LETTER I. Lady Stanley to Mrs. Groſvenor.

THESE, Caroline, are the ſentiments you have ſo often heard me moſt melo⯑diouſly warble forth, indeed with tears in my eyes—but I retract—I now bleſs the hour in which I became a wife, and look back to it with almoſt as much heartfelt joy as on that happy one, in which I be⯑came a widow—You are amazed—but [4]'tis a fact—and ſo great is my friendſhip for you, that in ſpite of my preſent afflic⯑tion I was determined you ſhould receive the joyful intelligence from myſelf before my eyes were ſo totally deſtroyed with weeping, as to put it out of my power—Behold me then a widow, my old ſoul of a huſband comfortably and quietly laid in his grave—can you figure to your⯑ſelf a happier creature? I cannot. Young, handſome, rich—my own miſtreſs, thank heaven! I cannot once more ſay, "the world is all before me—where to chooſe, as well as what to chooſe." Ambition has had its turn. I have ſeen my error; of matrimony too I have had a ſufficient doſe; 'twas a bitter one, but I am am⯑ply rewarded for my fortitude in ſwal⯑lowing it; it has produced the moſt ſalu⯑tary effects; what they are I have told you above, and now I can truly ſay, with the ſpirited Eloiſa,

With theſe unfettered ſentiments have I not reaſon to look forward with tranſport? Believe me, I do, and impatiently long [5]to begin a new courſe of life; what the paſt has been, you pretty well know; but what is to follow? Aye, child, that, take my word for it, ſhall be quite on a different plan. Will you come and be witneſs to it? Say the word, a female companion is not amiſs, if I could meet with one according to my own ideas, and as ſuch, I think you would ſuit me ex⯑tremely well; my late poor dear huſband's apartments are at your ſervice; come and occupy them, if the propoſal meets your approbation—think of what I have ſaid, and in the intervening time I will think of more important matters.

You never beheld mortal ſo raviſhingly handſome as I look in my fables; the very few fellows I have ſeen ſince the glorious day I firſt figured in them, are all expir⯑ing, and ſwear I ought to be ſhut up in mere charity; but I have no ſuch de⯑ſign, believe me—however, I am on the point of bidding the dear creatures adieu for awhile; the town is almoſt deſerted, and I am on the wing for the country; 'tis rather unlucky this unexpected event did not take place the beginning of win⯑ter, but one muſt endeavour to be con⯑tent; [6]'tis better late than never. My villa is a paradiſe, and in a genteel and chearful neighbourhood, and were it not, I have the vanity to believe, my attrac⯑tions would draw it a ſufficient number of admirers, the only ſociety likely to afford me conſolation in my preſent me⯑lancholy ſtate—To you, you ſee, I have freely opened my heart, but do not there⯑fore fancy I have ſo little of the hypo⯑crite in my diſpoſition as to appear to the world in my true colours. No, no, that would never do, though I believe in my conſcience, were every woman to ſpeak her ſentiments as freely as I have done, mine would not be found very ſingular; what think you? But ſince 'tis the cuſ⯑tom to wear a maſk, I ſhall not take off mine 'till others ſet me the example.—Adieu, let me hear from you, and tell me what you think of my propoſal; ac⯑cept it freely, if 'tis agreeable to you, and whether or not, believe me,

LETTER II. Same to the Same.

YOUR congratulations, dear Caro⯑line, found me juſt arrived here, but I had ſo many matters to arrange on my firſt coming, (being now the ſole propri⯑etor) that I could not find time to ac⯑quaint you with it before. I admit your reaſons, for not at preſent accepting my offer, are weighty, but conſeſs I am ſorry you had any to refuſe it, as I find I wiſh for you infinitely more now, when con⯑vinced I cannot have your company, than before; this is a true daſh of the female, you'll allow: but I never aſpired to be any thing better—that is to ſay, than exactly ſuch a female as I am; 'tis true, there are beings who figure under that appellation, who do no great credit to it; mere milk and water compoſitions, who anſwer no earthly purpoſe in life except to fill up the ſpace in which they vegetate, and fifty ſuch have I already been peſtered with ſince I came into the country, for I have received viſits of con⯑dolence [8]from every ſoul twenty miles round, and what is worſe, have been obliged to return them, not to mention being alſo compelled to ſettle my fea⯑tures in ſome meaſure anſwerable to my outward garb; under this reſtraint, you may believe, I made them as ſhort as poſſible, to the no ſmall mortification of ſome, and no leſs joy of others; the firſt claſs, you may gueſs, are males; the latter, their wives, ſiſters, daughters, nieces, &c. theſe naturally felt ſome un⯑pleaſant ſenſations on ſeeing themſelves ſo greatly eclipſed, and trembled for the effects my ſuperior charms might pro⯑duce on their huſbands, lovers, and ſo forth; and indeed not without cauſe, as every unprejudiced ſpectator muſt ac⯑knowledge.

As decency does not permit me at pre⯑ſent, to grace any of their balls, either private or public, I am rather at a loſs for amuſement, but ſhall very ſoon emerge; the moſt rigidly ſcrupulous muſt acquit me of all indecorum, if, at the expiration of ſix tedious months, I ven⯑ture to appear amongſt them; and thank my ſtars four of the ſix are over—in the mean while, I paſs much of my time on [9]horſe-back, conſcious no woman ever ex⯑celled me in the accompliſhment of rid⯑ing, or looked half ſo captivating in a habit; black, of all others too, by far the moſt becoming; my haunts are diſ⯑covered, though I affect the moſt retired ſpots, and generally meet half the fel⯑lows in the neighbourhood prancing there, in hopes to get a peep at the enchanting widow; if a bow, or how do ye, ſhould be graciouſly given to their peep, they look ſo delighted, ſo elate, that it would charm you to ſee them. I have not yet beheld the happy man who ſtands the ſmalleſt chance of being honoured, with my more particular notice, but flatter myſelf the time is not far diſtant, as I hear we are ſoon to have a regiment of dragoons quartered in this part of the country; and as I have a partiality for a red coat, ſhall look out amongſt them for an object on whom to beſtow my ſmiles; it will be hard if, out of the whole corps, I cannot find one worthy that enviable diſtinction, or who may at leaſt ſerve to flirt with, and amuſe me during the ſum⯑mer. That over, my dear Caroline, away I fly on the wings of pleaſing expetation, to the ſeat of dear delight, London, where [10]I need not be one moment at a loſs; when, there, perhaps, you will comply with my former propoſal; if poſſible, I hope you will.

LETTER III. The Same to the Same.

I TOLD you a regiment was expected; they are arrived; but, my dear Caro⯑line, how ſhall I deſcribe to you, with juſtice, the charms of their bewitching commander? The elegant, the enchant⯑ing, and I feel, I may add, the irreſiſtible Lord Sommerville—yes, irreſiſtible, I repeat, for I have a ſtrong preſentiment, he cannot aſk any favour I ſhall have either fortitude or inclination to deny him; nay, ſhould he even talk of matrimony, horrid as the ſubject would ſound to me from any other, I vow, I think I could liſten to him with pleaſure; ſurely that is ſaying enough.

[11]I happened to be taking my uſual air⯑ing on horſeback the morning my Lord made his firſt appearance at the head of his regiment, and met them in a road near the entrance of the town, which being rather narrow, I was obliged to ſtop my horſe and place myſelf cloſe to the ſide, that they might paſs without in⯑commoding me: my Roſinante had not been accuſtomed to things of this nature, and was a good deal ſtartled at the drums, muſic, colours, &c. This, however, gave me an opportunity to ſhew my ſkill in horſemanſhip, but great as it is, I found it no eaſy matter to prevent his taking a leap with me over the hedge, in order to eſcape from a ſcene that did not de⯑light him quite ſo much as his miſtreſs: I kept my ſeat, however, pretty well, in ſpite of his prancing, for ſome time, but juſt as the blooming Sommerville appeared, whether ſtruck with his ſuperior attrac⯑tions, or thoſe of the beautiful creature he rode, but certain it is, he gave a ſud⯑den ſpring, and I being off my guard was in an inſtant thrown proſtrate at the feet of my hero. Since he was to play me this trick, he certainly choſe the moment moſt a-propos. I need not tell you, I pre⯑ſume, [12]I found myſelf inſtantaneouſly preſſed to the boſom of the gallant, the enchanting Sommerville: half a hun⯑dred of the dear creatures now left their ranks and flew to offer me their aſſiſtance, ſaid a thouſand gallant things of courſe; but I had no eyes, no ears for any except my charming deliverer, who appeared not a little delighted, at being the fortunate he, who had firſt flown to my relief.

It is now time to tell you, I received no other injury than the loſs of my heart; and as I wiſhed only for a proper object to beſtow it on, I bleſſed the accident which had thus procured me one ſo per⯑fectly to my taſte. Being at length re⯑placed on my ſaddle, I would have bid him adieu, after expreſſing my gratitude, and ſo forth; but this his Lordſhip would by no means allow; he inſiſted on my giving him permiſſion to ſee me ſafe home. Could I, Caroline, refuſe? Hav⯑ing ordered the regiment to halt, away we rode in full review, all eyes fixed upon us, and not a few conjectures form⯑ed, I preſume, by thoſe we left behind.

It was during the courſe of this delight⯑ful buſtle, I happily learned the name and rank of my conqueror, though had he [13]been the loweſt ſubaltern of the corps, his charms would have produced no leſs effect; and greater is impoſſible, for I ab⯑ſolutely adore him, and ſo would you, could you get one ſingle glance of his en⯑chanting figure; for it is not merely the fineſt face in the world, it is his perſon—his manners—his language, the expreſ⯑ſion in his eyes, in ſhort it is Sommervile altogether.

Well—and pray, you impertinently aſk, does my Lord appear as ſenſible of your Ladyſhip's charms as you are avow⯑edly of his? Impertinently, I ſay,—for what can be more ſo than to doubt it? Have I not already told you, he poſſeſſes every poſſible perfection? Of courſe taſte to make proper diſtinctions muſt be of the number.—Yes yes, my dear I have the vanity to believe our paſſion is mu⯑tual—we are already on the moſt delight⯑ful footing, for you are not to imagine this is an affair of yeſterday; no, my good friend, my time and thoughts were for the firſt ten days too happily employ⯑ed to think of writing, nor would you now have been thus favoured had he not been abſent; pray now, you cry, is this the firſt moment he has left you then, [14]ſince the adventure happened?—Why no, not abſolutely—though it is pretty nearly the caſe—it would delight you could you be a witneſs to the envy this affair has given birth to in every female breaſt in the country—No doubt a daſh of ſcandal to accompany it, for they ge⯑nerally are of the ſame party; but you know me too well to believe this will ſit very heavy on my heart; let the dear creatures vent their ſpleen in any way moſt likely to relieve their gentle boſoms, with all my ſoul. My Sommerville and I look down upon them with eyes of pity from the ſummit of our felicity;—do not miſtake me, however, Caroline—Matters are not yet quite ſo far arranged between us as you may probably take it into your head to fancy—my ſentiments have un⯑dergone a total revolution ſince I became acquainted with him. Matrimony, of which I had ſo juſtly formed ſuch hor⯑rid ideas, does not, when I think of my Sommerville in character of a huſband, ſhock me quite ſo much as it formerly did—I begin to fancy it might be bearable with him. I have made many very ſe⯑rious reflections on the ſubject; the re⯑ſult is—I know not exactly—but, in [15]fine, he muſt be mine one way or other. So farewell,

LETTER IV. Lord Sommerville to Charles Dalton, Eſq.

YOU have not forgot, I preſume, Charles, how piouſly I curſed my ſtars for being compelled to join my regiment, at the moment I hoped to have brought matters to bear in a certain affaire de coeur, which for ſome time wholly engroſſed me—how far my hopes were well founded remains to be proved. Vanity ſays well—but be that as it will, 'tis no longer in my power to proceed in it—here I am diſtant fifty long miles from the fair ob⯑ject of my purſuit, ſo ſhe is ſafe for the preſent; and I, in the mean time, muſt endeavour to conſole myſelf the beſt way I can. Nature has formed me of a moſt happy diſpoſition, and ſuch as every ſol⯑dier [16]ought to be compoſed of, ſince our motions are ſo very uncertain.

You know in what humour I drank my farewell bottle with you at Brookes's; in pretty much the ſame I began my march to theſe quarters; nor would it have been much improved yet, I believe, but for an adventure which I am now going to in⯑form you of in few words, for I hate long⯑winded ſtories, nor am I very good at the buſineſs.

We had arrived within a ſmall ſpace of our deſtined quarters, and were marching to drums beating, colours flying, muſic playing, &c. in order to make our firſt appearance with proper eclat, when, be⯑hold, in a narrow lane, through which we were obliged to paſs, a fair creature on horſe-back, attended by a couple of ſer⯑vants in mourning, (ſhe too in a habit of the ſame ſable hue, which ſet off her charms to the higheſt advantage,) met us as we were flouriſhing along—ſhe ſtop⯑ped her horſe, fearing, perhaps, he might be a little unruly; and ſo it happened, for juſt as I came up, ſhe could no longer govern him, he ſtarted, ſhe fell, and I, Charles, had the good fortune to quit mine time enough to catch her in my [17]arms, almoſt before ſhe reached the ground—on a nearer view I was ſtruck motionleſs by her charms; ſuch a face, ſuch an elegance of perſon, and ſuch a pair of wicked ſparkling eyes, mine never before encountered—at that moment I as much forgot Maria as if no ſuch dear creature exiſted; the betwitching Lady Stanley (for that is the title of my new flame) has moſt effectually done her bu⯑ſineſs and mine too—ſhe has nothing far⯑ther to fear from my perſecution, as ſhe uſed to call it, Charles. The leſs cruel Arabella, ſhall, nay, has driven her image from my breaſt, and has ſupplied its place by her own.

You may poſſibly have ſeen this lady, heard of her you certainly muſt, ſince her marriage with that old dotard Lord Stan⯑ley made ſo much noiſe, that even I heard of it though at that time in America—She was the daughter of a citizen, who, for the ſake of having a Lord for his ſon-in-Law, gave her and twenty-thouſand pounds to a fellow old enough to be her grandfather; ſhe had been bleſſed with a modern education, which accounts for her accepting ſuch a huſband. About ſix months ago ſhe had the pleaſure of ſee⯑ing [18]him laid in his coffin, but not till he had ſettled on her two thouſand a-year jointure—her grief is not ſo violent but it will admit of conſolation, nor if I miſ⯑take not, her ideas of virtue ſo rigid as to make a fellow ſhoot himſelf that may happen to be enamoured of her; this may ſuffice to give you an idea of her charac⯑ter, in caſe you ſhould chance to be a ſtranger to it, which I can hardly ſup⯑poſe; but of her beauty, if you have ne⯑ver ſeen her, I can give you none, ſince 'tis not in the power of language to do it juſtice.

Now, Charles, confeſs I have been a fortunate fellow, for you will not, I hope, be ſo impertinent as to fancy I can poſſi⯑bly fail to render myſelf agreeable to her.—Thus, inſtead of lounging about, at a loſs in what manner to kill the time, while compelled to remain here, I expect, and not without reaſon, to paſs every hour of it in the higheſt felicity; for, as I ſaid before, my charmer knows too much of life to aſſume unneceſſary airs of cruelty, or I am greatly deceived in the conjectures I have formed of her; a few I expect, nay, wiſh to meet with, as a conqueſt too eaſily gained would render [19]the buſineſs inſipid, enchanting as ſhe is. Farewell. I am on the wing to pay my devoirs; her ſeat is but half an hour's ride from hence, and ſhe expects me.

LETTER V. Lady Stanley to Mrs. Groſvenor.

HE loves me, Caroline! Yes, the ado⯑rable Sommerville loves me! He has de⯑clared his paſſion in terms ſo perſuaſive that I can no longer doubt his ſincerity—what will become of all my vows againſt matrimony, ſhould he tempt me to re⯑ſign my liberty a ſecond time? Ah! I fear they will avail me little when ſet in com⯑petition with his inſinuating eloquence; yet I have not ſo far forgot what I ſuf⯑fered while in bondage, as to think of it without horror—for

[20]Is it not ſo, Caroline. Shew me the wife, at leaſt in the beau monde, who is not look⯑ed upon with indifference by her huſband after the firſt month or two—and could I exiſt under ſuch a diſtreſſing circum⯑ſtance from the divine Sommerville?—No, Caroline—no—even my pride would not ſupport me under it.

In anſwer to your's, what is the cen⯑ſure of the world to me? which you endeavour to paint in ſuch flaming colours; who does it ſpare? None but the old and ugly, believe me; nay, did it ſpare me? Was I not as much cenſured for marrying as I did, as I can be for—for—you underſtand me, child—vain would be the attempt to pleaſe every one, take my word for it, and that being the caſe, the wiſeft thing we can do, I think, is to pleaſe ourſelves; and ſo, my dear, do not be ſhocked if you ſhould hear of a little flirtation being carried on between me and my Adonis. I make no more vows, however, obſerve that—If nothing but the ſober ſtate will ſerve his turn, why, I muſt e'en try what I can do to make him eaſy.

Laſt Monday, for the firſt time, at my Lord's requeſt, I made my appearance at [21]the aſſembly—I could not, with propriety, dance quite ſo ſoon, nor would I if I could, as my vanity was infinitely more gratified in having him and half the pretty fellows in the room attached to me the whole evening, to the unſpeakable mortification of the miſſes who languiſhed in vain for partners. 'Twas delightful beyond ex⯑preſſion, to ſee with what envious eyes they gazed upon me, at the ſame time af⯑fecting to put on airs of indifference and contempt; the truth is, I believe, his con⯑ſtant attendance at my villa has already ſet the ſilly ſouls a talking—my huſband dead only a few months, and I already on ſo intimate a footing with a gay young fel⯑low; fie upon it!—'tis a fine text for the good ſouls, and I'll be ſworn has been twiſted and turned a thouſand different ways by every female in the country—'tis ever ſo in theſe country places, and really, one muſt pardon it, in conſideration of their being often at a loſs for converſa⯑tion—no wonder they make the moſt of a ſubject when they happen to find one, and that too, ſo perfectly ſuited to their taſte. I am now going to take an airing with him on horſe-back, ſo muſt bid you adieu, as I expect him every moment, [22]and merely took up my pen to kill the time till he arrives, and to tell you that I am your perfectly happy,

LETTER VI. Miſs Herbert to Miſs Fermer.

