parent's af⯑fection, who invited her to make her a viſit in her little retreat, and promiſed her a favourable recep⯑tion even from Sophia herſelf.

Sophia was indeed far from oppoſing this viſit; ſhe was rather deſirous of drawing her ſiſter thither frequently, with a hope that her example and her arguments, might one day influence her to change her conduct.

Harriot received this invitation with joy; for ſuch was the depravity of her mind, that ſhe exult⯑ed in having an opportunity of diſplaying the gran⯑duer of her dreſs, and equipage to her ſiſter; to her who had made virtuous poverty her choice, and ſhewn that ſhe deſpiſed riches, when they were to be purchaſed by guilt. The pride of human nature (ſays an eminent writer) takes its riſe from its cor⯑ruption, as worms are produced by putrefaction.

[737]The wretched fallen Harriot was proud! the dia⯑monds that glittered in her hair, the gilt chariot, and the luxurious table; theſe monuments of her diſgrace contributed to keep up the inſolence of a woman, who by the loſs of her honour was lower than the meaneſt of her ſervants, who could boaſt of an uncorrupted virtue.

Sophia was buſily employed upon her embroi⯑dery, when Harriot, from her gay chariot, alight⯑ed at her door; ſhe entered that humble abode of innocence and induſtry, in a kind of triumph, and accoſted her ſiſter with a haughty expreſſion of ſu⯑periority in her looks and air, as if ſhe expected the ſplendor of her appearance ſhould ſtrike her with awe.

Sophia received her with the modeſt dignity of conſcious virtue; and Harriot, tho' incapable of much reflection, yet ſoon perceived the miſerable figure ſhe made, in the preſence of ſuch a cha⯑racter, and ſtood ſilent and abaſhed, while Sophia contemplated her finery with an eye of pity and of anguiſh.

Harriot, at length recovering herſelf, aſked for her mother, who that moment entered the room. The ſight of her daughter's equipage, had thrown her into an agreeable flutter of ſpirits, and ſhe rea⯑dily pardoned the fine lady, all the faults of the un⯑grateful child.

Harriot emboldened by ſo kind a reception, pro⯑poſed to her to accompany her to town, promiſing to make her abode with her agreeable, by every inſtance of duty and affection.

[738]Mrs. Darnley bluſhed, and was ſilent. Sophia fixed her eyes upon her mother, anxious and impa⯑tient for her anſwer; ſhe caſt a timed glance at Sophia: ſhe read in her ſpeaking eyes her ſenti⯑ments of this propoſal; and turning to Harriot, ſhe told her faintly, that not being ſatisfied with her conduct, it would be very improper for her to countenance it, by reſiding with her.

Harriot burſt into tears, and exclaimed againſt her ſiſter's malice, who, ſhe ſaid, acted like her moſt cruel enemy, and ſought to ruin her charac⯑ter, by eſtranging herſelf from her company, and preventing her mother from taking notice of her.

Sophia, with great gentleneſs, proved to her, that the loſs of her reputation, was the neceſſary conſe⯑quence of her living in a manner unſuitable to her circumſtances; that her mother and her, by complying with her requeſt, could not preſerve her from cenſure, but would incur it them⯑ſelves.

‘You call me cruel, Harriot, ſaid ſhe, for eſtranging myſelf from your company; but conſider a little, whether it is not you that are both cruel and unjuſt. Why would you deprive me of the only reward the world beſtows on me, for a life of voluntary poverty; you have exchanged a good name for dreſs and equipage; and I, to preſerve one, ſubject myſelf to labour and indigence: you enjoy your purchaſe; but I ſhould loſe mine, were I to have that complai⯑ſance for you which you require. Leave me [739] my reputation then, ſince it is the ſole recom⯑pence of thoſe hardſhips to which I willingly ſubmit; and if you wiſh to recover yours, be contented to be poor like me.’

Sophia, finding her ſiſter liſtened to her, tho' it was ſullenly, and with down caſt eyes, expatiated in a tender manner upon the errors of her con⯑duct, and the fatal conſequences that were likely to follow.

Harriot at length interrupted her, with a pert air, and ſaid, ‘She would not be taught her duty by her younger ſiſter;’ then turning to her mo⯑ther, ‘I hope madam, ſaid ſhe, my ſiſter will not have ſo much power with you, as to make you forbid my coming here.’

She put her handkerchief to her eyes, as ſhe ſaid this; to which Mrs. Darnley replied, with great vehemence, ‘That no perſon on earth ſhould ever prevail upon her to caſt off her child.’

Sophia was ſilent, and obſerving that her pre⯑ſence ſeemed to lay them under ſome reſtraint, ſhe roſe up, to retire to her work, telling her ſiſter, as ſhe paſſed by her, ‘That far from hindering her viſits, ſhe would rather encourage her to repeat them often, that ſhe might be convinced it was poſſible, to be happy in a cottage.’

Harriot laughed, and muttered the words ro⯑mantick and affectation, which Sophia took no no⯑tice of, but left her at liberty to converſe freely with her mother.

Mrs. Darnley talked to her at firſt in a chiding ſtrain, and affected to aſſume the authority of a parent; but, a ſlave to her appetites, ſhe could not [740] reſiſt any opportunity of gratifying them; and Harriot found it no difficult matter to force a preſent upon her, to ſupply thoſe expences which her extravagance, and not her wants, made neceſ⯑ſary.

Harriot now came often to the village, and gave it out, that ſhe was upon the beſt terms ima⯑ginable with her mother and ſiſter, not doubt⯑ing but the world would ceaſe to ſuſpect her, ſince Sophia approved her conduct.

The frequency and the length of her viſits made Sophia entertain hopes of her reformation, ſince the time ſhe ſpent with her mother, was taken from that dangerous and immoral diſſipation, which forms the circle of what is called a gay life. For it is with our manners as with our health; the abatement of vice is a degree of virtue, the abate⯑ment of diſeaſe is a degree of health.

Mr. Herbert being perfectly recovered, filled Sophia with extreme joy, by the account he ſent her of it, and of his reſolutlon to come and live near her.

While ſhe impatiently expected his arrival, and ſent many a longing look towards the road, near which her little cottage was ſituated, ſhe one day ſaw a gentleman ride by full ſpeed, who in his perſon and air had a great reſemblance to Sir Charles Stanley. Her heart, by its throbbing emo⯑tion, ſeemed to acknowledge its conqueror; for poor Sophia was ſtill in love: ſhe loved, though ſhe deſpaired of ever being happy; and by thus per⯑ſiſting in a hopeleſs paſſion, contradicted that maxim, that love like fire, cannot ſubſiſt without [741] continual motion, and ceaſes to be as ſoon as it ceaſes to hope or fear.

Sophia, not able to remove her eyes from the place where ſhe fancied ſhe had ſeen Sir Charles, continued to look fixedly towards the road, and was beginning to believe ſhe had been miſtaken, when a ſervant in Sir Charles's livery rode by alſo, and put it out of doubt that ſhe had really ſeen the maſter.

This unexpected incident awakened a thouſand tender melancholy ideas in her mind; and finding herſelf too much ſoftened, ſhe had recourſe again to her work, to divert her imagination from an object, ſhe had vainly endeavoured to forget.

THE HISTORY OF HARRIOT and SOPHIA CONCLUDED.

SOPHIA was not deceived when ſhe imagined ſhe had ſeen Sir Charles, it was really he who had rode by her window, and it was her little abode he was in ſearch of, though in his extreme eager⯑neſs he had overlooked it.

He had left England with a hope that change of ſcene, and a variety of new objects, would efface the idea of Sophia from his heart, and reſtore him to his former tranquility; but amidſt all the de⯑lights of Paris he found himſelf oppreſt with lan⯑guor: no amuſements could entertain him, no converſation engage his attention; diſguſted with every thing he ſaw and heard, peeviſh, diſ⯑contented, and weary of the world, he avoided all company, and had recourſe to books for relief; but Sophia was too much in his thoughts to render ſtudy either inſtructive or amuſing. He paſt whole days in ſolitude, feeding his melancholy with the reflection of a thouſand paſt circumſtances, [802] which ſerved to ſoften his mind, and make him feel his loſs more ſenſibly.

When he reflected on her exalted virtues, her wit, her elegance, the attractive graces of her per⯑ſon, and the irreſiſtable ſweetneſs of her manners, he lamented his hard fate that had put ſuch a treaſure out of his reach; but when his conſcience told him that it had once been in his power to have become poſſeſſor of this treaſure, that he had trifled with that innocent affection till he had alienated it from himſelf to another object; his anguiſh became inſupportable, and he ſought to relieve it by rouſing his indignation againſt her, for her preference of ſo unworthy a rival.

He called to mind her interview with this happy rival in the field, and concluded he was far more favoured by her than himſelf had ever been, ſince her diſcourſe to him had produced ſo tender and paſſionate an expreſſion of acknowledgment as that he had beheld.

Theſe circumſtances, which his imagination dwelt upon in order to leſſen his regret, added to it all the ſtings of jealouſy; ſo that, almoſt frantic with rage and grief, he was a hundred times upon the point of committing ſome deſperate action.

A violent fever was the conſequence of theſe tranſports, which, after confining him a long time to his bed, left his body in a weak and languiſh⯑ing condition, and his mind ſunk in an habitual melancholy.

His phyſicians recommended to him the air of Montpelier, and he was preparing to ſet out for [803] that place when he happened to meet with a gen⯑tleman who made him alter his reſolution.

This perſon had been his governor, and now attended Mr. Howard in the ſame quality.

Sir Charles, who had a ſlight acquaintance with Mrs. Howard, was prevailed upon, notwithſtand⯑ing his averſion to company, to receive a viſit from her ſon: he invited the young gentleman to dine with him, and he having not yet forgot the lovely Sophia, drank her health after dinner by the name of miſs Darnley.

Sir Charles, who could not hear that name with⯑out a viſible emotion, told him he knew two young ladies ſo called, and asked whether it was the el⯑deſt or the youngeſt ſiſter that he meant?

Mr. Howard replied, ‘That he was ignorant till then that miſs Darnley had a ſiſter.’

‘Yes, ſhe has a ſiſter, ſaid his governor, who is much handſomer than herſelf, and for whom a youthful paſſion would be far more excuſable.’

The young gentleman, who knew his governor talked in that contemptuous manner of Sophia in compliance with his mother's humour, in revenge avowed his admiration of her in the moſt paſſionate terms, and, forgetting that Sir Charles had ſaid he was acquainted with her, deſcribed her excel⯑lencies with all the enthuſiaſm of a lover.

Sir Charles liſtened in ſilence; and when the other had done ſpeaking told him, with an air of forced gravity, that it was eaſy to ſee he was very much in love.