MY aunt has carried her point in ſpite of all oppoſition, Sophia, and I am actu⯑ally at this moment writing to you in my old apartment in her manſion; whether I ſhall find myſelf much happier here, than at home, is a point I am, by no means, clear in, for though a good wo⯑man, and very fond of me, ſhe has her humours as well as ſome other folks, but this, at leaſt, ſhe has promiſed, that I ſhall ſuffer no farther perſecution from the wretch (as ſhe calls him) to whom my dear father has been prevailed upon, for the ſake of a quiet life, to promiſe my hand—this aſſurance, ſo neceſſary to my peace, will enable me to bear without a murmur [23]all her whims, however ridiculous they may ſometimes prove; I am, therefore, highly delighted with the change in my ſituation, and ſhould be ſtill more ſo were I not by it ſo far removed from you, to whoſe ſociety I have been ſo long ac⯑cuſtomed; but to expect to paſs through life without a few diſappointments would be expecting more than mortals are enti⯑tled to; young as I am, I think I may with truth ſay, I have already had pretty evident proofs of it.

Never rage equl'd my mother's. Hea⯑vens! that ever I ſhould be compelled to give that appellation to a being ſo totally unworthy of it, ſo very unlike her amia⯑ble predeceſſor. Ah! Sophia, what a revo⯑lution has taken place in our once happy family, ſince ſhe aſſumed the reins of government; but as I was ſaying, we carried our point in ſpite of all her elo⯑quence—my father is conſcious I never could be happy with the creature in whoſe cauſe ſhe ſo warmly intereſts her⯑ſelf; he knows it well, yet ſuch is the aſcendancy ſhe has gained over him, he had not courage to declare his ſentiments.—My aunt, whoſe pride was ſhocked at the idea of ſuch an alliance, and who was [24]glad of an opportunity to mortify a wo⯑man ſhe moſt cordially deſpiſes, ſpoke her's, with all imaginable freedom and ſeverity, and, declared, rather than ſee her niece married to ſuch a low bred! inſignificant! illiterate fellow! were he ten times richer than he is, ſhe would with pleaſure follow her to her grave. What! ſhould her ſiſter's daughter, who might boaſt of having ſome of the nobleſt blood in the kingdom in her veins, de⯑baſe herſelf by an union with an upſtart! a muſhroom! who could not trace his pedigree even to his grandfather! For⯑bid it pride!—No, madam, cried ſhe, (animated by the glorious ſubject, of all others moſt dear to her) no, I will take care her daughter ſhall never bring ſuch a diſgrace upon our family. Though Mr. Herbert has been weak enough to form ſo mean a connection, let your nephew look out amongſt his equals for a wife; there he may find numbers who will pay that reſpect to his wealth which he is ſo ambitious to obtain; but aſſure him from me, people of family know better on whom to beſtow it.

Happily for me, Sophia, my poor fa⯑ther was not preſent during the dialogue, [25]of which the above is a part; I ſhould have ſat in miſery if he had; but as he was not, I own I enjoyed it exceedingly. To repeat all that paſſed is impoſſible. Suffice it to ſay, I am actually here, and depend ſo much on my aunt's pride and ſpirit, that I truſt I have nothing farther to apprehend from my ignoble lover. Now let me tell you, my dear Sophia, what changes have happened amongſt my old friends here ſince I left them; ſo many, indeed, that thought it is but two years, I find very few of my com⯑panions remaining; ſome married, ſome dead, and others removed to London; of the latter are the two amiable Fitzher⯑berts; they have bid adieu to this part of the world, and are both going to be mar⯑ried. The gentle Maria Danby is no more; this news, though it grieved, did not ſurprize me; I feared I had taken a laſt leave of the dear girl when I was ſent for home. The lively Miſs Maſon has at laſt given her fair hand to Mr. Mountague, and is as gay, and and as giddy, as if no ſuch ſober event had taken place; ſhe called upon me the moment ſhe heard of my arrival. Theſe I think, Sophia, are all the names you are ac⯑quainted [26]with. As Mrs. Mountague was my firſt viſitor, I learned all the above particulars from her, with a thouſand diverting anecdotes of many others, for nothing eſcapes her obſervation. The following, therefore, you will readily believe could not eaſily do ſo.

But this is not all I have to tell you, Emily, cried ſhe, after having anſwered all my queſtions; we have got a new neighbour, you muſt know, to ſupply the loſs of thoſe who have forſaken us; and ſuch a flirt—a lady of quality, child, juſt imported from London, with all the airs and graces of a town bred belle. You remember, I preſume, that old ſould of a lord, (whoſe ſeat is juſt by, and which you and I uſed ſo often to wiſh in our poſſeſſion)—perfectly well, my dear; you cannot then have forgot that he, like a wiſe man, married a miſs; (I forget her name) about two years and a half ago.—Well, and pray what next? has he brought her down here to ſet example to our country damſels?—Lord child! why he is dead! ſhe is a widow of ſix months ſtanding! and, if I miſtake not, has already made choice of a ſecond huſband. We are all ready to run diſ⯑tracted [27]here you muſt know, for ſhe has, by a ſingle glance, of her wicked eyes, robbed us of the moſt elegant fellow that ever figured amongſt us. Well pray, my good friend, what pretenſions have you to—? Pho, pho, interrupt⯑ing me, I gueſs what you are going to ſay, my dear—I am married—very true, but is that a reaſon why I ſhould not rail at this impertinent monopolizer as well as others?—She is very handſome then, I ſuppoſe? O intolerably ſo! replied my friend. There is poſitively no in⯑during it—then ſo conceited, ſo horidly conſcious of her charms. So—ſo—in ſhort ſo provokingly inſolent, that we are all in a rage, and wiſh for nothing ſo much as to ſee her fairly eclipſed by ſome ſuperior beauty; and, thank my ſtars, I no longer deſpair of it—you—yes even you, my dear Emily, ſhall effectu⯑ally do her buſineſs we have all tried it, but to no purpoſe, that glorious at⯑chievement is reſerved for you.

Really you are wonderfully kind, Char⯑lotte, in wiſhing to bring me into ſuch a dilemma; what have I not to dread ſhould I rob the fair widow of an admirer ſo highly favoured? No, no, I will have no⯑thing [28]to do in the affair, ſo pray ſettle it the beſt way you can without me, not to mention my doubt of ſucceſs after the ac⯑count you have given me of her attrac⯑tions.

O! you are wonderfully humble, my dear, at leaſt you would endeavour to perſuade me ſo, but I will diſappoint you, no compliments ſhall you get from me, I promiſe you, though you have given me ſo fine an opportunity. I leave that to Lord Sommerville—A Lord! ſay you, nay then I muſt poſitively try what can be done; a new face is ſomething in my fa⯑vour; aye, Emily, and ſuch a face as your's too, I'll take any bet, the firſt glance of thoſe ſoft blue eyes ſhall put the widow's black ones quite out of faſhion. So pray exhibit as ſoon as poſ⯑ſible: I die to ſee the effect they will infallibly produce.

But where am I to engage in this ardu⯑ous undertaking? How am I to get a ſight of him? Or rather how is this prodigy of a man to get a ſight of me?

Where? why at the aſſembly to be ſure, for there they never fail to make their appearance; but as her Ladyſhip's recent ſtate of widowhood does not per⯑mit [29]her to dance, they ſit as ſpectators, flirting at no ſmall rate, ſcarce deigning to take the leaſt notice of any of the com⯑pany; and finding this is to be the caſe, the company now, by one conſent, take as little of them: the truth is, we begin to ſuſpect—O fie, Charlotte!—Nay, child, wait till you hear others on the ſubject, I have been moderate.—Remem⯑ber to put on all your airs and graces next Monday; I will chaperon you ſhould your aunt decline going.—Saying this ſhe took her leave.

Now, my dear Sophia, I muſt bid you alſo adieu, having ſpun out my letter to the extent of my paper. Mrs Mountague has impoſed a pretty kind of taſk upon me, it muſt be confeſſed; I cannot ſay I have quite ſo great a ſhare of vanity, notwithſtanding her flattery, as to hope for ſucceſs; however I will try what can be done to revenge the cauſe of our ne⯑glected belles. Believe me ever,

LETTER VII. Same to the Same.

YOU are, no doubt, Sophia, deſirous to hear what ſucceſs I have had in my intended conqueſt; but I would ad⯑viſe you to ſuſpend your impatience, as I am ſorry to inform you I have not yet ſeen this formidable beau.

On mentioning to my aunt, Mrs. Moun⯑tague's requeſt that I ſhould accompany her to the next aſſembly, ſhe not only declined going herſelf, but begged I would not think of it till ſhe could in⯑troduce me in a proper manner; after that ſhe ſhould have no objection to my going with any of my friends.

I own I was a little chagrined at being thus prevented, yet upon the whole I believe ſhe was right. She piques herſelf, you know, upon acting in all things with the exacteſt propriety.

The above point being ſettled, my aunt told me ſhe intended to wait upon Lady Stanley, as ſhe heard ſhe was come to make ſome ſtay in the country.—The hint Charlotte had given me, made me [31]heſitate in my aſſent to her propoſal, yet how could I venture to object on ſo ſlight a foundation? And if I had, I fear the good Lady's prejudice, in favour of thoſe happy mortals dignified with a title, would have got the better of all I could ſay. She obſerved, however, I did not ſo rea⯑dily anſwer her as ſhe expected, it ſeems, and aſked why I pauſed?—I was then obliged to ſay ſomething, and therefore replied, Mrs. Mountague had been talking to me about her, and ſeemed to think her rather gay for one who had ſo lately loſt her huſband.

So you very wiſely concluded Mrs. Mountague a better judge of decorum than I am. Did you, Emily? She forgets, child, that ſome grains of allowance are due to perſons of her Ladyſhip's rank; people of quality have a manner peculiar to themſelves, which thoſe who are not accuſtomed, as I have been, to aſſociate with them, do not comprehend. I ſhall moſt aſſuredly viſit her; and have too much regard for you, not to take that op⯑portunity of introducing you, as from ſuch an example you cannot fail to im⯑prove yourſelf in a thouſand things, which, though trifling perhaps in themſelves, are [32]yet eſſentially neceſſary to render a woman perfectly well bred; and which there is no acquiring, except by keeping com⯑pany with thoſe of a certain rank.

This, Sophia, was ſo like my aunt, that I could hardly keep my gravity; however ſhe luckily did not perceive my looks, and it was ſettled that we were to pay our reſpects to Lady Stanley the next day. We accordingly did ſo, but had not the felicity of finding her Ladyſhip at home, being told ſhe was gone to take an airing.—I own I was diſappointed, as my curioſity was greatly excited; the fol⯑lowing morning our viſit was returned; but alas! we were then from home alſo.

Thus all things remain juſt as they were when I wrote laſt, except that we have taken the preliminary ſteps towards mak⯑ing an acquaintance with this beauteous widow, whoſe charms have cauſed ſuch violent emotions amongſt us. I ought not indeed to include myſelf, ſince I cannot ſay I am conſcious of any at preſent. How it may be when I have ſeen her and her adorer, I know not; in the interim, I am buſily employed in making prepara⯑tions for the aſſembly, and that, let me tell you, is now an affair of no ſmall im⯑portance, [33]ſeeing I am deputed to ſo great an undertaking as the conqueſt of a Lord.

Were I to let my aunt into the grand ſecret, I am perſuaded ſhe would, with joy, play the part of my Abigal herſelf, on the occaſion, could ſhe thereby hope to facilitate ſo glorious an enterpriſe. How would ſhe exult! how triumph! if ſhe could by my means, or indeed any other, add another twig of quality to her genealogical tree.—Farewell, dear So⯑phia; in my next I hope to give a more particular account than I can do at pre⯑ſet. In the mean time, believe me ever,

LETTER VIII. Same to the Same.

THE important day is over, Sophia, and I have ſeen them.—But I will, for once, endeavour to be circumſtantially minute, as I know it will pleaſe you better than to ſkim the ſurface over as I gene⯑rally do.

[34]Well, my dear—I dreſſed, and will freely own, paid rather more attention than uſual to the labours of my toilet: this labour was not loſt, for if I might truſt my glaſs I really looked more than bare⯑ly tolerable.

At the hour appointed, Mrs. Mounta⯑gue and her handſome huſband called upon us, for ſhe had agreed to go with us, though my aunt was to be of the party—The moment ſhe ſaw me, ah, the poor widow, cried ſhe, alas! thy tri⯑umph is near an end.—Why, Emily, for heaven's ſake what kind fairy has preſided at your toilet to day? In my life I never ſaw you half ſo lovely, what ſay you Mountague, don't you think a certain event is on the eve of taking place? I know not, Charlotte, replied he, what event you particularly allude to, but this I will venture to propheſy, there will be many a wounded heart ſent home this evening from the aſſembly.—Aye that there will, cried ſhe, both male and fe⯑male, or I am much miſtaken; but let us be going, we are late enough.

Away we drove, the room was already crowded: Mr. Mountague led my aunt to a feat. Sir Charles Neville, whom we [35]met at the door, took Charlotte's hand, and a friend of his, a Mr. Aſton, preſented me his, and we followed them.—'Twould be nothing, Sophia, were I not to add, all eyes were fixed upon us as we ſailed up the room; this you muſt take for granted, or all my trouble in decorating myſelf muſt have been to very little pur⯑poſe.

I was impatient, you may believe, to diſcover the captivating widow, and no leſs to have a peep at her charming cap⯑tive; in this I was inſtantly gratified, as they ſat exactly oppofite to us; Charlotte was going to point them out to me, when I ſaid in a half whiſper, you may ſave yourſelf that trouble, I cannot be miſta⯑ken; in my life I never ſaw ſo ſtriking a figure—as which? As her Ladyſhip, to be ſure, replied I—you have quite over⯑looked her impertinent lover then, Emi⯑ly?—Not abſolutely; but one at a time if you pleaſe; we will think of him by and by.

While this paſſed, (for it is a farce to deny it) I obſerved his Lordſhip's eyes frequently ſtrayed to where we ſat; or, muſt I be vain enough to ſay? they were fixed upon me; her ladyſhip too favour⯑ed [36]me with ſome very ſcrutinizing glan⯑ces. My aunt now being informed who ſhe was, deſired the maſter of the cere⯑monies to introduce us to Lady Stanley; this done, the uſual compliments of being ſorry we had not the honour of meet⯑ing her Ladyſhip at home, &c. &c. paſ⯑ſed on all ſides, and we again took our ſeats. I confeſs I found her manner and addreſs rather cold, and a little haughty. My aunt, however, was very well ſatiſ⯑fied, and declared her quite the woman of quality.

Minuets were now going to begin; we obſerved Lord Sommerville preſs Lady Stanley to walk one with him; ſhe ap⯑peared ſurpriſed at his importunity, as if ſhe had ſaid, why this whim to night, when you know I never do? This was the interpretation my friend and I put upon it; be that as it will, ſhe declined his invitation, but judge of her emotions, for believe me, Sophia, they were abun⯑dantly viſible, when, on her Ladyſhip's refuſing, he inſtantly came up to me, and begged I would do him that honour. She appeared ſhocked to death; and really if ſhe had made a point of aving him wholly to herſelf, not without reaſon, ſince [37]it ſeems this was the firſt inſtance in which he had preſumed to ſwerve from his allegiance.

I certainly had no pretence to follow her Ladyſhip's example, as I was not obliged to know that by complying with a re⯑queſt ſo natural, I planted daggers in her gentle boſom. I gave him my hand then, not, I do aſſure you, with an air of tri⯑umph, but with as much eaſe and indif⯑ference as I ſhould have given it to any other man in the room.

How we performed will no doubt be recorded in the annals of the aſſembly, ſo to their authority I ſhall leave you for in⯑formation; I may now truly affirm every eye was intently fixed upon us, except when turned to obſerve what effect this wonderful event produced on his morti⯑fied fair one. I durſt not, for my life, meet thoſe of my friend Mrs. Mountague, leaſt her looks ſhould have diſconcerted mine, for well did I know they would be archly expreſſive of her triumph.

By the time we had finiſhed our mi⯑nuet, her Ladyſhip had pretty well reco⯑vered from the ſhock her vanity had re⯑ceived, and my Lord having led me to my ſeat, not without a gentle preſſure, for [38]that Sophia would have been a ſoliciſm in gallantry of which I preſume he is in⯑capable; he found her, on his return, flirting moſt unmercifully with one of his brother red coats; her hoop, flung ſo gracefully over him, one could barely diſ⯑cover the beau's head from under it; and ſo intent were they on what they were ſaying, that it was ſome time before they obſerved his Lordſhip had joined them, or at leaſt choſe to obſerve it; how, or whether he made his peace, I know not; I rather doubt not, as in ſpite of her La⯑dyſhip's uncommon flow of ſpirits, we could perceive ſymptoms of their being a little forced; as for him, though he did not leave her ſide during the reſt of the evening, I am ſorry to ſay I caught his eyes wandering now and then, and by fre⯑quent taps ſhe gave him with her fan, it appeared ſhe found him ſomewhat remiſs in his attentions.

The room was ſo much crowded that I was averſe from joining in the country dances, but was at length prevailed upon to go down one with Mr. Aſton, who is a very handſome and very pleaſing young man; indeed the ladies in general ſpeak of him in warmer terms, and perhaps he [39]deſerves it; but you know I had other things in view.

Now, my dear, I leave you to draw what inference you think proper from the im⯑portant particulars above recited.—Have I, or have I not, fulfilled my friend Mrs. Mountague's propheſy? For my part I pretend not to judge. That her Lady⯑ſhip was under ſome unpleaſant apprehen⯑ſions, there is no denying, but whether ſhe had cauſe for them is another affair; they ſerved however to divert Charlotte, and her friend Emily, as well as if ever ſo well founded; nay, ſhe inſiſts upon it they were ſo, and is poſitive her reign is drawing to a concluſion.