This, indeed, was his real opinion; nevertheleſs he felt no emotions of jealouſy or reſentment [804] againſt a rival whom he believed was as unhappy as himſelf: he asked him with a ſeeming careleſſ⯑neſs if miſs Sophia was not to be married to the ſon of a rich farmer in the village where ſhe lived? and waited his anſwer with an agitation of mind which appeared ſo plainly in the frequent changes of his colour, that Mr. Howard muſt have ob⯑ſerved it, had not the queſtion given him almoſt as much concern.

After a ſhort pauſe he replied, ‘That he never heard ſhe was going to be married;’ but, added he, ſighing, ‘I remember I have ſeen a very handſome young man at Mr. Lawſon's, who perhaps —’

‘Aye, aye, interrupted his governor, ſmiling, he was the favoured lover no doubt, you have nothing to do but to forget her as ſoon as you can.’

The youth ſat penſive and ſilent for ſome time, then ſuddenly riſing, took leave of Sir Charles and went away; his governor prepared to follow him, but the baronet, anxious to hear more of Sophia, detained him to ask ſeveral queſtions concerning her acquaintance with Mr. Howard.

Sir Charles found his old friend had loſt no part of his former candor and ſincerity: though by the truſt repoſed in him he was obliged to diſ⯑countenance as much as poſſible the paſſion of his pupil for a young woman ſo much his inferior in rank and fortune; yet having ſeen and converſed with Sophia, he did juſtice to her extraordinary merit, and acknowledged that Mrs. Howard had treated her harſhly.

[805]He related to Sir Charles in what manner Mrs. Howard had invited her to her houſe, and the ſuſpicions ſhe entertained of Sophia's encouraging her ſon's paſſion, and deſign to enſnare him into a clandeſtine marriage. ‘Suſpicions, added he, which her ſubſequent behaviour entirely de⯑ſtroyed, for the youth was raſh enough to avow his paſſion openly, and ſolicited her by frequent letters and meſſages to grant him an interview, which ſhe abſolutely refuſed, and this conduct did her honour and procured her great eſteem; yet it is very likely that her affections are other⯑wiſe engaged, and that ſhe has ſome difficulties to encounter, for ſhe looks thoughtful and me⯑lancholy, and affects retirement more than per⯑ſons of her age generally do.’

Sir Charles was thrown into ſo profound a re⯑verie by this account of Sophia, that he heard not a word of what his friend afterwards ſaid which had no relation to this intereſting ſubject, and ſcarce perceived when he went away.

After reflecting a long time with mingled grief, reſentment, and compaſſion, upon her melancho⯑ly, which he ſuppoſed was occaſioned by ſome diſ⯑appointment in the affair of her marriage with the young farmer, and which probably her want of fortune was the cauſe of, he ſuddenly formed the generous deſign of removing this obſtacle to her union with the perſon whom ſhe preferred to him, and, by making her happy, entitle himſelf to her eſteem, ſince he had unfortunately loſt her heart.

[806]The novelty of this reſolution, and its extraor⯑dinary generoſity, filled him with ſo many ſelf-flattering ideas, as ſuſpended for a while his jea⯑louſy and his grief.

Inſtead of going to Montpelier he ſet out im⯑mediately for England, and during his journey was continually applauding himſelf for the uncommon diſintereſtedneſs of his conduct.

Nothing is more certain, than that the motives even of our beſt actions will not always bear exami⯑nation: we deceive ourſelves firſt, and our vanity is too much intereſted in the deception, to make us wiſh to detect it. Sir Charles either did not or would not perceive the latent hope that lurked within his boſom, and which, perhaps, ſuggeſted the deſigns he had formed.

How muſt ſuch an inſtance of generous paſſion, thought he, affect a mind ſo delicately ſenſible as Sophia's! ſhe who had once loved him, and what was more than probable, had not yet entirely forgot him.

He never asked himſelf, why his imagination dwelt upon theſe pleaſing images? why he pro⯑ſecuted his journey with ſuch eager haſte, as if the purport of it was to receive, not to reſign for ever the woman he ſo paſſionately loved?

When he arrived at his own houſe ſcarce would he allow himſelf a few minutes reſt after his fa⯑tiguing journey: he haſtened to Mr. Herbert's lodgings, to prevail upon him to juſtify by his concurrence the deſigns he had formed in favour of Sophia.

[807]Mean time the ſecret and powerful impulſe by which he was actuated, kept his mind in a con⯑tinual tumult. He hoped, he feared, he wiſhed: he was all anxious expectation, all trembling doubt; he heard with grief that Mr. Herbert was at Bath; for now he knew not how to get acceſs to Sophia, who being ignorant of his intentions, and offended by his behaviour, might poſſibly refuſe to ſee him.

He went to the houſe where Mrs. Darnley lived when he left England; he was ſurpriſed to ſee it ſhut up. This incident perplexed him more, and rendered him more impatient.

He returned to his houſe, ordered his horſes to be ſaddled, and ſet out immediately for Mr. Law⯑ſon's; where he arrived before he had reſolved how to introduce himſelf, or who he ſhould en⯑quire for.

However, upon the appearance of a ſervant at the door, he asked for Mr. Herbert; which Mr. Lawſon hearing, came out himſelf, and, though he did not know Sir Charles, politely requeſted him to alight, telling him, he had juſt received a letter from Mr. Herbert, which acquainted him that he was perfectly recovered, and that he was on the way to London.

Sir Charles accepted Mr. Lawſon's invitation, and alighting, followed him into a parlour, but in ſuch perturbation of mind that he ſcarce knew what he did. The good curate, ſurpriſed at the penſiveneſs and ſilence of his gueſt, was at a loſs what to ſay to him, or how to entertain him: he gave him an account of Mr. Herbert's illneſs, [808] which ſeemed to engage his attention very little; but happening to mention Sophia in the courſe of his relation, the young baronet ſtarted as from a dream, and turned his eyes upon him with a look of eagerneſs and anxiety, but ſaid not a word.

Mr. Lawſon pauſed, as expecting he was going to ask him a queſtion, which Sir Charles perceiv⯑ing, ſaid with ſome confuſion, ‘I beg your par⯑don, Sir, you mentioned miſs Sophia, I have the honour to know her, pray how does me do?’

‘I hope ſhe is well, Sir, replied Mr. Lawſon, I have not ſeen her a long time.’

"Then ſhe does not board with you now," ſaid Sir Charles, with a countenance as pale as death, dreading to hear ſomething ſtill more fatal.

As Mr. Lawſon was going to anſwer him, Wil⯑liam, not knowing his father-in-law had company, entered the room abruptly; but ſeeing the baronet, he bowed, apologized for his intruſion, and in⯑ſtantly retired.

The various emotions with which this ſudden and unexpected ſight of his rival filled the breaſt of Sir Charles, cauſed ſuch a wildneſs in his looks, that Mr. Lawſon, in great aſtoniſhment and perplexity, asked him if he was taken ill?

Sir Charles, endeavouring to compoſe himſelf, replied, "That he was very well, but in a faultering accent asked, who the young gentleman was that had juſt left the room.

Mr. Lawſon told him he was his ſon-in-law.

[809] ‘Your ſon-in-law! cried Sir Charles, eagerly, what! married to your daughter! is it poſſible?’

Mr. Lawſon knew enough of Sophia's ſtory to make him comprehend now who this young gen⯑tleman was, who diſcovered ſo extraordinary a con⯑cern upon this occaſion; and, charmed to have an opportunity of doing her ſervice by removing thoſe ſuſpicions which he had been told had produced ſo fatal a reverſe in her fortune, he gave the baro⯑net a circumſtantial account of his daughter's mar⯑riage: ſenſible that he was too much intereſted in this detail to make him think it impertinent, he introduced it no otherways than by declaring him⯑ſelf under the greateſt obligation to miſs Sophia, who, having honoured his daughter with her friend⯑ſhip, had been the chief inſtrument of her preſent happineſs.

While the good curate related all the circum⯑ſtances of an affair which had had ſuch melancholy conſequences, the baronet liſtened to him with an attention ſtill as the grave; his eyes were fixed upon his with a look of the moſt eager anxiety, and he ſcarce ſuffered himſelf to breathe for fear of loſing any of his words.

In proportion as his doubts were removed, his countenance expreſſed more and more joy; and when, upon his reflecting on all that he had heard, it appeared plainly that the fatal meeting which had cauſed him ſo much anguiſh, was the effect of Sophia's ſolicitude to ſerve her friend, and that the paſſionate action of the youth was an acknow⯑ledgment of gratitude, not an expreſſion of love, he was not able to conceal the exceſs of his joy, [810] but, riſing up in a ſudden tranſport, he took the curate's hand, and preſſing it eagerly, ‘You know not, ſaid he, Mr. Lawſon, how happy you have made me; but where is miſs Sophia, is ſhe gone to Bath with her good friend Mr. Herbert?’

‘No, Sir, replied Mr. Lawſon; ſhe lives with her mother. You know, I ſuppoſe, that Mrs. Darnley has loſt her annuity by the death of the gentleman upon whom it was charged.’

‘I never heard it till now, ſaid the baronet, whoſe tenderneſs was alarmed for his Sophia; tell me I beg you what is her preſent ſituation.’

‘Her eldeſt daughter has left her, ſaid Mr. Lawſon, and ſhe has retired with miſs Sophia to a village about five miles from hence, in the road to London, where that excellent young lady ſupports her mother and herſelf by the la⯑bour of her hands.’

"Angelick creature!" exclaimed Sir Charles, with his eyes ſwimming in tears. Then, after a little pauſe, he deſired a direction to the place where Mrs. Darnley lived, and took a kind leave of Mr. Lawſon, telling him he hoped ſoon to viſit him again.

Sir Charles, although he galloped as faſt as it was poſſible, found his horſe went too ſlow for his impatience; ſo eager was he to ſee Sophia, and gain her pardon for the unreaſonable conduct which his jealouſy and rage had made him guilty of.

The account Mr. Lawſon had given him of the part ſhe had taken in his daughter's marriage with the youth whom he had conſidered as his rival, not [811] only removed the torturing pangs of jealouſy, which he had ſo long felt, but made him view ſe⯑veral circumſtances in Sophia's behaviour in a light favourable to his own ardent wiſhes.

He fondly fancied that the melancholy in which he had heard ſhe was plunged, was occaſioned by a tender remembrance of him; and that the hope of ſtill being his, might have been the chief cauſe of her rejecting the addreſſes of Mr. Howard.

How different were theſe ideas from the gloomy ones which had hitherto perplexed his mind! he ſeemed like a man waked from a frightful dream of deſpair and death, to a certainty of life and joy.

Amidſt theſe tranſporting reveries he had paſ⯑ſed by Sophia's houſe, without perceiving it to be the ſame he had been directed to; and when he had reached the end of the village, he looked about for it in vain, and ſaw no one of whom he could enquire for it but an old woman, who was ſitting under a tree near the road, making up a noſegay of ſome flowers, ſuch as the late ſeaſon produced.