You will naturally expect I ſhould tell you what is my opinion of the hero who has made ſo capital a figure in my epiſtle.—Why, really, my dear, I have ſcarcely formed any; that he is uncommonly hand⯑ſome is moſt certain;—that he dances gracefully, preſſes one's hand with a ten⯑derneſs, an elegance of manner quite out of the common run, is no leſs ſo—his eyes, his teeth, his hair, are fine beyond expreſſion I muſt acknowledge, in ſhort, he is, "take him for all in all," the kind of man one would not wiſh to be robbed [40]of. Can I then blame her Ladyſhip's fears?—Were he as tenderly attached to me as it ſeems he is to her, I preſume—but we will preſume no farther.—She is much too handſome to be ſo eaſily rival⯑led. No, no, Sophia, take my word for it, ſhe knows full well how to preſerve the conqueſt ſhe has gained, but ſo much for badinage.

My aunt, whoſe paſſion for whiſt is as great as ever, is to have a party in a few days. Lady Stanley will not fail to have a card of invitation you may be ſure.—My Lord, I imagine, has no chance for that, as he has not yet been introduced; and, we do nothing contrary to the ſtrict⯑eſt rules of etiquette; but as we have a violent predilection in favour of quality, 'tis poſſible ſhe will contrive to get it done before the day arrives.—I, therefore, need not give myſelf any trouble, ſuppoſ⯑ing I was anxious about the matter, which I by no means grant.

Farewell, dear Sophia, believe me I am ſufficiently happy in being relieved for the preſent from the teazing importuni⯑ties of that odious wretch Fitzpatrick. Were I but certain I ſhould be no more tormented on his account, Lady [41]Stanley ſhould have my free conſent to convert her ſo much envied lover into a huſband, whenever ſhe pleaſed. Witneſs my hand,

LETTER IX. Lady Stanley to Mrs. Groſvenor.

WOULD you believe it, Caroline, I have had a fracas with Sommerville—'twas a fooliſh affair, and certainly un⯑worthy my notice; but one is not always on one's guard againſt thoſe kind of weak⯑neſſes.—Will you credit me when I tell you, I was the other night ſeized with ſo unaccountable a fit of humility, as to ex⯑perience ſomething very like ſymptoms of jealouſy! True as you are alive—I now bluſh while I write it, and wonder at my own folly. Not but he behaved in a moſt ridiculous manner, as you will ſay, and I have ſince made him confeſs.

[42]You muſt know there is a Mrs. Gren⯑ville, who has a houſe in this neighbour⯑hood; ſhe was abſent when I firſt came, but returned about ten days ſince, and brought with her a niece, the daughter of her ſiſter, who it ſeems died a few years ago; but why the deuce ſhould I take the trouble to give you their ſtupid hiſtory?—This niece, I'll warrant ye, is looked upon as a beauty, and ſo was of courſe dreſſed out as if for conqueſt, and introduced at the aſſembly laſt Monday. I ſhould tell you, however, they had leſt their names at my door ſome time before.

I happened to be at the rooms when Miſs made her firſt appearance. Fellows are ſo volatile, you know, Caroline, any thing new, no matter what, attracts their ſilly notice. Not but the girl is handſome enough; that is, ſhe is tall and fair, and really at a diſtance looks very tolerable; in ſhort, ſhe no ſooner marched up the room, than I heard a general buz of who is ſhe? Who can it be? and ſuch kind of vulgar country-like exclamations. I now turned my eyes, and found this prodigy ſuch as I have deſcribed her.—She was accompanied by a Mrs. Mountague, who is alſo reckoned a beauty, (we have a pro⯑fuſion [43]of ſuch beauties here, you muſt know) and who affects to give herſelf as many airs as if ſhe really was one.

Well—up they came to me, and made ſome aukward ſpeeches about not being at home, when I did them the honour to return their viſit, and ſuch kind of com⯑mon place chat; to which you may be⯑lieve I paid very little attention.

I own I rather wondered Sommerville made no remarks when they went back to their ſeats, as ſhe certainly is not the ſort of girl to be wholly overlooked; but I ſoon found he had not been ſtupid enough for that neither; for no ſooner were the minutes going to begin, than he was viſi⯑bly in the fidgets. I ſaw plainly ſhe had caught his obſervation, and that he died to exhibit his fine perſon with her.—I enjoyed his perplexity, though not a lit⯑tle chagrined, I confeſs, to find ſhe had made ſuch an impreſſion on the ſly wretch.—But you will ſcarce believe me when I tell you, the artifice he had recourſe to, in order to gratify the whim that had taken poſſeſſion of him.

Nothing would ſerve him truly, but I muſt oblige him by dancing a minuet with him.—The firſt time, obſerve, he [44]had requeſted ſuch a favour, knowing I had made a point of not doing it—nor had he till then looked upon it as any mortification; but now he began to think me much to blame to appear ſo ſingular. Why not do as others did? He longed to have me ſhew them what a minuet ought to be, and a profuſion of ſuch nonſenſe.

Never, Caroline, had he appeared to me in ſo truly ridiculous a light. I how⯑ever refuſed, and that too with a counte⯑nance which pretty plainly expreſſed my ſentiments.—He affected not to obſerve it; but with a forced laugh, cried, How can you, my dear creature, be thus per⯑verſe? How can you, when you ſee the dancing fit ſo ſtrong upon me, thus re⯑fuſe the honour of this dear hand? But I will be revenged; in the mean time I will go and figure with that new comer, whoſe looks tell me ſhe would be horribly diſappointed, after all the pains ſhe has taken to decorate herſelf, if ſhe ſhould not get an opportunity to diſplay her finery to advantage.

Away he flew, not daring to wait for my reply; well knowing, I was not ſo eaſily to be impoſed upon, as he affected to believe. What would I not have given [45]that ſhe had been engaged? How ſhould I have enjoyed it? But no ſuch matter—up ſhe got, and ſimpered not a little at being ſo diſtinguiſhed.—How ſhe per⯑formed you muſt gueſs, as I cannot in⯑form you, for I took care to caſt my eyes another way.

Major Manſell ſat at my elbow while this pretty ſcene was going forward. I now turned all my attention on him, and when Sommerville had ended his frolic, he found us ſo deeply engaged in a lively converſation, that it was a conſi⯑derable while before I ſaw he was re⯑turned to his ſeat.

As my ſpirits were by that time reco⯑vered, moſt unmercifully did I torment him. The Major, quite elate with the notice I had taken of him, joined me, and I believe before we had done, the poor penitent Sommerville wiſhed from his ſoul he had rather been ſeized with a fit of the gout than that of dancing.—And he is now ſo heartily aſhamed of his abſurdity, and the figure he cut while we were plaguing him, that I think we have fairly deſtroyed any impreſſion the girl had made upon his mind. You know my talent for ſatire, Caroline; I [46]exerted it to the utmoſt, and ſet Miſs off in ſuch whimſical colours, that I'll en⯑gage he will never be able to overcome his regret, for giving occaſion to ſo much raillery.

From that moment he has been more aſſiduous, more attentive, more devoted to me than ever; and whenever I at⯑tempt to make her the ſubject of our converſation, which I have ſeveral times done in a ludicrous manner, he begs me to ſpare him, and confeſſes the joke is ſo entirely againſt him that he cannot ſtand it.

Thus ends the ſtory of our firſt fracas; but whether it will be the laſt, heaven knows! That he at preſent adores me, is moſt certain; and that I adore him, is no leſs ſo.—Judge then, Caroline, what would be my feelings were he to—Ah! let me not for one moment ſuppoſe him capable of inconſtancy.—Yet have I not ſome little cauſe to fear?—when even an inſignificant chit, like her, could for an inſtant produce ſuch an effect.

But, Caroline, let her beware how ſhe preſumes to form hopes of his attch⯑ment.—I am not a woman formed to ſet tamely down under ſuch a mortification. [47]I know not what I ſay—I hate, I deſpiſe myſelf for deigning to beſtow a thought upon her.—But let her, as I ſaid, beware how ſhe preſumes to lay ſnares for a heart I think worth preſerving.

Let us talk no more of her. She has already engroſſed more of my time and thoughts than ſhe has any title to; more I am perſuaded than ſhe has of my en⯑chanting Sommerville's. However, ſhe may flatter herſelf to the contrary, and flatter herſelf ſhe will, I make no doubt, ſince her pert friend, Mrs. Mountague, will not forget to inform her, ſhe is the only girl he has hitherto condeſcended to diſtinguiſh.

This will of courſe ſet her ſilly heart in a flutter; and—But no more of the hateful ſubject.—I deteſt myſelf for troubling my head ſo much about it. All I meant when I took up my pen, was to divert you with the ridiculous ſtory, and to laugh with you at it; and yet it has actually put me out of temper—nor can any thing in life be more ſtupid?—We are to viſit too, that's the beſt of it; we ſhall, no doubt, be prodigiouſly intimate.

Adieu, dear Caroline, I do not intend being at their next trumpery aſſembly. [48]I am ſick of them: one cannot for ever laugh at the ſame thing, however laugh⯑able.

LETTER X. Lord Sommerville to Charles Dalton, Eſq

CHARLES, I have got into a moſt confounded ſcrape, and how to extricate myſelf in the manner I wiſh, the Lord above knows. I am curſedly entangled with this ſeducing, this bewitching wi⯑dow. I ſtill do juſtice to her charms, and confeſs they are ſuperior to moſt I have ſeen; yet I never told you they were ſuch as to make a ſerious or laſting impreſſion on me: this you cannot deny.—She is not the kind of woman with whom one's heart has any thing to do.

All I meant by my connection with her, was to amuſe the time likely to hang heavy on my hands while confined to [49]country quarters. This purpoſe ſhe fully anſwered; but for any thing farther, I never had an idea of it.—True, one could not be quite ſo explicit with her on the ſubject; and ſhe has unluckily taken a thouſand ridiculous things for granted, which never once entered into my head. The conſequence is, I do not know for my ſoul how to get handſomely quit of her.

But why in ſuch a hurry? You'll pro⯑bably aſk, ſince our amour is of ſo ſhort a date?—That is the very thing, Charles, I am to explain to you.

Though my heart has been merely paſſive in this affair, it is now in a very different ſtate; nay, if I may judge by its preſent feelings, I am apt to believe it has never known any thing of a real paſ⯑ſion; for ah! Charles, never till now had it ſeen the lovely, the engaging, the blooming Emily Herbert. All language muſt fall far ſhort of her perfection; it is impoſſible to give you an idea of her—ſuffice it to ſay that I love, love even to madneſs, and nothing but the poſſeſſion of the heart and perſon of her I adore, can reſtore me to my ſober ſenſes; mar⯑ry her I cannot, for am I not as bad as [50]married? already fettered by that curſed engagement to my couſin—would to the Lord ſhe were buried fifty fathom deep.

My wife father may thank himſelf for all the irregularities I have been and may chance to be guilty of; had he left me at liberty to follow my own inclinations, I am poſitive I ſhould have led a better life than I have done; not that I have been much worſe than my neighbours after all; though they are pleaſed to take ſome liberties with my character; let them be placed in my confounded ſituation, and ſee if they will behave bet⯑ter. Marry her I certainly never will, but unleſs ſhe is graciouſly pleaſed to re⯑leaſe me from my engagement, I can marry no other.

Is this, Charles, ſo great a trouble a man cannot get over, do you think? Or equal to loſing the better half of my eſtate?—I think not. Now, ſhould I be refractory, and take any other woman to be my wedded wife, in defiance of the family compact, that precious better half goes to her Ladyſhip.—Curſe me if it ſhall! No, no! my conſolation is, I am not compelled to be hers—that is no inconſider⯑able one; and ſince I cannot be another's, [51]Charles, let the dear creatures look to themſelves. It would be deviliſh hard if I may not be permitted to amuſe my⯑ſelf amongſt them the beſt way I can, ſince my perverſe ſtars forbids my figur⯑ing in the ſober character of a huſband. That is to ſay, unleſs they have the li⯑berty to chuſe me a wife.

What I have now ſaid, I hope will fully juſtify any ſteps I may find it ne⯑ceſſary to take in the proſecution of the affair on which my whole happineſs at this moment depends, in your opinion I mean; in my own, it certainly will—but, I confeſs, I have ſo much regard for you, though you are rather a queer fellow too in ſome reſpects, that I ſhould not like to incur your cenſure.

I wiſh to the Lord, Charles, you would go and pay your addreſſes to my rib elect; perhaps you may like her well enough, though I do not; for ſhe is thought, by the unprejudiced, both hand⯑ſome and agreeable. I will lay my life ſhe will not refuſe you, you are as clever a fellow, pretty nearly, as myſelf; nay, ſhe may chance to give you the prefer⯑ence, for women are whimſical kind of animals. That ſhe does not care a ſtraw [52]for me, ſhe has the impertinence to ac⯑knowledge; but loves miſchief ſo much better than any thing elſe in life, that ſhe vows ſhe will either have me, or my eſtate, out of pure ſpite and revenge for my indifference.

There's a ſpirit for you—Don't you think I ſhould be wonderous happy with ſuch a helpmate? She, like a vixen as ſhe is, enjoys my hampered ſituation be⯑yond expreſſion, and makes it the ſubject of her mirth, not only to me, when we happen to meet, but to every body elſe. Would to heaven ſhe was as madly in love with me as I am with my adored Emily, that I might have it in my power to break her heart by my cruelty.

Yet this is the girl my father thought fit to entail upon me for a wife, becauſe, truly, he fancied himſelf under obligati⯑ons to her father, who choſe to aſk only that as a return for the favours he had conferred. Had I been in England when he died, I might perhaps have contrived to have got the article relating to the curſed agreement ſtruck out of his will, but as ill-luck would have it, before I ar⯑rived all was over, and I found myſelf [53]fettered as ſecurely as law could bind me.

Thus circumſtanced, Charles, what's to be done?—My Emily's ſituation in life is ſuch as precludes all hope of ob⯑taining her on thoſe terms, as I only am at liberty to offer. I ſaw her for the firſt time, at the aſſembly, about ten days ſince. I was ſitting by Lady Stanley, who had, till then, wholly engroſſed me, being by far the fineſt woman in the place; and having, as I told you before, in very plain terms expreſſed her partia⯑lity for me, I could not do leſs than make a ſuitable return.

We were of courſe on the moſt amicable footing imaginable—But ah! Charles, who can expreſs either my emotions or embarraſſment on ſeeing the moſt angeic creature my eyes ever be⯑held walk up the room? Embarraſſment I ſay, becauſe I durſt not for my ſoul let her Ladyſhip ſee the impreſſion her beauty had made upon me—I was com⯑pelled to diſſemble, yet made ſo bung⯑ling a piece of work of it, that it was to no purpoſe. She ſaw it, and though viſi⯑bly enraged that I ſhould preſume to caſt an eye on any other than herſelf, affected [54]to rally me with an air of indifference, and to turn thoſe perfections, ſhe ſecretly envied, into ridicule; we both failed in our purpoſe however; it was no ſubject for a joke.

I uſed all my efforts to command my⯑ſelf for that evening at leaſt, but found it abſolutely impoſſible; in ſpite of the mortification I well knew my miſtreſs muſt ſuffer; the muſic no ſooner began for minuets than up I ſtarted, Charles; the idea of her dear hand being given to another was not to be indured; I made an offer of mine to my widow, begging ſhe would for once indulge me; ſhe ſaw through me, and gave me ſuch a look—but no hand, you may believe.

Away I flew to my charmer; and ſhe with an eaſe, a grace, there is no de⯑ſcribing, granted my ſuit. Heavens! what elegance, what modeſt dignity did ſhe diſplay in every motion. Had ſhe not thought fit to put an end to it, I ſhould have danced on for the whole evening; ſhe ſmiled at my viſible inattention to the buſineſs, but whether ſhe imputed it to the right cauſe I know not; though I flatter myſelf ſhe could not be at a loſs to gueſs.

[55]Figure to yourſelf, Charles, what paſſed on my return to my angry fair one. Words would never give you an idea of the ſcene; I certainly looked as truly ridiculous as even ſhe could wiſh; indeed I felt it. She, however, was flirting at no ſmall rate with our major, quite un⯑concerned as it were, affected not to obſerve me for ſome time, and when ſhe did caſt an eye upon me, was ſo gracious, ſo lively, ſo witty—In ſhort, Charles, it was an excellent farce.

I have ſince patched up a kind of peace, but I ſhrewdly ſuſpect it will not be very laſting, though ſhe endeavours to make me believe ſhe has forgot the whole affair; this I know is far from being the caſe, and I ſhall therefore be upon my guard; for, I am fully perſuaded, ſhe is not of a temper to put up, without re⯑ſentment, what ſhe will doubtleſs deem an unpardonable inſult offered to her charms. She has a devil of a ſpirit, and I am well aſſured would ſtick at nothing to be revenged. It is this belief makes me ſay I am got into a confounded ſcrape.

Had the lovely, the enchanting Emily been ſome weeks longer before ſhe made her appearance, it is probable ſhe might [56]have found Lady Stanley in a more fa⯑vourable diſpoſition, her partiality might, by that time have been leſſened, for I have not the vanity to flatter myſelf even my attractions, great as they are, and violent as the effect is they have produced on her, would have power to fix a woman of her principies for any conſiderable period.

But to rob her of her captive in the very height of her paſſion, to rival her in my love at the moment ſhe believed me blind to the perfections of every other woman—is this to be borne, Charles, by a female of her ſpirit? I ſear not. I own I have my ſuſpicions, as I think ſhe over acts her part; I doubt the ſincerity of thoſe ſmiles ſhe favours me with, and ſhrewdly ſuſpect they are intended to conceal ſome hidden purpoſe; it is unnatural to be⯑lieve ſhe could ſo eaſily pardon the emo⯑tions, to which ſhe was a witneſs, the firſt ſight of her rival gave birth to; it is true I ſaid all that man could ſay to appeafe the ſtorm; and, as I was telling you, ſhe endeavours to perſuade me I have ſucceeded, thogh I doubt the fact.

But this is not the worſt.—How ſhall I preſume to ſue for the affections of the [57]lovely Emily, at the time when every ſoul in the neighbourhood are talking moſt impertinently of my paſſion for the widow?—You will eaſily gueſs our flir⯑tation has afforded ample ſcope for tea-table chat, and that ſhe has already been let into the whole ſecret.