He ſtopped his horſe, and asked her if ſhe knew where Mrs. Darnley lived? At the mention of that name ſhe roſe as haſtily as her feebleneſs would permit her, and told him, ſhe knew the houſe very well; and, if he pleaſed, would go and ſhew it him. ‘I am making this noſegay for the ſweet young gentlewoman her daugh⯑ter, ſaid the old woman; I carry her flowers every day; heaven bleſs her, ſhe is my only ſup⯑port. [812] There is a great many fine folks here⯑abouts, from whom I could never get any re⯑lief; but ſince ſhe came hither I have wanted for nothing. Pray let me ſhew you her houſe; old and weak as I am, I would walk ten miles to do her ſervice.’

Sir Charles, alighting from his horſe, ordered his ſervant to lead it to the neareſt public houſe, and wait for him there; he told the old woman, he would accept of her offer, and walk along with her. Then taking two guineas out of his pocket, he gave them to her, in reward, he ſaid, for the gra⯑titude ſhe expreſſed for her young benefactreſs.

The good woman received his bounty with a tranſ⯑port of ſurpriſe and joy, and pleaſingly repaid him by talking of his beloved Sophia; of whom ſhe re⯑lated many inſtances of tenderneſs and charity to⯑wards the poor of the village, and filled him with admiration of that true benevolence, which, even in the midſt of indigence, could adminiſter to the greater wants of her fellow-creatures.

When they came within ſight of Sophia's little cottage, the old woman, pointing to it, told him, Mrs. Darnley and her daughter lived there: upon which the baronet, diſmiſſing her, walked up to it with diſordered haſte. A row of wooden pales led to a ſmall graſs-plat before the door.

As he approached, he ſaw Sophia ſitting at a window at work. He ſtopped to gaze upon her; ſhe appeared to him more lovely, more engaging than ever. He wiſhed, yet dreaded her looking up, leſt her firſt thoughts upon ſeeing him being [813] unfavourable, ſhe ſhould reſolve to refuſe his vi⯑ſit. He went forwards with a beating heart, and cautiouſly opening the little gate, reached the door of this humble habitation unheard and un⯑ſeen by Sophia; the door flew open at his touch, poverty has no need of bolts and bars, and every good angel is the guard of innocence and virtue.

The noiſe he made in entering, and the ſound of her name, pronounced in a tender accent, made Sophia haſtily turn her head. At ſight of Sir Charles, ſhe ſtarted from her chair, her work fell from her trembling hands, ſhe looked at him in ſilent aſtoniſhment, unable, and perhaps unwilling to avoid him.

The baronet, whoſe heart laboured with the ſtrongeſt emotions of tenderneſs, anxiety, hope, and fear, had not power to utter a word; and while her ſurpriſe kept her motionleſs, threw himſelf at her feet, and taking one of her hands, preſſed it reſpectfully to his lips, tears at the ſame time falling from his eyes.

Sophia, whoſe gentle mind was ſenſibly affected with this action, and the paleneſs and langour which appeared in his countenance, found it im⯑poſſible to treat him with that ſeverity which his capricious conduct ſeemed to demand of her; ne⯑vertheleſs ſhe drew away her hand, which he yielded with reluctant ſubmiſſion.

"I hoped," ſaid ſhe, in an accent that expreſſed more ſoftneſs and grief than anger or diſdain, ‘that I ſhould be ſpared any farther inſults of this ſort from you; thoſe I have already ſuf⯑fered [814] has ſufficiently puniſhed me for my weak credulity.’

Sir Charles, when ſhe began to ſpeak, roſe up; but continued gazing on her with the moſt paſſi⯑onate tenderneſs, while every word ſhe uttered ſeemed to pierce his heart.

‘I will not, purſued Sophia, gathering firm⯑neſs as ſhe ſpoke, ask you, why you have in⯑truded upon me thus unexpectedly? or why you aſſume a behaviour ſo little of a-piece with your paſt actions? I only beg you to believe, that I am not again to be deceived; and although I am perſuaded my good opinion is of no conſe⯑quence to you, yet I will tell you, that if it is poſ⯑ſible to regain it, it will be by never more impor⯑tuning me with viſits, which my ſituation in life makes it very improper for me to admit of.’

Sophia, when ſhe had ſaid this, went out of the room, without caſting a look back upon Sir Charles, who followed her in great diſorder, con⯑juring her only to hear what he had to ſay.

As ſhe was paſſing to her own chamber, ſhe was met by her mother, who, ſeeing Sir Charles, was filled with ſurprize and joy; and perceiving that Sophia was avoiding him, ſaid to her with an an⯑gry accent, ‘Where are you going? what is the meaning of this rudeneſs?’

Sophia, without anſwering her, retired to her own room, not without great perturbation of mind; for there was ſomething in the baronet's looks and words that ſeemed to merit a hearing at leaſt; but ſhe dreaded the weakneſs of her own heart, [815] and was fully perſuaded that any condeſcenſion on her ſide would give him too great an advantage over her.

Mrs. Darnley, finding her endeavours to retain her were fruitleſs, advanced towards Sir Charles with great obſequiouſneſs, congratulated him up⯑on his return, and thanked him for the honour he did her in viſiting her in her poor little habita⯑tion.

Sir Charles ſaluted her reſpectfully, and took a ſeat. ‘There is a ſad alteration, Sir, ſaid ſhe, in my poor affairs ſince I ſaw you laſt. I never thought to have received you in ſuch a hovel. You have heard, I ſuppoſe, of my misfor⯑tune.’

Sir Charles, who was in great confuſion of thought, and had ſcarce heard a word ſhe ſaid, replied careleſsly, ‘Yes, madam, I am ſorry for it.’

The coldneſs of this anſwer caſt a damp upon thoſe hopes which ſhe had eagerly admitted upon ſeeing him again; and, impatient to be relieved from her tormenting anxiety on account of this unexpected viſit, ſhe asked him abruptly, whether ſhe might wiſh him joy, for ſhe heard, ſhe ſaid, that he was going to be married.

Sir Charles, rouzed by this queſtion, replied ha⯑ſtily, ‘Who could have told you any thing ſo un⯑likely? Married! no, madam, there never was any foundation for ſuch a report.’

"Indeed I believe ſo," ſaid Mrs. Darnley, al⯑moſt breathleſs with joy to find him deny it [816] ſo earneſtly. ‘To be ſure people are very envi⯑ous and ill-natured, and thoſe who told me, no doubt, deſigned to do you an ill office.’

‘And they have ſucceeded, ſaid Sir Charles, ſighing, if they have been able to perſuade miſs Sophia, that after having aſpired to the poſſeſ⯑ſion of her, I could deſcend to love any other woman. I came to implore her pardon, ma⯑dam, purſued he, for all the extravagancies of my paſt conduct, and for that unreaſonable jea⯑louſy which was the ſource of them, could I have been ſo happy to have prevailed upon her to have heard me.’

"What!" interrupted Mrs. Darnley eagerly, ‘and was my daughter ſo rude as to leave you without hearing what you had to ſay, I proteſt I am aſhamed of her behaviour; but I hope you will be ſo good to excuſe it, Sir; I will inſiſt upon her coming in again.’

‘No, madam, ſaid Sir Charles, holding her, for ſhe was hurrying away, miſs Sophia muſt not be conſtrained: I cannot bear that.’

Mrs. Darnley unwillingly reſumed her ſeat, and inly fretting at her daughter's obſtinacy, tremb⯑led for the event of this viſit.

Sir Charles, after a ſilence of ſome minutes, ſud⯑denly roſe up, and took his leave. Mrs. Darnley, in great anxiety, followed him to the door, and ſaid, ſhe hoped to ſee him again. He anſwered only by a low bow, and walked away full of doubt and perplexity.

[817]Sophia's ſteadineſs in refuſing to hear him, baniſhed all thoſe flattering ideas of her tender⯑neſs for him, which he had ſo eagerly admitted; for he concluded that if her heart had not been ſteeled by indifference, ſhe would, notwithſtand⯑ing her juſt reaſons for reſentment, have been re⯑joiced to give him an opportunity of juſtifying himſelf.

He had reached the houſe where his ſervant was attending with the horſes, without having de⯑termined what to do. To return to town without ſeeing Sophia again, and being aſſured of a recon⯑ciliation, was miſery which he could not ſupport; and he dreaded making a new attempt to ſee her, leſt he ſhould receive more proofs of her inſenſibi⯑lity and diſdain.

In this perplexity the ſight of Mr. Herbert alight⯑ing from a ſtage-coach, was a relief as great as it was unexpected; and in the ſudden joy he felt at meeting with a man whoſe interpoſition could be ſo uſeful to him, he forgot that his former beha⯑viour muſt neceſſarily have given riſe to ſtrong prejudices againſt him, and ran up to embrace the good old man with extreme cordiality.

Mr. Herbert was ſurpriſed, and repaid his civi⯑lities with great coldneſs: upon which the young baronet, in ſome confuſion, deſired to have a few moments converſation with him.

They walked together down a meadow; and Sir Charles, having with a candor and ſincerity be⯑coming the rectitude of his intentions, related all thoſe circumſtances which had concurred to excite [818] his jealouſy, and with that powerful eloquence which paſſion inſpires, expatiated upon the motives of his conduct, a conduct which he acknowledged laid him open to the moſt unfavourable ſuſpicions; Mr. Herbert, convinced of his ſincerity, and full of compaſſion for the torments which his miſtaken jealouſy had cauſed him, undertook to make his peace with Sophia, and aſſured him he would very ſhortly wait upon him in town.

This would not ſatisfy the anxious lover; he declared he would not leave the place till he was aſſured of his pardon; and Mr. Herbert, who cer⯑tainly was not diſpleaſed with his obſtinacy, could with difficulty perſuade him to wait only till the next day for an account of his ſucceſs.

Sir Charles unwillingly took the road to Lon⯑don, and Mr. Herbert haſtened to congratulate his beloved charge upon the agreeable proſpect that was once more opening for her.

Mrs. Darnley had, during this interval, been employed in reproaching poor Sophia for her be⯑haviour to Sir Charles. In the vexation of her heart ſhe exclaimed in the ſevereſt terms againſt her pride and obſtinacy; ſhe told her, ſhe might be aſſured Sir Charles would never attempt to ſee her again; that it was plain he was diſguſted with her bad temper.

She burſt into a paſſion of tears while ſhe enu⯑merated the glorious advantages of that rank and fortune, which, ſhe ſaid, Sophia had thrown from her; and among many motives which ſhe urged ought to have determined her to act otherwiſe, [819] that of being able to out-ſhine her ſiſter was one.