My conſtancy, to be ſure, will appear to no great advantage; yet muſt it not be more flattering to her, to find her charms have had the power to diffolve ſuch an attachment, than if ſhe had mere⯑ly captivated an unengaged heart?—Cer⯑tainly. And, depend upon it, this re⯑flection will have its due weight. Thus I reaſon upon it, Charles, and I hope you will think it reaſonable.—Pardon the pun, ſhould it ſtrike you as one.

Well, don't you think I am in a hope⯑ful way? Entangled with one woman, for whom I never in reality cared ſix⯑pence, and dying for another, who pro⯑bably cares as little for me. But I will not think my caſe ſo deſperate, becauſe I ſhould be tempted to ſhoot myſelf through the head, did I believe it.

After this, I need hardly tell you, I mean to try my ſate with the dear girl, and ſhall ſoon know whether I am to [58]load my piſtols or not; for as to living without her, it is an impoſſibility.

This is all I can tell you at preſent, except that my torment (for as ſuch I now look upon her) viſits the idol of my ſoul.—Her aunt, with whom ſhe lives at preſent, has ſo great a partiality for every thing dignified with a title, that in ſpite of a few ſcandalous anecdotes which have flown about concerning her Ladyſhip, ſhe has called upon her on her return to the country.

The ſame favourable circumſtance may perhaps gain me admiſſion: hitherto I have only had the felicity of meeting my adorable once or twice as ſhe was airing in the carriage with her old duenna. My bow was graciouſly returned, accompa⯑nied by a moſt bewitching ſmile.—Adieu.—

LETTER XI. Miſs Herbert to Miſs Fermer.

SO you are perfectly of Mrs. Moun⯑tague's opinion, Sophia.—Surely this cannot be from any thing I told you, ſince I merely ſaid I had ſeen his Lord⯑ſhip, and that he had done me the honour to dance a minuet with me. If this is a proof of conqueſt, it renders the matter mighty eaſy.

But what will you ſay, my dear, when informed that he is now not only a viſitor here, but a firſt rate favourite of my aunt's. She has had ſeveral parties, and his Lordſhip is never left out of the liſt of her invited friends—he is ſo well bred, ſo agreeable, ſo perfectly the man of quality.—Theſe are her remarks, not mine, pray obſerve that. Though I con⯑feſs I muſt ſubſcribe to the juſtice of them, for he really has the art of pleaſing in a very eminent degree.

And does he practice this dangerous talent on you, Emily? My Sophia would [60]I preſume.—Why not? It would be pay⯑ing me a poor compliment were be to make me an exception.—But no more trifling, I love you too well to teaze you.

Know then that I have ſome little rea⯑ſon to believe, I have made a deeper im⯑preſſion upon his mind than is perfectly agreeable to his friend, the charming wi⯑dow, for ſhe now affects to talk of him merely as a friend, a young man for whom ſhe really has a particular eſteem; one whom ſhe wiſhes well, as he appears to be de⯑ſerving, and to whom, as a ſtranger in the country, and a man of faſhion, ſhe has ſhewn ſome little attntion.—You ſtare!—That, my dear, is merely becauſe you are unacquainted with the ton, or the manners and caprices of a belle from the metropolis. I doubt not you was ſimple enough to expect I had to tell you, her Ladyſhip, like our coantry bred damſels, was ſighing and pining herſelf to death, and was actually driven to deſpair by the perfidy of her fickle admirer.

No ſuch thing, believe me. 'Tis not the faſhion, my dear, in the beau monde, "In love to pine and languiſh,"—is quite out of the queſtion there. Such a con⯑duct [61]would imply a degree of conſtancy, at which a fine London Lady would bluſh. What their real feelings may be, is ano⯑ther affair; but to appear as if they felt themſelves forſaken, what woman of ſpi⯑rit would ſubmit to? Not Lady Stanley; at leaſt I can anſwer for her. And cer⯑tainly it is the wiſeſt courſe, though every one has not a ſufficient ſhare of philoſo⯑phy to put it in practice.

My aunt is now fully convinced there never was any other than a friendly re⯑gard between them. Perhaps ſhe is the more inclined to be of this opinion, be⯑cauſe ſhe has, I verily believe, from the particular attention my Lord begins to honour her niece with, formed ſome very ridiculous (and moſt likely ſallacious) hopes. Ridiculous I call them, and I think juſtly; for can any thing be more againſt them than this recent proof of his inconſtancy.—What reliance can we, or ought we to place on a man of ſuch a changeable diſpoſition? Any new face, I preſume, if tolerable, would produce the ſame effect. He vows the contrary; for he has already begun vowing, and all that, Sophia; but whatever the neglected widow may think proper to confeſs, ſhe [62]too could tell the ſame ſtory, or I am much miſtaken.

After all, I cannot perſuade myſelf her paſſion for him has been very deeply root⯑ed; ſince if it had, I think, artful as ſhe is, ſhe could not all at once have aſſumed ſuch an air of in 'ifference; 'tis more probable ſhe is, as well as himſelf, bleſſed with a daſh of inconſtancy in her nature, or ſhe could not ſo calmly reſign him.

Do not from this, Sophia, infer, I think him ſo valuable a prize; I muſt know him better before I determine that point: at preſent appearances are rather againſt him, according to my ideas.—And were it otherwiſe, and he ſhould really mean to gratify my aunt's ambition, what am I to do with my Nabob?—Can ſhe ſup⯑poſe my ſtep-dame will ſo eaſily give up her point, and conſent to her hopeful ne⯑phew's being rejected for any Lord in the creation?

Oh! Sophia, if I can contrive to delay that hated match, 'tis all I dare hope for.—Yet, mere delay will not do neither. Heaven forbid! I ſhould ever be compel⯑led to be his; but I mean, if they will permit me to live ſingle, it is all the fa⯑vour I can expect; and, compared to giv⯑ing [63]him my hand, would be perfect hap⯑pineſs.

I tremble every day, left I ſhould get letters to order me home; my only truſt is, that my aunt is, if poſſible, as averſe from calling him nephew, as I am to call him—Ah! I ſhudder even to write it—And that ſhe will not eaſily be prevailed upon to put me again in his way: now indeed ſhe will be more averſe than ever, having, as I ſaid, formed hopes of ſo ſu⯑perior a nature, all his boaſted wealth will never, in her opinion, compenſate for the meanneſs of his origin—this is with her an unſurmountable objection; but I, So⯑phia, find a thouſand others. He is a creature of no education, no breeding, no delicacy; I ſhould bluſh every time he opened his lips; there is a vulgarity about him that abſolutely ſhocks me. Yet he has the vanity to fancy himſelf a man of the firſt conſequence, and has more hau⯑teur than if he really as ſo; but this is natural, ſince pride and meanneſs are inſeparable companions.

Moſt fervently do I pray he may meet in London (where he is at preſent) ſome ſair creature more to his taſte; there he may find numbers who will gladly accept [64]him with all his imperfections. 'Tis only ſuch ſilly ſouls as you and, Sophia, who having unfortunately more ſentiment than ambition, could reſiſt ſo ſplendid a temp⯑tation. That this may be the firſt news I hear, is the ſincere wiſh of

LETTER XII. Lady Stanley to Mrs. Groſvenor.

HELP me, Caroline, to execrate the moſt ungrateful, the moſt perfidious of men; and above all, help me to take am⯑ple vengeance on the deteſted object who has robbed me of his heart.

Yes, Caroline, I have loſt it—in vain would he add to his guilt by endeavour⯑ing to deceive me. I deſpiſe him for daring to ſancy he can impoſe upon me by his feigned tenderneſs. Long have I been ſenſible of the mortifying truth. A love like mine was too clear ſighted [65]not to perceive it, in ſpite of all his ef⯑forts to conceal what he had not courage openly to avow.—Ah! no wonder he ſhould bluſh at ſo prepoſterous an attach⯑ment.—Heavens! that I ſhould live to find a rival in a creature ſo inſignifi⯑cant; a mere ignorant girl, who has no one thing to recommend her, but youth and novelty.

Oh! how I could curſe the hour in which I was fool enough to fix my affec⯑tions on a wretch ſo unworthy that ten⯑derneſs my weak heart has laviſhed on him.

Why are you not here, that I might, without the trouble of writing, vent a part of the rage which at this moment con⯑ſumes me?

I am diſtracted! driven to madneſs, nor ſhall I ever know one moment's peace of mind till I have effectually deſtroyed theirs.

Let her not preſume to flatter herſelf her triumph ſhall be of long duration; ſhe ſhall be humbled, Caroline, humbled to the duſt, if my good genius does not forſake me in the glorious attempt.

Can you figure to yourſelf what were my feelings, on finding my ſuſpicions of [66]his infidelity confirmed beyond all poſſi⯑ble doubt? Yet, what a queſtion?—No, you muſt firſt have loved like me, and like me have been—

I will not, cannot proceed—my pride forbids it.—Let me from this hour baniſh that horrid idea from my memory, and for the future devote my whole atten⯑tion to dear revenge.

Little does he know the woman he has dared to ſlight; but he ſhall, by dear bought experience, learn ſhe is not formed of ſuch ſoft materials, as either to forget or forgive an injury, though ſhe has art enough to concenl her reſentment till a proper opportunity preſents itſelf, in which ſhe can diſplay it to ſome pur⯑poſe—and of that ſhe does not deſpair. But let me endeavour to be calm, that I may give you ſome idea of my preſent ſituation.

What I have now ſaid will not much ſurpriſe von after the hints you will find dropped in ſeveral of my letters. I confeſs I found it no very pleaſant buſi⯑neſs to be more explicit; however I have at lerght conquered that ſcruple, and have freely told you Sommerville has proved himſelf a villain—that is to ſay a [67]man, for are they not all deceivers, born for our deſtruction?—'Tis the character given of them by one of their own ſex, yet in ſpite of this we continue to believe, and are of courſe undone.

Finding all hopes of regaining his per⯑fidious heart at an end, I at once deter⯑mined to deceive him in my turn. I could not ſtoop to reproaches; ſcorned to gratify his vanity ſo far as to give him ſo clear a proof that he had it in his power to mortify mine. I took a different me⯑thod, and flatter myſelf he is the dupe of my artifice.

Spare yourſelf the trouble, my dear Sommerville, ſaid I one day, (while he was endeavouring to perſuade me of what he well knew was a falſity;) why this re⯑ſerve with your friends? I am not to learn that we cannot command our affec⯑tions, I know it by experience; mine has betrayed me into a weakneſs which thoſe deſtitute of my ſenſibility would un⯑doubtedly condemn; perhaps I ought to condemn myſelf—that you did love me, I have had many prooſs; but that you now love another, is no leſs clear to me.

Ah! my charming Lady Stanley, cried he, attempting to take my hand.—

[68]Do not interrupt what I am ſaying, nor fancy an apology either neceſſary or poſ⯑ſible to excuſe you for what moſt women would ſtyle your perfidious conduct—I ſcorn to reproach you; nay, I am ſenſi⯑ble the crime is as involuntary as were your profeſſions to me of an everlaſting attachment; you then believed what you ſwere; I was happy while that attach⯑ment continued: but do not fancy me ſo unreaſonable a creature as to blame you for what I know it is not in your power to help.

Inconſiſtency is rooted in our nature, it is vain to deny it. You have only got the ſtart of me, my good friend; for, do not flatter yourſelf, my paſſion for you could have retained its firſt fervour much longer; I might, indeed, have followed your example, and have attempted to deceive you. I will alſo add, I think I ſhould have been more ſucceſsful too; for you men are ſad bunglers in theſe matters; but my nature is open, frank, and honeſt.

Since love is then at an end, let us at leaſt continue friends; I will not ſwear I ſhall not look out for another Adonis to ſupply your place; a woman muſt have [69]ſomebody to ſay civil things to her; per⯑haps I may not eaſily find one who is ſo well qualified for the employment as yourſelf; perhaps too, I wiſh you had not quite ſo ſoon reſigned it: but, as I ſaid before, I am, for a woman, a tole⯑rably reaſonable being.

Now, Sommerville, (giving him my hand) we are friends: he preſſed it to his lips. Ah! how I adore this noble can⯑dour, theſe truly generous ſentiments; I ever knew my lovely Arabella was above the little foibles of her ſex.

No compliments, I beſeech you; you forget your conduct flatly contradicts the flaming ſpeech you have juſt made. Fare⯑well; I am going to dreſs; when you can ſpare an hour from more agreeable avo⯑cations, let me ſee you. Saying this I bid him good morning; and he, not leſs aſtoniſhed than delighted, I preſume, at my heroiſm, left me.

Now, Caroline, let me know what you think of my fortitude; it coſt me ſome pangs I own, but truſt I ſhall be amply recompenſed before I have done with them.

To facilitate my purpoſe, I judged it proper to cultivate ſome degree of inti⯑macy [70]with my rival, and her old aunt. The latter thinks herſelf a prodigy of wiſdom, but is, in fact, a fool, whom I moſt cordially deſpiſe.

As much do I deſpiſe the diſtinction ſhe treats me with, for well do I know it is my title alone to which I am indebted for it: to her inferiors, or ſuch as ſhe is pleaſed to look upon in that light, ſhe be⯑haves with all the inſolence and pride you can poſſibly imagine; ſhe abſolutely ſick⯑ens me with her fulſome adulation. I am ſo my Lady'd and Ladyſhip'd whenever we meet, that I can hardly reſtrain my riſible faculties. I ſee plainly ſhe bridles not a little at the conqueſt her baby-faced niece has made, and has already ſet her down in her ſtupid imagination a ladyſip alſo—but I'll take care to diſappoint her ſilly hopes, ſuppoſing the fellow has in reality any ſuch views, which I am, how⯑ever, very far from believing.

Heavens! were I convinced he had ever formed ſo fooliſh, ſo abſurd an idea, I ſwear to you I would not ſeruple to treat them both with a doſe of poiſon; I freely confeſs that would be a triumph I could not stand—but enough of the deteſted ſub⯑ject [71]for the preſent, I muſt now reflection what is to be done.—Adieu

LETTER XIII. Miſs Herbert of Miſs Fermer.

WILL it greatly ſupriſe you, my dear Sophia, to hear that the elegant Sommerville has actually declared him⯑ſelf my lover?—Not at all, you reply, ſince you foreſaw what would happen from the firſt.

You have certainly proved yourſelf miſtreſs of no ſmall ſhare of diſcernment, for it is really and truly the caſe—that is to ſay, he ſwears it—how truly, I dare not yet pronounce. But if this ſhould not excite your aſtoniſhment, ſurely, what I am going to add, muſt.

Lady Stanley and I are now on the moſt ſociable footing imaginable; ſhe calls up⯑on me frequently, and talks of his Lord⯑ſhip with ſo much eaſe and indifference, [72]that I am almoſt tempted to believe the report of her intimacy with him has ab⯑ſolutely been groundleſs. Either this is the caſe, or ſhe is the moſt complete diſ⯑ſembler I ever met with. She told me he had made her the confidant of his paſ⯑ſion for me; ſpoke of him in the higheſt terms, and really pleaded his cauſe with nearly as much warmth as he does him⯑ſelf.

What are we to think of all this, So⯑phia? For my part I am wholly at a loſs—If ſhe does, nay if ſhe ever did love him, it is moſt unnatural, moſt unaccoun⯑table—yet what intereſt can ſhe have in playing the hypocrite to me.

I confeſs I doubt exceedingly thoſe pro⯑feſſions of regard and friendſhip ſhe con⯑tinually expreſſes, not only for him, but myſelf alſo. They are too violent to be ſincere on ſo ſhort an acquaintance as ours. I believe, were the truth known, ſhe ſets me down as a very cold inſipid kind of a girl, for I cannot prevail on my⯑ſelf to make ſuitable returns to all the civil things ſhe is pleaſed to ſay to me. I have not lived long enough in the beau monde to be miſtreſs of ſuch a flattering talent.

[73]My aunt and her Ladyſhip are exceed⯑ingly gracious, and no wonder, for ſhe affects to pay the higheſt deference to all ſhe ſays, and in my humble opinion, that has been a great deal more than was ne⯑ceſſary to one who is in fact a ſtranger. But who can feel any degree of reſerve, or conceal any thing a perſon of quality will do one the honour to liſten to?

This obliging condeſcenſion has induc⯑ed my loquacious aunt to acquaint her with all our family affairs; and, amongſt others, my father's ridiculous plan (as ſhe calls it) of giving my hand to Mor⯑ton, whoſe accompliſhments ſhe has paint⯑ed in no very flattering colours, nor has ſhe forgot to aſſure her, it is a match which never ſhall take place while it is in her power to prevent it. Her ſiſter's daughter ſhall never be thrown away on ſuch an upſtart; a fellow of yeſterday, whoſe fortune is the only circumſtance that could poſſibly gain him admiſſion to the company of gentlemen.

Lady Stanley applauds her ſpirit, the delicacy of her ſentiments, and the no⯑ble reſolution ſhe has formed to oppoſe ſo prepoſterous an alliance, and then flat⯑ters her vanity by mentioning Lord Som⯑merville's viſble attachment.

[74]I generally ſit ſilent on theſe occaſions, horribly vexed at my aunt's well-meant ſimplicity, and doubting the truth of every word her Ladyſhip utters.

How is it poſſible, Sophia, to conceive a regard for a perſon of whoſe veracity you are by no means certain. A firſt im⯑preſſion is not eaſily conquered, and the firſt I received of this (I ſuſpect artful) dowager, was not the moſt favourable.

A title in the opinion of my good aunt, is like charity, it covers a multitude of faults. But I am ſorry to ſay, I have not ſo high a veneration for it, ſo his Lord⯑ſhip need not be jealous of his, ſince it will have very little influence in deciding the anſwer I am to give to his ſuit.

I begin to fear you too, Sophia, will think me, as well as Lady Stanley, rather tinctured with inſipidity, by the cool un⯑impaſſioned manner in which I write of a lover, and of ſuch a lover too as the ac⯑compliſhed Sommerville.—But you are miſtaken, my dear, if you fancy I am quite inſenſible to his merit and attrac⯑tion.—Ah! Sophia, would it not be bet⯑ter, could I with truth aſſure you, they had made no impreſſion on me? Moſt [75]certainly it would; for what can I ex⯑pect but trouble and diſtreſs from indulg⯑ing hopes which never may be realized?