Sophia anſwered only by ſighs: ſhe herſelf was not abſolutely ſatisfied with the unrelenting ſe⯑verity with which ſhe had treated Sir Charles. The more ſhe reflected upon his behaviour, the more ſhe condemned herſelf for not hearing what he had to offer in his own defence. She had once thought it probable that he had been deceived by the report that was ſpread through Mrs. Gib⯑bons's folly of her encouraging the addreſſes of her nephew, and his extravagant conduct might be occaſioned by jealouſy: a fault which a woman is always diſpoſed to pardon in a lover. While ſhe revolved theſe thoughts in her mind, Mrs. Darnley perceived her uneaſineſs, and added to it by new reproaches.

Mr. Herbert's arrival put an end to this tor⯑menting ſcene. Sophia firſt heard his voice, and flew to receive him; Mrs. Darnley followed, and ſeeing her bathed in tears, while the good old man ſaluted her with the tenderneſs of a parent, ſhe told him, with an air half ſerious, half gay, that her daughter loved him ſo well, ſhe had no ten⯑derneſs for any one elſe. She then entered abrubt⯑ly upon the affair of Sir Charles, though ſhe hardly expected Mr. Herbert would join with her in con⯑demning Sophia.

He pleaſingly ſurpriſed her by ſaying, that So⯑phia was to blame; and that he came prepared to chide her for her petulance and obſtinacy.

[820]Mr. Herbert, who ſaw a ſweet impatience in Sophia's looks, explained himſelf immediately, and told her he had met Sir Charles; who had fully removed all the ſuſpicions his ſtrange conduct had occaſioned, and convinced him, that he de⯑ſerved more pity than cenſure.

‘No doubt, purſued he, looking on Sophia with a ſmile, you will be ſurpriſed to hear, young lady, that Sir Charles was witneſs to the interview you had in the meadow behind Mr. Lawſon's houſe, with a certain handſome youth, whom he had heard was his rival, and a favour⯑ed rival too. What were his thoughts, do you imagine, when he ſaw this handſome youth throw himſelf at your feet, and kiſs your hand?’

Mrs. Darnley now looked at her daughter in great aſtoniſhment; and Sophia, who yet did not recollect the circumſtance of her meeting William, was ſo perplexed, ſhe knew not what to ſay.

Mr. Herbert enjoyed her innocent confuſion for a few moments, and then repeated all that Sir Charles had told him, of his jealouſy and rage; his vain attempts to baniſh her from his remembrance; the reſolution he had formed after his converſation with Mr. Howard concerning her; and how hap⯑pily he had been undeceived at Mr. Lawſon's, where he found his ſuppoſed rival was the huſband of her friend.

"Well," interrupted Mrs. Darnley, with great vehemence, ‘I hope you are ſatisfied now, So⯑phia: I hope you will treat Sir Charles with more civility if he comes again.—Mr. Herbert, [821] I beg you will exert your power over her upon this occaſion —I think there is no doubt of Sir Charles's honourable intentions.’

Thus ſhe ran on, while Sophia, who had liſtened to Mr. Herbert's relation with the ſofteſt emotions of pity, tenderneſs, and joy, continued ſilent with her eyes fixed upon the ground.

Mr. Herbert, willing to ſpare her delicacy, told Mrs. Darnley, that relying upon—Sophia's good ſenſe and prudence, he had ventured to aſſure Sir Charles of a more favourable reception, when her prejudices were removed.

‘He will come to-morrow, my child, purſued he, to implore your pardon for all the errors of his paſt conduct, and to offer you his hand. I am perſuaded you will act properly upon this occaſion; and in a marriage ſo far beyond your hopes and expectations, acknowledge the hand of Providence, which thinks fit to reward you, even in this world, for your ſteady adherence to virtue.’

Sophia bowed and bluſhed; her mother, in a rapture, embraced and wiſhed her joy.

Mr. Herbert now endeavoured to change the converſation to ſubjects more indifferent; but Mrs. Darnley, ever thoughtleſs and unſeaſonable, could talk of nothing but Sir Charles, and the gran⯑deur which awaited her daughter. All night her fancy ran upon gilt equipages, rich jewels, magnificent houſes, and a train of ſervants; and ſhe was by much too happy to taſte any repoſe: but Sophia enjoyed the change of her fortune with much more ra⯑tional [822] delight, and among all the ſentiments that aroſe in her mind upon this occaſion, that of gra⯑titude to heaven was the moſt frequent and moſt lively.

Mr. Herbert, who had accepted a lodging in Sophia's cottage, went to Sir Charles the next day, according to his promiſe. He found him waiting for him full of anxious impatience; and hearing from the good old man, that Sophia was diſpoſed to receive him favourably, he embraced him in a tranſport of joy; and his chariot being already or⯑dered, they drove immediately to the village.

Mrs. Darnley welcomed the baronet with a pro⯑fuſion of civilities. Sophia's behaviour was full of dignity and ſoft reſerve.

Sir Charles, after a long converſation with her, obtained her leave to demand her of her mother, to whom he ſhewed the writings, which were al⯑ready all drawn; and by which Sophia had a jointure and pin-money, equal to the ſettlements that had been made upon lady Stanley.

He now ventured to intreat that a ſhort day might be fixed for their marriage. It was with great difficulty, that Sophia was prevailed upon to conſent; but her mother's impetuoſity carri⯑ed all before it, and Mr. Herbert himſelf ſup⯑ported the young baronet's requeſt.

The ceremony was performed by Mr. Lawſon in his own pariſh-church: after which he and his amiable family accompanied the new wedded pair to their country-ſeat, where they paſſed ſeveral days with them.

[823]Mr. Herbert having previouſly acquainted Sir Charles with Harriot's ſituation, the baronet, tho' he deteſted her character, and declared he never could pardon her for the miſeries ſhe had cauſed him; yet was deſirous to have her decently ſet⯑tled, and promiſed to give a thouſand pounds with her in marriage, if a reputable match could be found for her: he even put notes for that ſum into Mr. Herbert's hands, and earneſtly recom⯑mended it to him, to take the affair under his ma⯑nagement.

Harriot, during the time ſhe lived with her mo⯑ther, had been courted by a young tradeſman in tolerable circumſtances; and although ſhe thought it great inſolence for a perſon in buſineſs to pre⯑tend to her, yet, actuated by a true ſpirit of coque⯑try, while ſhe deſpiſed the lover, ſhe took pleaſure in his addreſſes.

This young man ſtill retained ſome tenderneſs for her, and, allured by the proſpect of a fortune, was willing, notwithſtanding any faults in her con⯑duct, to make her his wife.

Mrs. Darnley propoſed him to her, and Mr. Herbert enforced her advice with all the good ſenſe he was matter of. But Harriot received the propoſal with the utmoſt diſdain; inſiſted that ſhe was married as well as her ſiſter; that her rank in life was ſuperior to hers; and added, by way of threat, that her appearance ſhould be ſo likewiſe.

The extraordinary efforts ſhe made to ſupport this boaſt, engaged lord L. in expences that en⯑tirely alienated his affections from her, diſguſted [824] as he long had been, with her inſolence and folly.

His relations concluded a match for him with a young lady of ſuitable rank and fortune; and, after making a ſmall ſettlement on Harriot, he took leave of her for ever.

The vexation ſhe felt from this incident, threw her into a diſtemper very fatal to beauty. The yellow jaundice made ſuch ravage in her face, that ſcarce any of thoſe charms on which ſhe had valued herſelf ſo much, remained. All her anx⯑ious hours were now employed in repairing her complexion, and in vain endeavours to reſtore luſtre to thoſe eyes, ſunk in hollowneſs, and tinctured with the hue of her diſtemper.

Although thus altered, the report of the fortune ſhe was likely to have made her be thought a prize worthy the ambition of a young officer, who had quitted the buſineſs of a peruke maker, in which he was bred, for an enſign's commiſſion, which made him a gentleman at once.

He offered himſelf to Harriot with that aſſu⯑rance of ſucceſs, which the gaiety of his appear⯑ance, and his title of captain, gave him reaſon to expect, with a lady of her turn of mind.

Harriot, charmed with ſo important a conqueſt, ſoon conſented to give him her hand; and Sir Charles Stanley, finding his character not excep⯑tionable, gave her the fortune he had promiſed, to which Sophia generouſly added a thouſand pounds more. The baronet procured her husband a bet⯑ter commiſſion; but deſignedly in one of the [825] colonies, whither he inſiſted upon his wife's ac⯑companying him.

Harriot, in deſpair at being obliged to quit the delights of London, ſoon began to hate her huſ⯑band heartily; and he, entering into her diſpo⯑ſition and character, loſt all eſteem and ten⯑derneſs for her. Her behaviour juſtified the ri⯑gid confinement he kept her in; and while ſhe ſuffered all the reſtraint of jealouſy, ſhe was at the ſame time mortified with the knowledge that pride and not love was the ſource of it.

Mrs. Darnley lived not long after the departure of her favourite daughter; for ſo Harriot always continued to be.

Sophia attended her mother during her long illneſs with the moſt duteous care, and had the ſatisfaction to be aſſured by Mr. Lawſon, who aſ⯑ſiſted her in her preparations for death, that her at⯑tachment to the world, which the affluent circum⯑ſtances to which ſhe was raiſed but too much in⯑creaſed, had at length given way to more pious ſentiments; and ſhe died with the reſignation of a chriſtian.

The ill conduct of her ſiſter, and the death of her mother, proved at firſt ſome interruption to Sophia's happineſs; but theſe domeſtic ſtorms blown over, ſhe began to taſte the good fortune which heaven had beſtowed on her: her chief en⯑joyment of it was to ſhare it with others; and Sir Charles, who adored her, put it amply in her power to indulge the benevolence of her diſpoſi⯑tion.

[826]He took upon himſelf the care of rewarding her friends; he preſented Mr. Lawſon to a very con⯑ſiderable living: he procured Dolly's huſband a genteel and lucrative employment; and married her younger ſiſter to a relation of his own.

Mr. Herbert, who was above receiving any other gratification from Sir Charles than the entire friend⯑ſhip which he ever preſerved for him, had the ſa⯑tisfaction to ſpend moſt of his time with his be⯑loved daughter, as he uſed tenderly to call Sophia, and to behold her as happy as the condition of mor⯑tality admits of.

Sir Charles's tenderneſs for her ſeemed to in⯑creaſe every day; and when Mr. Herbert once took occaſion to compliment him upon the delicacy, the ardor, and the conſtancy of his affection, he replied with a ſmile, ‘You attribute to me a virtue, which, in this caſe, I cannot be ſaid to poſſeſs; had my paſſion for my Sophia been founded only on the charms of her perſon, I might probably e'er now have become a mere faſhionable huſband; but her virtue and wit ſupply her with graces ever varied, and ever new. Thus the ſteadineſs of my affection for her is but a conſtant inconſtancy, which at⯑taches me ſucceſſively to one or other of thoſe ſhining qualities, of which her charming mind is an inexhauſtible ſource.’