My aunt, on the contrary, ſees no ob⯑ſtacles; inſiſts upon it I ſhall accept his hand without conſulting even my father; is poſitive he will be highly delighted to find ſhe has been able to procure for me ſo noble an alliance. It is all to be her doings you ſee, Sophia.

That he is amiable, and that my heart is but too ſenſible of it, I will not pretend to deny. Yet ſtill I dare not look for⯑ward; I ſee nothing, as I was ſaying, but trouble and diſappointment. Think of the rage and indignation I ſhould bring upon my poor father's head, however he might ſecretly approve my conduct. Can I, without pain, think of ſubjecting him to the ſtorm he muſt conſequently ex⯑pect from a wife, of whoſe implacable diſpoſition he has had ſo many proofs? I am ſhocked at the idea—yet ſtill more ſhocked at the thoughts of appeaſing the ſtorm, by the ſacrifice of my peace of mind, and of every poſſibility of happi⯑neſs.

'Till I ſaw, that is, till I knew Lord Sommerville, the utmoſt of my hopes [76]was, permiſſion to live ſingle, rather than give my hand to the man I deteſt. But now, Sophia, I am afraid that permiſſion alone would not content me. Yet even that is not yet granted.

I every day expect to be obliged to re⯑turn home, in ſpite of all my aunt's ef⯑forts to detain me: the hated time draws near, when my tormentor is again to be in our neighbourhood, which will I doubt prove the laſt of my liberty, as they will certainly recall me; then farewell hope! Farewell happineſs! And farewell my too amiable Sommerville.

The ſubject has quite diſconcerted me; Sophia, I muſt bid you adieu; dearly, I I fear, ſhall I pay for the few weeks hap⯑pineſs I have enjoyed ſince I came here. Alas, alas! How little do we know what is likely to promote our felicity; to avoid one kind of miſery, have I not fooliſh⯑ly plunged myſelf into another; which may, perhaps, prove as fatal to my peace?—Adieu, once more.

LETTER XIV. Lord Sommerville to Charles Dalton, Eſq

I Plead guilty, Charles, ſo pray let me have your pardon; yet is it ſo very won⯑derful I ſhould have been a little negli⯑gent, when you conſider the nature of the buſineſs I am engaged in? To get fairly quit of one miſtreſs, and to gain the heart of another; no triſting affair you muſt confeſs, and what none but a fellow of my ſpirit, I will venture any bet, could have ſo happily accompliſhed in ſo ſhort a time.

I told you, in my laſt, I believe, of being introduced to Mrs. Grenville, and of courſe to her adorable niece, the love⯑ly Emily: this I feared was not the moſt difficult part of the undertaking; how to appeaſe the apprehended wrath of my fair dowager, appeared to me infinitely more ſo.

[78]But judge, if you can, of my aſtoniſh⯑ment, when on my attempting to make a blundering kind of defence, for a con⯑duct my conſcience told me deſerved her indignation; ſhe very coolly and calmly acquitted me of all blame; ſaid the in⯑conſtancy of men never in the leaſt ſur⯑priſed her: ſhe was ſorry my paſſion had been of ſo very ſhort a date; her's, ſhe confeſſed, might have held out ſome time longer, though that it would have come to end as mine had done, ſhe had not a doubt; was too generous to blame me for a fault which nature had intailed upon every ſon and daughter of Adam; wiſhed me ſucceſs in my new amour, and concluded, by ſaying, ſince our love is thus come to an untimely end, let us commence friends, and ſee how that will do.

This, Charles, or words to the ſame purpoſe, was the ſubſtance of her lady⯑ſhip's ſpeech—I was confounded—'twas ſo wholly out of the common ſtile, ſo new, ſo very whimſical, that upon my ſoul I looked like one doubtful whether to langh or cry; would you believe it? I felt a kind of diſappointment, a ſort of [79]mortification, at finding myſelf held ſo confoundedly cheap.

I endeavoured to perſuade myſelf 'twas merely a feint, in order to recall me to my duty, and by no means the real dic⯑tates of her heart—but faith, ſhe keeps it up; not the ſhadow of diſpleaſure have I had the conſolation to perceive in her from that time to this.

'Tis rather provoking, Charles, howe⯑ver convenient it may be to my future ope⯑rations; but I now begin to ſuſpect I have been the dupe, and that ſhe never cared for me farther than to gratify her vani⯑ty; the devil's in it if ſhe could ſo eaſily have given me up; if ſhe had, what think you? Yet you need not ſubſcribe to that opinion, 'tis not quite ſo pleaſant as one could wiſh.

She bid me too not be ſurpriſed if I found her looking out for another Adonis to ſupply my place, as ſhe could not exiſt without ſomebody to ſay civil things to her—ſo cool, ſo curſedly eaſy, Charles, I could cut my throat for having held ſo deſpicable an employment; not one tear, not even a ſigh eſcaped her—ſo far from it, finding I was in no haſte to leave her, [80]ſhe very compoſedly told me ſhe was go⯑ing to dreſs, ſhould always be glad to ſee me, and wiſhed me a good morning.

Thus ends the ſtory of me and my im⯑pertinent widow, and now for that of my divine Emily; and a wonderful ſtory you'll ſay it is when I tell you, I begin to ſuſpect it muſt, in ſpite of a thouſand obſtacles, end in ſober, ſerious matri⯑mony.—I ſee no other reſource, Charles; ſhe is not the kind of perſon to whom one dare offer leſs honourable terms of capitulation. I ſee plainly, with her it muſt be neck or nothing; and certainly if any woman can merit ſuch a ſacrifice, ſhe is to all intents and purpoſes that woman. Yet the thoughts of being fet⯑tered, not to mention the loſs of two thouſand a year by the bargain, goes curſedly againſt the grain; then what a triumph to that ſpiteful witch, who is to be ſo great a gainer.

At ſome moments I am tempted to play the hero, and carry her off; but what next—the ſcene which muſt of courſe follow ſo glorious an atchieve⯑ment, does not appear very delightful. I will honeſtly confeſs, when I figure to [81]myſelf the dear girl, fainting, dying, diſtracted, and juſtly accuſing me as the author of all that miſery, I have not cou⯑rage to undertake it, unleſs I could per⯑ſuade myſelf ſhe would condeſcend to pardon ſuch a ſtep, in conſideration of the unconquerable paſſion which impel⯑led me to take it; and this I find no eaſy matter—a woman of virtue never can, and my Emily is pure and ſpotleſs as an angel, both in mind and perſon.

What's then to be done? It is a queſ⯑tion not eaſily anſwered, Charles; I have aſked it of myſelf a thouſand times, but never could hit upon one in any degree ſatisfactory; one expedient there is, and but one, which, if I can manage the point, may at leaſt remove part of my trouble, and no inconſiderable part nei⯑ther—it is this: Could I prevail on her to conſent to a private marriage, and to conceal it 'till the patience of Lady Mary is exhauſted, it might ſave me the mortification of ſee⯑ing my eſtate played the very devil with—for I cannot ſuppoſe ſhe will ſubmit to lead apes, merely to plague me, fond as ſhe is of miſchief. I would gladly hope [82]when ſhe finds ſhe can make nothing of me, ſhe will make a huſband of ſome⯑body elſe, and that too before 'tis very long—there will certainly be no joke in playing the fool till ſhe is as grey as her grandmother; at leaſt if ſhe does carry it ſo far, the laugh will be at her expence.

Now if I can bring my mind to fix on this plan, which is by no means clear yet, I do not abſolutely deſpair of ſuc⯑ceſs. My hopes of it are founded on two circumſtances, which I think have ſome weight.

Firſt my beloved's hand is promiſed by her father to a fellow, who, though rich as a jew, ſhe abhors. Her aunt, who has a convenient daſh of family pride in her compoſition, is no leſs averſe from the match than her lovely niece. The ſecond is, that rather than give up the proſpect of her being one day acknow⯑ledged the wife of a peer, ſhe would wait for that day, any reaſonable time, pro⯑vided the matter was made honourably certain—ambition is her hobby horſe, this I diſcovered before I had been an hour in her company, and to a view of this nature I impute the gracious recep⯑tion I met with.

[83]If, therefore, I can bring myſelf to ſwallow the bitter pill, and can alſo bring her over to my party, I think my ador⯑able will not be able to withſtand our united eloquences.

Had any one, Charles, ſix months ago—nay ſix week, told me I ſhould now be talking thus ſeriouſly of matrimony, I ſhould have given them little credit for their ſkill in divination—yet, ſo it is you ſee; judge then what an angel, what an irreſiſtible creature, my Emily muſt be, who has in ſo ſhort a time wrought a miracle of this nature.—Love, Charles, all powerful love—Omnia vincit amor—there's all that can be ſaid for it, and ſo fare ye well—my next, may, probably, tell you on what I have finally reſolved—till then, and ever,

LETTER XV. Miſs Herbert to Miſs Fermer.

SOPHIA, I have a thouſand things to tell you, would to heaven you were with me at this moment, not only to hear them; but to adviſe me, never in my life did I ſtand more in need of an able coun⯑ſellor; I am perplexed, diſtreſſed, and tormented with a thouſand fears—my Aunt—what ſhall I ſay of her? I believe ſhe means well, nay, I cannot poſſibly doubt it; yet, yet, my dear Sophia, I tremble at the very thoughts of a propo⯑ſal, which ſhe nevertheleſs conſented to with joy.

Ah, if I ſhould be prevailed upon, what will my dear father ſay? how ſhall I ever after ſuch a ſtep, ſo derogatory to female delicacy, have courage to look him or the world in the face? I cannot, cannot bring myſelf to follow her advice; indeed, I dare not do it.

[85] Yet, Sophia, let me bluſhing, confeſs my folly; my weak heart would tempt me to gratify her wiſhes, were I to liſten to its dictates; but take the particulars, and then tell me, what you, my dear girl, would do were you in my ſituation.

I told you, in my laſt, Lord Sommer⯑ville had given me reaſon to look upon him as a lover; my Aunt, you may be⯑lieve, was highly delighted to find I had made a conqueſt, ſo perfectly conſonant to her ambitious deſire; I verily believe, ſhe could hardly have been more ſo, had ſhe herſelf been the object of his regard—He called upon, her yeſterday; I ob⯑ſerved and embarraſſment in his manner, a ſomething I had never ſeen before, and could not now account for; it ſtruck me, it fluttered me exceedingly; I feared, I knew not what; my looks, I found, had betrayed my emotions, for he took my hand, and preſſing it to his lips, in the tendereſt accents, eagerly enquired if I was ill? glad he had given me that pre⯑tence, I ſaid I had been teazed with a head ach all the morning.

Ah! my beloved Emily, would to hea⯑ven your Sommerville had no greater cauſe of complaint!

[86]What do you mean, my Lord? (now more alarmed than ever!) for heaven fake! ſpeak, and tell me what occaſions your diſtreſs! He then took a ſeat be⯑tween my Aunt and me, ſtill holding my hand, and thus addreſſed me: That I love you, my adorable Emily, I flatter myſelf, you cannot doubt. Love you with a tenderneſs which no language can poſſibly deſcribe; that my whole hap⯑pineſs depends upon poſſeſſing the moſt invaluable of human hearts, and this dear hand; yet, ſuch is my unhappy ſituation, that I fear to aſk that bleſſing, without which life will be no longer deſirable.

As you may imagine, Sophia, I was much affected at this ſpeech, but remain⯑ed ſilent.

You cannot be ſurpriſed, my Lord, (ſaid my Aunt) if I take the liberty of ſaying this diſcourſe is rather extraordinary; you could be no ſtranger to the circumſtances you allude to, when you firſt ſaw my niece; was it then acting like a man of honour to attempt gaining her affections, ſo circumſtanced? Miſs Herbert, is not in a line of life to be trifled with, and—

[87]Ah! ſpare me, my dear madam, nor injure me ſo far as, to believe me capable of it; I know her ineſtimable worth, I adore her, I honour her; ſhe is and ever muſt be the ſole miſtreſs of my heart.

I came now, madam, with full purpoſe to lay every ſentiment of that heart before you, and alſo my very embarraſſed ſtate, if I durſt hope, when you are acquainted with it, you would not withdraw from me the favourable opinions you at preſent honour me with, I ſhould look upon my⯑ſelf as the happieſt of men.

He then told us, that his father had for ſeveral years before his death, projected an alliance between him and a couſin of his own.—Sommerville was ever averſe from the match; but as ſhe was then very young, he continually flattered him⯑ſelf that time might produce ſome fa⯑vourable alteration, and that the affair might be dropped. He went abroad on his travels, his father died before his re⯑turn, and to his infinite ſurpriſe, he found a clauſe in the will, binding him either to marry the lady or give up half his eſtate; and to add to the cruelty of his fate, ſhe was left free to reject him, [88]though he had not the ſame indulgence. Ah! Sophia, too well they knew there was little danger of her taking advantage of that liberty; the too amiable Sommer⯑ville need never fear—or rather hope for a diſappointment of that nature.

This, my dear friend, is the ſubſtance of what he related.—I thought it needleſs to be more minute, as the ſubject is too painſul, to dwell upon longer than was neceſſary to prepare you for what fol⯑lowed.

This, my dear Sophia, was a propoſal for me to conſent to a private marriage, and to conceal it till we ſaw whether time would not effect a change in the lady's ſentiments.

Ah! never, never, my Lord! will I vo⯑luntarily conſent to be your's at the ex⯑pence of another's happineſs, that other too the choſen of your family, this conſi⯑detation independent of a thouſannd others muſt determine me to reject your Lord⯑ſhip's propoſal

Is the happineſs of your adoring Som⯑merville, then, ſo very indifferent to you, my lovely Emily? that you ſhould ſo cruelly ſacrifice it for that of a perſon [89]who is an abſolute ſtranger to you? For pity's ſake reſlect a moment! You cer⯑tainly have it in your power to render me the moſt miſerable of men; but by ſo do⯑ing, believe me, you cannot promote, her felicity (ſuppoſing it depended on my giv⯑ing her my hand, which I am by no means perſuaded is the caſe,) ſince I here ſo⯑lemnly ſwear, no woman, except your dear ſelf, ſhall ever poſſeſs it.

No! Miſs Herbert, no! if you inflexibly perſiſt in ſentiments ſo injurious to my peace, to no other ſhall it ever be offered. Then, turning to my aunt, ah, madam! dare I preſume to flatter myſelf I ſhall find an advocate in you to plead my cauſe with your charming niece? He took her hand, and, putting one knee to the ground, continued, let me implore you, my generous friend, to uſe your influence in my favour.—I know it is great—I know my Emily pays the higheſt defer⯑ence to your judgment; on whoſe, indeed, can ſhe with greater ſecurity rely? Speak then, for heaven's ſake! Say—

My Lord, (interrupting him) I am ex⯑tremely concerned to learn you are ſo un⯑fortunately circumſtanced; I feel for [90]your embarraſſed ſituation, but ſtill more for that of my niece, and wiſh it were in my power to extricate you both from your preſent difficulties; but how this can be effected without doing violence to that rule of conduct I have ever made it a point to be governed by, I really am at a loſs to determine.—I certainly cannot thoroughly approve the plan your Lord⯑ſhip is deſirous of purſuing; yet I may, perhaps, on reflection, find it attended with leſs impropriety than it appears to be on a firſt view: allow me then ſome time to take the affair into ſerious conſi⯑deration, and believe it will give me moſt ſenſible pleaſure, ſhould I, after that, without fear of incurring the cenſure of the world, be able to give your Lordſhip ſuch an anſwer as you wiſh.

How ſhall I, ſaid he, (preſſing her hand to his lips with ſervour) find words to ex⯑preſs a thouſandth part of the gratitude, with which my heart is replete, for this condeſcending goodneſs? You do not then bid me deſpair—Ah, my dear ma⯑dam! believe me it ſhall be the future ſtudy of my life to make you ſenſible this [91]generoſity is-not thrown away on an in⯑grate.

My Emily (again placing himſelf by me) why thoſe averted eyes? Why thoſe cold, thoſe killing glances? Surely the proſpect of felicity your Sommerville looks forward to, with ſuch unſpeakable rapture, cannot—?

My Lord, (interrupting him in myturn) though I am extremely ſenſible of my Aunt's kindneſs, I muſt take the liberty to obſerve, I think ſhe will, on mature reflection, ſee ſo many obſtacles, ſo much glaring impropriety in what you propoſe, that her anſwer cannot poſſibly confirm thoſe hopes you indulge on ſuch a ſlight foundation.

If my looks expreſs leſs pleaſure than your Lordſhip expects, believe me, it is becauſe I ſee more clearly than you will ſuffer yourſelf to do, that every hope, of the nature you mention, muſt be fruit⯑leſs.

I have a father, my Lord, who is in⯑titled to every mark of reſpect and obe⯑dience, as far as I can pay it, without ren⯑dering myſelf abſolutely wretched; and to that I would gladly believe he will ne⯑ver [92]compel me. That duty teaches me I ought not to engage in an affair of ſuch infinite importance, without his know⯑ledge and approbation.

Emily, cried my aunt, though I muſt approve the ſentiments you have expreſ⯑ſed; yet, in your ſituation, I will take upon me to ſay, I think they may, with⯑out a breach of duty, be diſpenſed with; the perſecution you have already ſuffered too clearly convinces me you have little reaſon to expect that indulgence you talk of; were your father ſuffered, indeed, to act according to his own ideas of recti⯑tude, perhaps you might avoid the horrid fate which now awaits you; but too well do you know this is not the caſe; he has delegated his authority to one who is not diſpoſed to make a very generous uſe of it; from her you alſo know you have no⯑thing to expect but tyranny, as ſhe has a ſoul deſtitute of every ſentiment of hu⯑manity.

Ah! ſpare me, my dear madam! I am too ſenſible my happineſs or miſery are alike indifferent to her.

I could not refrain from tears, Sophia; the ſubject ſhe had ſtarted quite over⯑powered [93]me—they fell in abundance on Sommerville's hand, in which mine was tenderly preſſed.

He was affected beyond expreſſion—I begged they would permit me to retire, to which my Aunt readily aſſented; but his Lordſhip ſaid all the moſt fervent paſſion could dictate, to ſooth, and prevail upon me to ſtay—I left them however, and by what ſhe told me when we met again, after he had taken his leave, I found he had nearly gained his point with her; ſome ſcruples, ſhe confeſſed, ſtill re⯑mained, yet they were overbalanced by the pleaſure ſhe felt at the thoughts of my being placed in ſo diſtinguiſhed a rank in life.

This circumſtance ſhe endeavoured to paint in the moſt ſeducing colours; ſuch a triumph too, over my ſtep-mother and her illiterate nephew. I own to you, Emily, my dear, theſe are motives which have great weight with me, ſaid ſhe, and I think you too cannot be ſo inſenſible but that you muſt feel ſatisfaction in hav⯑ing ſo glorious an opportunity to mortify one who has given you ſo much uneaſi⯑neſs, and who you have abundant reaſon to [94]know will ſtick at nothing to accompliſh the ſcheme ſhe has ſet her heart upon.

I certainly wiſh, my love, his Lord⯑ſhip's affairs had been in ſuch a ſituation as would have enabled him to marry you publicly, then would my utmoſt ambi⯑tion have been amply gratified; but ſince they are not, I adviſe you, by all means, to accept him on his own terms; the re⯑ſtraint he now lies under, cannot, in the nature of things, be of long duration; we cannot ſuppoſe the Lady will live ſingle, merely with a view to diſpoſſeſs him of a fortune ſhe is in no want of; depend upon it, when ſhe finds there are no hopes of gaining his Lordſhip's affec⯑tion, ſhe will look out for a more diſcern⯑ing lover, and you will then be introduc⯑ed into the world in ſo flattering a ſtile, that your father will not only pardon the part I have acted, but thank me for it moſt ſincerely.

You ſee, Emily, my Lord is ſo generous as never even to enquire what fortune he may expect with you; this is a noble proof of his love, nor ſhall he loſe by his diſintereſtedneſs; that ſhall be my care, granting your fa⯑ther [95] were inclined to take a mean avan⯑tage of it, which, I cannot however, be⯑lieve he would even think of.

I will not hurry you, my dear, take a reaſonable time for reflection on what is paſt; of his Lordſhip's paſſion you can have no doubt; conſult, then, your own heart, and if you find in it thoſe ſenti⯑ments which you ought to feel for the man to whom you mean to give your hand, tell me freely, and I will be an⯑ſwerable for all the conſequences which may follow the ſtep I adviſe you to take.

Had he made ſuch a propoſal, indeed, without conſulting me, I ſhould have had an ill opinion of him; and you, my dear Emily, would have been unpardonable had you been prevailed upon to conſent to it; but he has proved himſelf a man of honour, he has acted nobly, generouſly, and with an openneſs and ſincerity, for which he deſerves a proper return from us.

What could I anſwer to all this, So⯑phia? Alas! it coincided but too much with my own wiſhes to offer thoſe objec⯑tions I could and ought to have made; I was ſilent only, promiſing a retroſpec⯑tion on it as ſhe deſired.

[96]I have obeyed her moſt faithfully, as you may well believe, for it is never one moment out of my thoughts, yet have I not courage to give the anſwer for which I am ſo earneſtly importuned; ſoon, however, I muſt determine: how that will be, my next will probably inform you; till then, my dear friend, adieu.

LETTER XVI. Lady Stanley to Mrs. Groſvenor.

PREPARE to be aſtoniſhed, Caroline! And, if poſſible, as enraged as I am at this moment! Would you believe it?—Ah! would to heaven there remained a ſingle doubt of the horrid truth! He has abſolutely propoſed marr age to her—I have it from ſuch authority as admits of none.

[97]No matter how I came by my intelli⯑gence, I have more ways than one of div⯑ing to the bottom of all their ſecrets; for this affair, they are ſtupid enough to ima⯑gine, is a profoumd one, and to remain ſo for a certain time, for reaſons which I confeſs I am at a loſs to gueſs at. But I will do more, Caroline, than keep their abominable ſecret—I will prevent their putting it in practice.

Yes, however certain ſhe may at this moment think herſelf; however ſhe may now triumph, it ſhall be of ſhort dura⯑tion; if my wits do not fail me, I have a plot in hand which I believe cannot fail to blow all her ridiculous impertinent hopes far from her, and I think a day will come when the perfidious, the deſigning Sommerville, will bleſs me for my friend⯑ly interpoſition, in ſaving him from ſo prepoſterous a piece of folly.—But whe⯑ther or not, my trouble will be amply repaid by the gratification of my re⯑venge.

Do you not honour me, Caroline, for my aſtoniſhing command of temper? It is true I have a ſet of ſimple ſouls to deal with; this, indeed, makes my merit the leſs, yet ſome contrivance it has coſt me, [98]and a ſew falſehoods; but that's a trifle.—My mind is not, thank my ſtars! formed on a narrow contracted ſcale; it is free and unfettered by vulgar prejudi⯑ces; and, of courſe, perfectly fitted to the work I have in hand.

Ah! how I ſhall enjoy their mutual diſappointment! Nay I already antici⯑pate the pleaſure I ſhall experience.—Poor, ignorant, conceited creature, to fancy Nature ever intended her to figure as Lady Sommerville! The very idea drives me to madneſs! and the old doat⯑ing fool of an Aunt too!—Caroline, it will be a ſcene delightful beyound all poſ⯑ſible expreſſion, thus to blaſt all their hopes at the very moment they look upon them as certain.

I told you formerly, of a fellow her father meant her to marry—my buſineſs of late has been to learn every particular relating to that affair; his character, his diſpoſition, place of reſidence, &c. &c.—all this I am now miſtreſs of, and, to my infinite ſatisfaction, find him exactly the kind of being I wanted to complete my revenge—rich, low born—of courſe purſe-proud, and overbearing—envying [99]thoſe who have a family name to boaſt of, yet affecting to deſpiſe them for ſet⯑ting any value on what he calls the moſt abſurd of all imaginary advantages. Self-willed, obſtinate as a mule, and to crown all, dying for the creature who has pre⯑ſumed to—(Caroline I could execrate her very name!)

This animal, then, is deſtined to be the hero of my tale; and, in return for the ſervice I expect him to do me, is to be put in poſſeſſion of his dulcinea.

Now read the encloſed copy of an epiſ⯑tle I have juſt diſpatched to him, then tell me whether you think it can fail to produce thoſe glorious effects I expect from it.

[103] There, Caroline, what think you of my eloquence? Can it fail of ſucceſs?—Impoſſible! I think I have thrown in a convenient doſe of flattery; it will work like a charm, I'll lay my life.

Farewell; I every moment expect the fellow's anſwer! and then, ſhould he agree to my ſcheme, I muſt contrive to get the girl here; this, indeed, will be no hard matter, as her Aunt is never bet⯑ter pleaſed than when I honour her with any degree of attention.

I muſt aſk you once more, have I not a wonderful command over my paſſions? Am I not a finiſhed hypocrite? when it is neceſſary to aſſume that character.—They are firmly perſuaded my attach⯑ment to Sommerville was merely friend⯑ſhip; and he, though he knows we tranſ⯑greſſed the bounds of that frigid ſenti⯑ment, yet as firmly believes I never had any regard for him; a circumſtance not a little mortifying to his vanity. What elſe can he think, on finding I gave him up to another with ſo much cool indiffer⯑ence?—Oh! it was a glorious thought! And will, I truſt, be productive of moſt joyous miſchief!

LETTER XVII. Lord Sommerville to Charles Dalion, Eſq

PREPARE your congratulations, Char⯑les!—the adorable Emily will ſoon be mine!—mine by every tender, every ſo⯑lemn tie! What a miracle has her num⯑berleſs perfections wrought on the once volatile mind of your friend Sommerville? He now talks of matrimony with as grave a countenance, as if he were an old prac⯑titioner in the buſineſs.

Yes, Charles, nothing is now wanting but the nuptial benediction to complete my wonderful transformation; my mind is made up, there was no getting my beloved on any other terms, and to give her up was death; and after all, what does it ſignify; one muſt marry ſome time or other, why then delay it?

Have I then, you'll aſk, ſettled matters amicably with my couſin?—Don't miſ⯑take me!—ſhe is to know nothing of the [105]matter, nor any body elſe except your wor⯑ſhip and the parties concerned; that is to ſay, my charmer, her Aunt (to whom, by the by, I owe my ſucceſs) and your hum⯑ble ſervant; without that kind Lady's interpoſition, I am ſenſible I never ſhould have prevailed on the engaging Emily; but through her ſagacious arguments (though mine could not get the better of her delicate ſcruples) ſhe has conſented to keep our union a ſecret for ſome time, perſuaded no leſs than myſelf, that Lady Mary Craven's patience will not hold out much longer.

And if the worſt happens, namely, that ſhe ſhould diſcover it, ſhe can but claim her legacy—a devliſh ſlice it will cut off my eſtate, Charles, that's certain; but there's no help; I would rather ſubmit to carry a muſket than be tied to her for life—this, however, ſhe cannot claim, till I have in plain terms refuſed her, or am married to another—now ſhe has not yet, you ſee, aſked me the queſtion, and if ſhe waits till I aſk her, our affairs are likely to remain in ſtatu quo.

To prevent all poſſible ſuſpicion, my beloved is to continue with her Aunt till ſuch time as I can publicly acknowledge [106]her—and ſhould her father make any diſturbance, and inſiſt on her returning home, Mrs. Grenville has taken upon herſelf to make that matter eaſy by ac⯑quainting him with the whole truth, not doubting but he will be mighty well pleaſed to find ſhe has diſpofed of her in a manner ſo much more eligible, in every reſpect than he intended to do him⯑ſelf; ſince it was merely for the ſake of a quiet life he ever conſented to a match he by no means approved.

See what it is, Charles, to have a ſhrew of a wife—but a wife like the gentle Emily—aye, that is quite another affair, and three days hence your friend will have that bleſſing to boaſt of—yet, no boaſting, I forgot that—Well a time will ſhortly come, I hope, when I may pro⯑claim to all the world my unbounded happineſs.

My widow and I are on the beſt terms imaginable; ſhe even condeſcends to talk to me, of my charmer; aſks how long this paſſion is to laſt? ſays I am an incon⯑ſtant wretch; but too much like herſelf in that particular, to excite either her wonder or indignation.

I have ſome reaſon to believe, ſhe has found means to conſole herſelf, for my [107]infidelity, as our Major now does the honours of her houſe. She is bleſſed with a moſt capacious heart.—Ah! little does ſhe dream I am on the point of giv⯑ing mine away in earneſt.

Three tedious days over, Charles, and I ſhall be able to ſubſcribe myſelf, your ſupremely happy,

LETTER XVIII. Lady Stanley to Mrs. Groſvenor.

GIVE me joy, Caroline! All is over, and I am beyond expreſſion delighted with my handy-work.

No, poſitively there never was my equal; nor a ſet of ſtupid mortals ſo completely outwitted. I could expire with laughing when I figure to myſelf their conſternation.—If you do not ſee it in the ſame ridiculous light, it appears [108]to me in, I would not give a ſtraw for your feelings.

My doughty hero ſwallowed the bait I threw out with the avidity of a gud⯑geon.—His anſwer was exactly what I wiſhed—he expreſſed ſome doubts, how⯑ever, in regard to the damſel's being pre⯑judiced in his favour. And well he might, for ſhe deteſted his very name, and had ever uſed him accordingly.—So much the better, I truſt he will now repay her in kind.—But though he had doubts of the ſincerity of her paſſion, of his own he had none, for he ſwore moſt manfully he would carry her off at the hazard both of ſoul and body rather than forego his hopes.

Bravo, cried I, as I peruſed his ſcrawl. This is the very man I want, it would be ſurprizing, with ſuch noble ſpirits as we are poſſeſſed of, we ſhould not play the deuce before 'tis long.

The happy pair were to have been fet⯑tered as laſt Tueſday.—Every thing was finally ſettled. Miſs was to remain as a Miſs, with her plotting Aunt.—So happy ſo elate, I'll warrant ye, with their ima⯑gined dignity.—O dear! O dear!

[109]Well, child, I had called ore fre⯑quently on them than uſual for ſome time paſt.—My Ladyſhip always did them honour; the evening before the day of days, my ſaid Ladyſhip was ſeized with a violent headach, a card was diſpatched, intreating the favour of Miſs Herbert's company, for an hour, to accompany me in a walk, as I thought the air might, poſſibly remove it.—No refuſing her Ladyſhip's requeſt.—She came—away we ſtrolled.—But alas! alas! had not proceeded a quan⯑ter of a mile, before we were terrified by the approach of four ill looking fel⯑lows making directly towards us.—I ſcreamed, calling on all the gods and god⯑deſſes for protection; ſhe, more courage⯑ous, begged me not to be alarmed, they could not mean us any injury.—A mo⯑ment ſerved to undeceive her, for before you could count twenty, Madam was wiſk'd up by one of them, carried to the carriage prepared for her reception, and away it flew like lightening.

I now made the beſt of my way home, my heart as light as a feather, but my outward appearance in a ſtate of diſtrac⯑tion—fit ſucceeded fit, my ſervants frightened out of their ſenſes, begging to [110]know what had reduced me to ſuch a de⯑plorable condition; it was an hour before I was ſufficiently recovered to gratify their curioſity; at length I accompliſhed it, and amazement followed of courſe.

To keep up the farce I was put to bed extremely ill—had not courage enough to inform Mrs. Grenville of the diſaſter—no hurry for that you know.

At length comes her carriage to convey Miſs Herbert home. What was now to be done? Why, my woman was compel⯑led to be the relater of the melancholy ſtory. I ordered her to go in it, and to give the beſt account of the matter ſhe could; and above all, to deſcribe the la⯑mentable ſtate in which ſhe had left me, by way of apology for not waiting on her myſelf. All this ſhe would do perfectly well, as ſhe had not an idea that the whole was a concerted plot.

It was now the old ſoul's turn to be diſtracted in earneſt. Never was ſuch a ſcene of confuſion as Wilſon was witneſs to; and to crown the whole, in the midſt of her deſpair, and before my abigail had quite finiſhed the taſk impoſed upon her, in comes Sommerville.

[111]Ah! What would I not have given to have ſeen his frantic behaviour? I envied her, and ſincerely wiſhed I could myſelf, with propriety, have related to them the delightful particulars, but that was impoſ⯑ſible. He raved, he ſtormed, he curſed; and, as in duty bound, vowed he would never reſt till he had diſcovered the vil⯑lain who had robbed him of his heart's deareſt treaſure! Theſe were his Lord⯑ſhip's very words, ſaid Wilſon, while giving me an account of what paſſed.

Why, to be ſure, my Lady, he muſt have quite doated upon her, as one may ſay; and to be ſure, ſhe was a mightly pretty creature. But yet to take on ſo for one who was only an acquaintance like, amazed me; for had ſhe been his own wife, I verily thinks he could not have been in a greater taking.

No, nor perhaps half ſo great, few men look upon the loſs of a wife as any vio⯑lent affliction.

Fearing to betray my real feelings, I diſmiſſed my maid; when, in a few mi⯑nutes after, comes Mrs. Grenville, beg⯑ging, for heaven's ſake! I would allow her the honour of a moment's converſation, [112]that ſhe might learn the diſtracting parti⯑culars from my own lips. This I could not decently refuſe, ſo up ſhe came to my bedchamber.

Oh! Lady Stanley, I am the moſt wretched of women! My poor dear child! What muſt ſhe now ſuffer to be thus torn from her friends, thus expoſed to a thou⯑ſand inſults? Alas! I cannot ſupport this dreadful ſhock.

And ſtill more dreadful diſappointment of all my high raiſed hopes, ſhe would have ſaid, I preſume, Caroline, had ſhe been honeſt enough to ſpeak her mind freely.

I pity you from my ſoul, my dear ma⯑dam; if I feel this horrid affair thus ſen⯑ſibly, what muſt you do, who are ſo near⯑ly connected with the amiable girl? Have you no idea who it can be, that has dared to commit this horrid outrage.

None in the world; I can form no con⯑jecture, and it is that diſtreſſes me. I came now principally to aſk if your Ladyſhip can give me any intelligence of the road they took, or any particular deſcription of the villains, that I may as ſoon as poſ⯑ſible ſend in purſuit of them. Lord [113]Sommerville, (who has ſhewn us a thou⯑ſand civilities) has kindly offered me his ſervices on this melancholy occaſion—Pray, Caroline, obſerve the cool manner in which the old hypocrite mentioned his civilities.

I am perſuaded, my dear madam, he will do it with pleaſure; he is really a very worthy young man, and alway, pro⯑feſſed the higheſt eſteem for my amiable friend Miſs Herbert.

I then, in few words, gave her the beſt account I could of what ſhe wiſhed to know, that is to ſay, miſled her as far as poſſible, and wiſhing her ſucceſs in the important ſearch, ſhe took her leave af⯑ter having in the warmeſt manner acknow⯑ledged her gratitude for the kind concern I had expreſſed on the occaſion.

From that moment, Caroline, the whole neighbourhood have been in the fineſt confuſion imaginable: one friend gallop⯑ing here, another there; ſome running this way, ſome that; but firſt on the liſt ſtands the gallant! Woe begone! Deſpair⯑ing Sommerville!—What are all their feelings when compated to his?—Aye child! what indeed? Had I been kind [114]enough to have waited till the honey moon was fairly over, he might perchance have got the better of his affliction—but to daſh the cup of happineſs from his lip in ſuch a manner, O fie! fie, Lady Stan⯑ley! it was really a wicked trick, and what, if known, they would certainly ne⯑ver forgive.

Then ſuch a virtuous love too, none of your modiſh intrigues, none of your modern faſhionable matches, where nei⯑ther party care a fig for the other—in that caſe it might have been borne with chriſtian patience—but here was nothing but downright love; a paſſion pure and unſullied; and who knows whether the poor dear creature will ever find himſelf in ſo pious a frame of mind again as long as he lives.

There, Caroline, I think I have given you a treat; ſure I am, if you enjoy it as truly as I do, you are not a little oblig⯑ed to me. I have got pretty well over the horrid ſhook, and am now able to ſee my friends again, of courſe I hear the ſtory told a thouſand different ways, and am compelled to repeat all I know of it [115]as often; it will afford converſation for ages—Adieu.

LETTER XIX. Lord Sommerville to Charles Dalton, Eſq

KEEP your congratulations, Charles, for ſome happier fellow! I am at this mo⯑ment completely wretched!—Never was there ſo unaccountable, ſo curſed an af⯑fair.—I have almoſt turned my brain by fruitleſs conjectures, my mind is in a ſtate of abſolute diſtraction, my body ſinking under the fatigue I have ſuffered.—Faith, I almoſt bluſh to explain myſelf more clearly, I feel myſelf humbled ſo confoundedly.

Ah! could I but learn by whom, I would take ample vengeance for the in⯑jury; the indignity I have—But no more [116]threats till fortune puts it in my power to realize them; then, Charles, call me a paltroon if I am worſe than my word.

Know then, that the very day preced⯑ing that on which my angel, Emily, had promiſed to make me the happieſt of men, while ſhe was taking the air with Lady Stanley, ſhe was ſeized by three or four villains, and carried off.

This, Charles, is the horrible ſtory in few words. Where, or by whom, the Lord only knows, for not the leaſt infor⯑mation have I yet been able to gain, though I have made it my whole buſineſs, as you may well believe, from the curſed mo⯑ment. I have not had an hour's reſt ſince the affair happened; on horſeback for ever, enquiring at every ſtage, every inn, of every ſoul I meet; yet, how deſcribe what I am in queſt of?—One carriage ſo like another, and hundreds paſſing in all directions.—I am frequently taken for a lunatic, nor are they far miſtaken.

Oh, Charles, can you form an idea of a more diſtreſſing, more mortifying ſitua⯑tion; on the very eve of enjoying the higheſt poſſible happineſs—my Emily, all engaging, modeſt tenderneſs—by hea⯑ven [117]it is too much!—It unman's me quite, but for the rage which animates me, and the glorious hopes that I ſhall yet be able to diſcover the wretch who has thus blaſt⯑ed all my proſpects of felicity, I ſhould ſink under my affliction.

At ſome moments I have been tempt⯑ed to ſuſpect Lady Stanley; I know ſhe has a ſoul capable of any thing, however inhuman—I know it well—yet, I believe, I ſhould injure her; ſhe was confined for ſome days by the ſhock ſhe received, ſpoke of it with unfeigned concern to Mrs. Grenville, and was apparently lit⯑tle leſs afflicted than herſelf.

I know not what to think; I am per⯑plexed, bewildered in a variety of fruit⯑leſs conjectures; perhaps her father—yet that is ridiculous; why have recourſe to ſtratagem, when he might have order⯑ed her home whenever he pleaſed? And, as for the fellow to whom he had pro⯑miſed her, he, for that very reaſon, could have no inducement to play the knight-errant; he was favoured by her friends, nay, looked upon her as his own.

Yet, Charles, it occurs to me at this inſtant, he might poſſibly, though I can⯑not [118]well conceive how, have heard ſhe meant to diſappoint him; in that caſe who can ſay what a brutal paſſion like his might tempt him to—for brutal I may well call it; ſince he knew he was her averſion.

By heavens! this is the only idea that has yet ſtruck me with any appearance of probability.

But then, again, why this force? Why not prevail on her father to ſend for her home, and according to his promiſe give her to him?—Would not this have been a more natural plan? No doubt of it.

In ſhort, as I ſaid, I am in a labyrinth, and abſolutely unable to determine which way to bend my courſe next. I write this, while my horſes are reſting, for my own part I can take none—they are ready—Farewell.

LETTER XX. Lady Stanley to Mrs. Groſvenor.

SOMMERVILLE has commenced Quixotte, and is galloping all over the country in queſt of his Dulcinea; the Grenvilles and Herberts all out on the ſame wild gooſe chaſe—air and exerciſe will do the good ſculs a world of ſervice; in the mean time my hero is quietly en⯑joying the fruit of his labour.

Yet, not very quietly, neither, for I find Miſs is rather reſractory, and by what he ſays, I begin to ſuſpect he wiſhes he were fairly quit of her, or that he had got poſſeſſion of his prize by more juſti⯑fiable means.

The fellow's a fool, and of courſe has not a ſpirit equal to the taſk I have aſſigned him; but that's his affar. I have brought him into the ſcrape, it is his bu⯑ſineſs to get out of it the beſt way he can.

You muſt know, he has wrote to me, begging my further advice how to pro⯑ceed; [120]I have not yet, nor am I clear that I ever ſhall take the trouble to give it; certainly not, unleſs I find on reflection, I can ſtrike out any thing new or likely to afford me a little more diverſion. He deſcribes her terrors, on finding herſelf thus kidnapped, in a ſtyle that plainly ſays he is not a little terrified himſelf, for what may be the conſequences of his va⯑lourous atchievement. To ſay truth, they may be rather ſerious, but this he ought to have foreſeen.

He ſays, in his vile ſcrawl, for the wretch can hardly write legibly, that he had at firſt intended carrying her home to her father's—but on finding ſhe freely declared no power on earth ſhould ever compel her to give him her hand! That ſhe abhorred him! That death in any ſhape would be infinitely preferable to her than being united to a villain who had dared to inſult her in the manner he had done! He was ſo highly provoked, and at the ſame time fearing her father, on finding her ſo reſolutely determined a⯑gainſt him, might retract his promiſe, that he, in an evilhour, reſolved to convey her to a houſe of his own, and there to treat [121]her with leſs ceremony than he had hi⯑therto done in revenge for the contempt with which ſhe had treated him.

He at once put his plan in execution, ſo that he had her now intirely in his power; but with the violence of her agi⯑tations ſhe had thrown herſelf into a ſe⯑ver; was at the moment he wrote deli⯑rious, and by the doctors pronounced in the utmoſt danger.

He then, Caroline, implores me to write inſtantly, and tell him what I would ad⯑viſe [122]him to do. Were I to give him any advice it ſhould be to hang himſelf at once, both for his own ſake and mine.

The fellow's an errant coward, it is evident, and of courſe may be tempted by his fears to impeach; yet, as I am not, let him do his worſt, with all my ſoul. The letter I wrote on the ſubject is all he has to produce againſt me, and it is wrote in ſo friendly a ſtile, ſo conſonant to the wiſhes of all her family, except the old Aunt, that I think it will acquit me of any evil intention, did I care any thing about it. But the truth is, I do not.—What are the animals to me? If the girl will be ſuch a ſimpleton as to fret her⯑ſelf to death, who can help it.

Had ſhe not robbed me of the only man who ever had power to gain my affections, ſhe might, for ought I cared, have flirted on to the end of the chapter, with every other ſhe could find fooliſh enough to think it worth their while. But to rival me there! To rob me by her—heaven knows what, Caroline!—Of a Sommer⯑ville!—It was not to be borne.

Ah! death is too gentle a puniſhment; let her die then, and let the fellow make the beſt of the ſtory he can.

[123]The ſilly whim over, Sommerville may again be mine. Heavens! the very hope of ſuch an event gives me new life, nor is it in any degree improbable; a ſhort time muſt convince him of the difference between an ignorant country girl, and a woman of the world, who knows how to ſet a proper value on his merit and ac⯑compliſhments.

It was a whim, Caroline, a mere whim of the moment; I have not a doubt he will ſoon conquer it, and return to me a true penitent. I will not humble myſelf ſo far as to make a compariſon between her perſonal attractions and mine; and, as to her underſtanding, it would be ſtill more ridiculous.

LETTER XXI. Same to the Same.

THE wandering knight, Caroline, is returned—but what a change! He is ab⯑ſolutely worn to a ſhadow; looks like the ghoſt of his former bewitching ſelf, and appears in the deepeſt deſpair.

I have only ſeen him en paſſant; think of that—not once called upon me, though I condeſcended to write him a note to enquire after his health; a cool card, with compliments, was all the return I got.—I was weak enough to write a ſe⯑cond time, and, I fear, with a degree of tenderneſs, for which I now deteſt my⯑ſelf. This produced no better effect—polite, but freezingly cold. Farewell all hope then! Farewell love! And wel⯑come hatred!

Yes, Caroline, I think I now hate him! Hate him moſt heartily! Sure he might have continued to me his friendſhip; com⯑mon civility at leaſt—to this I was cer⯑tainly intitled—but be it ſo.

[125]Since then he will not help to fill up my time in the manner I wiſh, I muſt even find a way to do it without his aſſiſtance; I will not be ſo ungrateful to him, I will find employment for him before I ſleep; yes, I will rouſe him from this lethargy of woe; if nothing but his beloved Emily will ſerve his turn, he ſhall have her, but on ſuch terms as, I truſt, he will have reaſon to think a dear bargain;—that is to ſay, if ſhe has not, by this time, given us both the ſlip, by a journey to the other world, for I have heard nothing of the matter ſince my laſt. He arrived here a day or two after, and the dear hopes of again having him all to myſelf, put her and her whole tribe out of my head.

It is too ſure, Caroline, that he loves her—I can no longer doubt it. Could I ever do ſo? You'll aſk, ſince he was ac⯑tually on the point of giving ſo inconteſ⯑table a proof of it by marrying her.

I believed, indeed, he had a paſſion for her, which as he could not contrive to gratify on any other terms, he, in a fit of deſperation had agreed to it; but that it was, by no means, ſo rooted in his breaſt as to produce the effect I am now a wit⯑neſs to.

[126]I was perſuaded a few weeks would have reſtored him to reaſon and to me. I have, for once, been deceived—he too ſhall be deceived in his turn—I will wring his heart, ſince I find her deteſted image is ſo deeply imprinted there.

How this is to be done, you ſhall know in my next—ſo till then, adieu.

LETTER XXII. Same to the Same.

READ the incloſed copy of an epiſtle I have fabricated, Caroline, and which the deſpairing lover will receive by this time to-morrow—If I am not miſtaken he will once more take horſe, but in what temper of mind I'll leave you to gueſs; it will at leaſt free me from the mortifi⯑cation of ſeeing him here, and that of [127]having others witneſs to the indifference with which he nows treats me.

My Lord,

IN pity to an amiable young creature, in whoſe happineſs I know your Lordſhip is greatly intereſted, I take up my pen, and truſt my motive will plead my excuſe.

I have been an unwilling ſpectator to a ſcene of ſuch complete villainy, that my heart bleeds when I think of it.

I bluſh to ſay I am houſe-keeper to the wretch of whoſe unexampled trea⯑chery I am now going to give an ac⯑count.

Your Lordſhip muſt have heard Miſs Herbert ſpeak of Mr. Morton—he is the man who has, by an unheard-of piece of cruelty, for ever deſtroyed her peace, and of courſe Lord Sommerville's; for I am not to learn the happy event which was to have taken place, had he not baſe⯑ly robbed you of her.

She has, by the injurious treatment ſhe has received, been reduced to the point of death; and no wonder, ſince loſs of honour to a mind pure as hers, [128]was, I doubt not, infinitely more dread⯑ful.

Though now in this humble ſtation, I have ſeen better days, my Lord.—I felt for—I pitied her diſtreſs, and only regret it was not in my power to ſave her from ruin—Alas! it was not—ſhe was too nar⯑rowly watched by the monſter who has undone her.—But finding to what a con⯑dition his brutality had reduced her, he was compelled to put her under my care.

I have the ſatisfaction to inform your Lordſhip, that care has not been in vain; ſhe is, at length, out of danger, and I hope will ſhortly be able to leave this deteſted houſe, could I contrive to find any way for her to eſcape—I offered to write to her parents—"Ah! never! ſhe cried, never can I ſee them more! No—get me but out of this wretch's power, and I will, in ſome obſcure corner, hide my miſerable head! and truſt death will ſoon, in tender compaſſion to my unſpeak⯑able miſery, put an end to my days!"

I would alſo have offered to write to you, my Lord, but judged ſhe would be ſtill, if poſſible, more averſe from that. [129]I have ventured, therefore, to do it with⯑out her knowledge, not doubting but you will find means to deliver her, and to pu⯑niſh the wretch who has thus deſtroyed the happy proſpect which awaited you.

'Till then, which I hope will not be long, depend upon my utmoſt care and attention, and believe me, your Lord⯑ſhip's

Moſt obedient, &c.

What do you think of madam houſe⯑keeper, Caroline?—Don't you think her letter will produce ſome rather un⯑pleaſant feelings in the gentle boſom of our deſpairing ſwain. I flatter myſelf the account ſhe has given him, will, on this occaſion, at leaſt put his matrimonial whim out of his head, and may be the means of his getting himſelf run through the body into the bargain; for a tilting bout there muſt be or the deuce is in it; ſhould he come off conqueror, my honeſt friend, the Nabob, muſt even ſubmit to the operation himſelf—no great matter which; and as to the damſel, we muſt leave her future fate to chance; I think it does not promiſe to be any longer en⯑viable.

[130]I have contrived to ſend the fine epiſ⯑tle to him, by ſuch a conveyance as ſhall leave him no poſſible doubt of its authen⯑ticity, and expect to ſee him gallop off full ſpeed, as ſoon as he has properly di⯑geſted its contents—dearly do I love a lit⯑tle innocent miſchief—and this is perfectly ſo, you'll allow.

I am now all impatience for the iſſue of this manauvre, as it cannot, I think, fail to produce the beſt poſſible effects. I have a preſentiment that the poor de⯑vil of a Nabob will come off with the worſt, for that he is an errant coward, as I ſaid before, his ſtyle plainly evinces; yet, coward as he is, I believe in my con⯑ſcience the fellow would gladly compound for a ſlight ſcratch to be fairly quit of his refractory charge.—Adieu, Caroline.

LETTER XXIII. Lord Sommerville to Charles Dalton, Eſq

I HAVE been engaged in a moſt won⯑derful piece of buſineſs ſince my laſt, Charles, which has produced a total re⯑volution in my ſober matrimonial ſcheme, as you will readily conceive when in⯑formed of the infernal particulars—no fault of mine, you muſt allow, if I am compelled to take to my old courſes again. I was on the point of reforma⯑tion, but fate forbids, and to that I muſt ſubmit.

After having made every poſſible en⯑quiry after my adorable Emily, to no pur⯑poſe, I returned in a truly diſconſolate condition to my regiment; Lady Stanley, on my arrival, ſent to enquire for me, wondering, I preſume, I had not called upon her. I was in no humour for it, and ſent a very cool anſwer. This pro⯑duced a ſecond note, but wrote in a ſtyle [132]which very clearly convinced me ſhe not only wiſhed for my company, but hoped I would put it in her power to conſole me for the loſs of my beloved—I have no longer a doubt that the airs of indiffer⯑ence ſhe had thought proper to aſſume, on finding my attachment for herſelf at an end, were put on merely to conceal her mortification; it muſt be owned it was of very ſhort duration; but all her condeſcenſion was thrown away upon me; I could not, for the ſoul of me, in the humour I was, take the trouble to viſit her.

What change time might have effected, I know not, but a letter I got, of which I incloſe you a copy, put her as much out of my head as if no ſuch perſon had ever exiſted.

I will now, Charles, ſuppoſe you have read it—judge, then, of my feelings, on finding the horrid intelligence it brought me.

'Till then, I had never been wholly without my ſuſpicions of the widow; but at length compelled to acquit her, as ſhe knew nothing of the ſcoundrel who has been the author of all this miſery. [133]He is now, however, ſmarting for his temerity, and will not, a ſecond time, I fancy be eaſily tempted to play the hero in ſuch an adventure. I think I have made him pay pretty handſomely for his frolic! By heavens! when I think of the ſufferings of the gentle Emily! (that dear object of my tendereſt, my everlaſting affection) I am almoſt diſtracted, and could inflict a thouſand deaths, inſtead of one, on the vile wretch who has ſo cru⯑elly betrayed the innocence he ought to have protected. But no more of this; I will, if poſſible, proceed in my narra⯑tive.

I inſtantly ſat off, attended by a cou⯑ple of ſervants, on whoſe courage and fidelity I could depend; determined to reſcue my dear girl from the power of the monſter who had thus undone us both, and ſeverely puniſh him for his infamous conduct.

I left my carriage at a little diſtance, and mounting one of my ſervants horſes, bidding the other follow me, rode up to the houſe.—A fellow was ſtanding at the gate—I demanded if his maſter was at home, to which he replied in the affir⯑mative; [134]then aſked who he ſhould an⯑nounce.

No matter, ſhew me in directly; he led the way into a parlour, and then went to inform his maſter, who in a few mi⯑nutes, made his appearance.

Whether he gueſſed my buſineſs, I know not, as he was a ſtranger to my perſon; but I did not leave him long at a loſs—I had my piſtols ready, which he no ſooner caſt his eyes upon, than a guil⯑ty conſcience informed him at once of my purpoſe; and like a coward as he is, he made an effort to eſcape.

This I prevented by ſetting my back againſt he door; he now began to bluſter, and aſked what I meant by daring to in⯑ſult him in his own houſe?—

I mean to puniſh a moſt conſummate villain, and you are the man! If not a coward as well as a villain take your choice of theſe piſtols, and be thankful I give you ſo honourable a chance for preſerving your worthleſs exiſtence.

Still affecting to look bold (though he trembled in every joint.) And pray who are you that thus preſumes to put my life in danger?

[135]Oh! no matter who; and as to the why, you can be at no loſs to gueſs.

He ſtill drew back, refuſing to accept my offer. Finding, however, nothing leſs would do, he at laſt took one, and (ſcarce giving me time to lay hold of the other) fired and miſſed me; I now fired in my turn, and had the conſolation to lodge the ball in his body.

The report alarmed the family, and a number of ſervants aſſembled; take care of your maſter, ſaid I; then ſeizing one of them by the arm, I ordered him to ſhew me inſtantly to the apartment of the lady who was by violence detained there, unleſs he wiſhed I ſhould treat him as I had done his ſcoundrel of a maſter.

The choice I had given him, was eaſily decided, and he immediately cried out, this way, pleaſe your honour.

But now, Charles, all language muſt fail me!—My Emily, no doubt, terrified by the confuſion ſhe had heard, lay life⯑leſs on the floor, without a ſoul to afford her any aſſiſtance.

I rung the bell in an agony it is im⯑poſſible to give you an idea of—I believed [136]her gone for ever, as not a ſymptom of life appeared. A woman came in, ter⯑ror and amazement depicted in her coun⯑tenance—I ordered her to call for help, and to procure whatever ſhe judged moſt likely to reſtore my angel. I had, before I went up ſtairs, diſpatched my ſervant to bring my carriage to the door; it ar⯑rived in a few minutes, but all our efforts were ineffectual, ſhe ſhewed no ſigns of life; I then judged the air might be of more ſervice to her than all their drops, &c. &c. in caſe ſhe was not abſolutely paſt recovery.

Lifting the dear girl, therefore, in my arms, and leaning her pale (though ſtill infinitely lovely) face on my boſom, I carried her gently to the chaiſe, and put⯑ting her in, took my ſeat by her, and bidding the poſtillion drive ſlowly on, left the curſed crew in a ſtate of aſtoniſh⯑ment at what had paſſed, which there is no deſcribing; they ſtood gaping with open mouths, and every mark of ſtupid amazement, not one of them having had courage to offer any reſiſtance to my un⯑dertaking—Indeed the whole took up ſo ſhort a ſpace of time that they had not [137]got over their ſurprize, nor had they re⯑covered the uſe of the little ſenſe nature had given them when I left them.

I now endeavoured by a thouſand ten⯑der careſſes, to reſtore my beloved; and, to my unutterable joy, at length per⯑ceived ſhe began to open her languid eyes.

Oh, Charles! gueſs, if you can, what was my rapture at that bleſſed moment—My Emily! My angel! (cried I) in an ecſtacy, look up, my beſt beloved! Ba⯑niſh all your fears! and behold your Sommerville, whoſe whole happineſs de⯑pends upon your recovery. She now ſighed deeply, and a few tears fell from her eyes on my boſom, which ſupported her; my hopes began to revive, this I thought a favourable ſymptom, and I was not deceived.

Alas! where am I? ſaid ſhe at laſt; but, in ſo faint a voice, I could ſcarcely diſtinguiſh her words.—Oh, Save me! ſave me from him! And ſhe burſt into a flood of tears.

I gently preſſed her to my throbbing heart—be comforted my Emily, you are no longer in the power of the wretch [138]whoſe preſence you ſo juſtly dread; it is your Sommerville, it is the moſt ten⯑der of lovers, who implores, who intreats you to calm your agitation.

Sommerville! exclaimed ſhe—Som⯑merville!—good heavens! am I awake! may I believe my ſenſes? And again her dear head, which ſhe had made an effort to raiſe, ſunk on my breaſt.

It is! it is your Sommerville, my beſt beloved! Who has been the happy means of delivering you from the power of a villain, and who now with tranſport folds you to his boſom!

Ah! my Lord! (turning her mild dove-like eyes upon me) How ſhall I be able to expreſs my gratitude?—Heaven has at length then heard my prayers! and ſure was doubly kind in ſending you to my relief! Alas! my Lord, you know not the terrors I have indured!—Ah, Charles! too well I knew them for my peace!

Think no more of it, my angel; en⯑deavour to forget the paſt and look only forward to ſcenes of happineſs; for hap⯑py you ſhall be if it is in the power of the moſt faithful, the moſt ardent of lo⯑vers to make you ſo!

[139]Oh! my Lord, I have a thouſand things to tell you, a thouſand queſtions to aſk; but am ſtill ſo weak! ſo very faint! that I have not power to utter them—of this, however, be aſſured, my heart is perfect⯑ly grateful for the important ſervice you have ſo generouſly, ſo nobly conferred upon me; my family too will join their thanks to mine for ſo infinite an obligati⯑on. Ah! they will now be convinced, the man they ſo highly favoured, was a deſpicable wretch; he has given but too fatal proofs of it.

My poor dear Aunt too—I dread to aſk, my Lord, what effect the ſhock had upon her? But I ſhall ſoon, I hope, have the happineſs of ſeeing her; of removing all her apprehenſions; this delightful thought has given me new life; I am better, my Lord, much better; pray order the ſer⯑vant to drive on as faſt as poſſible, indeed, I can bear it now. Gracious heaven! how will her kind heart rejoice to have me thus reſtored to her at the moment, perhaps, when ſhe wholly deſpaired of it?

If I now, Charles, feared her impati⯑ence, and violent emotions of joy, might [140]be too much for her ſtill weak ſpirits; how then have courage to tell her I had no deſign to put her again under her Aunt's protection?—A thought, however, inſtantly ſtruck me.

Mrs. Grenville, my deareſt Emily, is no longer in the country, buſineſs of im⯑portance obliged her to go to London ſoon after the ſhock you mention, and a ſevere one it was; you will have no ob⯑jections then, my love, to join her there, as it is a ſhorter journey than going to your father's ſeat. Indeed, I ventured to reſolve on this plan before you were in a condition to give me your opinion of it, judging it would be more agreeable to you; we are now on our way thither, and ſhall, with eaſe, reach town early to⯑morrow.

Gone to London, ſaid you, my Lord? This ſurpriſes me! Are you perfectly ſure of it? (with ſome emotion.)

Perfectly, my dear, and it was on that account, as I obſerved before, I took this road.

Certainly, my Lord, if that is the caſe, I prefer it greatly. I wiſh not to ſee my father, unleſs accompanied by her; I [141]have not, indeed, courage for it—Yet, alas! how am I to blame for what has happened?—Proceed then, my Lord, ſince it muſt be ſo, let us get on as faſt as poſſible; I am miſerable beyond ex⯑preſſion, nor ſhall I know a moment's peace till once more under her protec⯑tion.

Is this kind, my Emily? (taking her hand) Is your Sommerville, then, ſo perfectly indifferent to you, that his pre⯑ſence gives you no degree of pleaſure? I flattered myſelf your tranquillity would have been wholly reſtored on finding yourſelf under that of the moſt tender, the moſt faithful of lovers.

Ah! my Lord, do me the juſtice to believe I am deeply ſenſible of the infi⯑nite obligations I am under to you. I ſhould be the moſt ungrateful of crea⯑tures, were I not; but can it ſurpriſe you, that I ſhould impatiently wiſh to relieve my friends from the diſtreſs this unfortunate affair muſt have involved them in? Surely it ought not; complete then your kind intentions, convey me, as ſoon as poſſible, to my Aunt; and de⯑pend upon it you ſhall have no cauſe to [142]accuſe me of indifference; till then, I can think of nothing but the joy I ſhall experience in removing all her trouble and anxious ſuſpenſe, which you are ſenſible muſt have been greater than I can expreſs.

I now ordered the carriage to drive on, and in the mean time did all in my power to calm her perturbation; and, as ſhe had not a doubt of my ſincerity, by the time we reached the inn, at which we were to reſt that night, ſhe was tole⯑rably compoſed; more ſo, indeed, Charles, every thing conſidered, than I could poſſibly have expected.

To ſay truth, her behaviour ſurpriſed me a good deal, and I could only account for it, by ſuppoſing ſhe conſoled herſelf with the idea, that I was unacquainted with the whole adventure, and that by marrying her immediately, all would be ſet to rights. This conjecture did not ſerve to raiſe her in my eſteem; in her ſituation, it was certainly natural to form ſuch a wiſh; but it ſet her delicacy in no very favourable point of view.

I expected to have found her over⯑whelmed with ſorry, covered with con⯑fuſion [143]—In ſhort, I conceived it utterly impoſſible, the amiable, the modeſt! bluſhing Emily! could, after what had paſſed, ſo ſoon regain any degree of tran⯑quillity; I had figured her to myſelf a prey to deſpair, and ſo far from deſiring to meet the eyes of her family, that ſhe would rather have wiſhed to bury herſelf for ever from the ſight of any human be⯑ing, than appear before them.

Such was the notion, Charles, I had fooliſhly formed of her ſentiments; her ideas of virtue:—it is pretty plain, I had over-rated them, or, as I ſaid before, ſhe put a conſtraint upon herſelf, in order the better to deceive me—neither the one nor other of theſe opinions gave me much ſa⯑tisfaction.

Yet, I adore her perſon, however her mind may have ſuffered in my eſteem;—and I will freely confeſs, I ſhall, with leſs ſcruple, endeavour to gratify my paſſion, though compelled to do it by leſs honourable means than I formerly propoſed, after this proof of her artifice and duplicity; no doubt, were I in the ſame predicament, I ſhould act as ſhe does—it is a wiſe though not a very gene⯑rous [144]plan—but it will not take, Charles—thank my kind ſtars, I am a little too far in the ſecret.

Happy, as I ſaid before, ſhe ſhall be, if the intire poſſeſſion of my heart and fortune can make her ſo; but my hand ſhe muſt no longer expect. 'Twould be ridiculous—every idea of honour, of de⯑licacy revolts at it. Should the fellow live, what an additional triumph would it be for him; you ſee it is abſolutely im⯑poſſible to think of it: however blame⯑leſs ſhe may, ſtrictly ſpeaking, be; and, I flatter myſelf, ſhe will, on ſerious re⯑flection, be convinced her wiſieſt courſe will be to accept the only terms it is in my power to offer; ſhe can expect no other—that ſhe ſhould endeavour to gain the ſame as before, is, as I ſaid, natural enough, or at leaſt would be ſo to the ge⯑nerality of women. But, I own to you, I believed till now, ſhe was ſuperior to the reſt of her ſex, and am hurt by find⯑ing it otherwiſe.

Yet every thing conſidered, it is per⯑haps better as it is; ſince being more on a level with them than I had ever imagin⯑ed, ſhe will with leſs reluctance do as as others have done before her.

[145]How to inform her of the change in my ſentiments I know not; for after all, there is an undeſcribable ſomething in her looks, her manner, in every word ſhe utters, that commands a reſpect abſolute⯑ly incompatible with the propoſal I wiſh nay, muſt make, ſince my heart tells me ſhe is as dear to me as ever; and that my whole happineſs depends upon her ſmiles.

Charles, you can form no idea of her beauty; her numberleſs attractions; by heavens! they are irreſiſtible, and would almoſt juſtify any folly a man could com⯑mit!

But it muſt not be! I truſt the engag⯑ing, lovely girl will ſee her ſituation in a proper light; and grateful for the ſer⯑vice I have rendered her, and what I ſtill mean to do, will generouſly reward my attachment. But a truce with reflections. Let me put an end to our journey to London.

We arrived the following day; ſhe was a good deal ſtartled on my propoſing her going to my houſe; but having aſ⯑ſured her I knew not in what part of the town her Aunt reſided, though it ſhould [146]be my firſt buſineſs to enquire, was com⯑pelled to acquieſce, being as ignorant of it as myſelf, and having no other friend in this place.

It was too late that evening to begin my ſearch, of courſe ſhe was obliged to accept an apartment for the night, not without the greateſt reluctance; but what elſe could ſhe do?

I took care that my behaviour ſhould be ſuch as to baniſh every apprehenſion, in caſe ſhe had formed any; it was tender and reſpectful; I judged it time enough to let her gueſs my deſign when I had pretended to make the enquiries ſhe was ſo anxious about.

How ſhe ſpent the night, I know not; but I, Charles, never cloſed my eyes; and was a thouſand times tempted to put an end to her ſuſpenſe at once—Can you wonder at it?—So wholly in my power—I did not, however, interrupt her re⯑poſe.

The next morning I ſent up my com⯑pliments intreating ſhe would indulge me with her company at breakfaſt; her an⯑ſwer was, ſhe had ſlept but little, begged I would excuſe her, and permit her to [147]have a cup of tea in the dreſſing-room; adding, ſhe hoped I would not a moment delay the buſineſs I knew was ſo inter⯑eſting to her.

This meſſage ſhe ſent by my houſe⯑keeper, who delivered it very diſtinctly; this I readily granted, ordering her to pay the lady every poſſible mark of reſpect and attention; but in caſe ſhe ſhould aſk for writing materials, to take care not let⯑ters were ſent out of the houſe till I had ſeen them.

This encreaſed Watſon's curioſity; which I ſaw, by her looks, was highly ex⯑cited on our firſt arrival. I did not, how⯑ever, think proper to indulge it juſt then, though I believe, Charles, I might have truſted her, as ſhe knows me pretty well, and has not hitherto preſumed to ſee far⯑ther into theſe kind of affairs than I would have her; ſhe is perſectly ſatisfied with her ſituation, and juſtly concludes I have a right to render mine as agreeable, by any means I pleaſe; I am maſter, and ſhe has been accuſtomed to obey me as ſuch.

That point ſettled, and ſome other or⯑ders given to Frank on the ſame ſubject, [148]I ſallied forth, not with hopes of finding our good Aunt, but my good friend Dal⯑ton. I would rather have ſtaid at home to reflect at leiſure on the delightful buſi⯑neſs I had in hand, but feared my adora⯑ble might diſcover it, which would at once have alarmed her, and, perhaps, cruſhed all my hopes at once; it was time enough, when compelled, to inform her my ſearch had been in vain.

I went out accoringly, meaning, as I ſaid, to call on you to give you this ac⯑count—I did ſo, but to my no ſmall diſ⯑appointment found you had left town the very day before—I was curſedly vexed, having a thouſand things to communi⯑cate, beſides what I have now mentioned; finding no better might be, I marched up to your ſtudy, and there wrote this enor⯑mous packet, which you will get, I ſup⯑poſe, on Tueſday—ſo farewell.

I can tell you no more, till I have again ſeen my beloved—I hope ſhe will not re⯑fuſe me her company at dinner—it is now near the hour—I tremble, I was go⯑ing to ſay (only that it is rather too femi⯑nine a foible for a fellow of ſpirit) at the ſcene I have to encounter, when I ac⯑quaint [149]my angel her Aunt is not to he found—I wiſh it were fairly over with all my ſoul, and that ſhe may bear the diſ⯑appointment with more fortitude than I da [...]e at preſent expect.

Would ſhe, my dear Charles, but con⯑ſent to bleſs me, without driving me to extremity, there would not exiſt a hap⯑pier fellow than your.

P.S. I ſhall, when my affairs are a little better arranged, make ſome enquiry concerning the raſcal I left wounded; ſhould he be mortally ſo, I may have more trouble on his account than he is worthy of, yet the affair properly ſtated, muſt, I think, aſſuredly acquit me.—Adieu.

LETTER XXI. Lady Stanley to Mrs. Groſvonor.

I HAVE juſt had a viſit from Mrs, Grenville—no ſuſpicion you ſee, Caro⯑line, of the hand I have had in the plot—ſo much the better; ſince by this means I ſhall hear, without trouble, how matters go on.

She is juſt returned from her brother's, where they have had ſo delightful a ſquabble on the ſubject of their fair he⯑roine, that ſhe vows ſhe will never enter his doors again while ſhe has life.

Mr. Herbert and his rib, blame her want of proper care and attention for all that has happened. She lays the whole on them for encouraging the preſumptu⯑ous hopes of a fellow, who has proved, by his villainy, how little he deſerved it; for you may well believe they ſoon heard who the hero was, who had been the au⯑thor of all this conſuſion, but are by no means certain who the perſon is to whom [151]ſhe is indebted for her deliverance; though they ſuſpect Sommerville; find⯑ing, by the old woman's blabbing, (for ſhe could not keep her own ſecret) the footing his Lordſhip was upon; nay, ſhe brags of it, and ſays, but for that au⯑dacious wretch, Emily would ere now have been in ſo elevated a ſtyle as to have looked down on them all with the con⯑tempt they deſerve; nor does ſhe yet de⯑ſpair, if their conjectures are well found⯑ed, ſince ſhe knows his Lordſhip is a man of honour; were ſhe once convinced her poor child had ſallen into his hands, all her cares would be at an end.

Certainly, there can be no doubt of it, if, as you ſay, they were ſo ſoon to have been married, (of this circumſtance, Ca⯑roline, I pretended ignorance.)—But what ſurpriſes me is, her not writing to inſorm you of her preſent ſituation; this is the only thing which, on that ſurmiſe, I cannot clearly account for, unleſs by ſuppoſing they mean to give you an agreeable ſurpriſe.

Ah, Lady Stanley! it is certainly ſo; how could I be ſo ſtupid as not to think of that before; depend upon it, it is as [152]your Ladyſhip gueſſes; what elſe, indeed, could prevent her letting me hear from her. Heavens! what a triumph ſhall I yet enjoy over her ridiculous family, who have preſumed to treat me with ſo much indignity; my ſpirits revive, I am quite delighted with your Ladyſhip's ſuperior diſcernment; but my ideas have, for ſome time, been in ſuch a ſtate of confuſion and perplexity, I could think of nothing.

And pray, ma'am, may I aſk, what is become of that wretch, Morton? I long to hear the particulars of my lovely friend's deliverance.

Ah! he met not with half the ſeverity he deſerves; death would have been too mild a puniſhment for his infamous con⯑duct; he is, however, moſt deſperately wounded, and ſtill lies in the utmoſt dan⯑ger: one of his men, immediately after the affair happened, ſet off to Mr. Her⯑bert's in order to inform his Aunt of the horrid tranſaction, not by his vile maſ⯑ter's commands, he owned, for he was in no condition to give any; nor would he, I preſume, have given thoſe if he had; ſince it is more natural to believe he would have withed the whole odious [153]ſtory buried in eternal oblivion, ſince he made ſo deſpicable a figure in it; but the fellow thought it his duty to do ſo, what⯑ever might be the conſequence.

If we may credit the account he gives, my poor niece met with more reſpect during her confinment than ſhe had any reaſon to expect from ſuch a brute; he aſſures us, his maſter, as far as he was able to judge, appeared as much concern⯑ed for what he had done as ſhe could be, on finding it was all likely to be ineffec⯑tual, ſince ſhe repeatedly aſſured him no power on earth ſhould ever compel her to give him her hand.

She never leſt her apartment, except once for an hour at his earneſt entreaty, and he ſaid they concluded it was only then with a view to prevail on him to re⯑ſtore her to her friends—but finding all her eloquence, tears and threats, loſt upon his hardened heart, ſhe left him, nor ever would a ſecond time admit him to her preſence; ſhe was then ſeized with a violent fit of illneſs, and how it would have ended (continued the old dowager) had not heaven interpoſed in her favour, it is not eaſy to gueſs.

[154]And pray, ma'am, in what light does he appear to Mr. and Mrs. Herbert? Surely they cannot acquit him, while they preſume to blame you.

O! as for Mr. Herbert, it is long ſince he has given up all pretenſions to judge for himſelf; yet he does condemn him as far as he dare do it—but ſhe vows he act⯑ed like a man of ſpirit; the girl was his by the moſt ſolemn promiſe; he had reſ⯑cued her from thoſe who were on the point of robbing him of her for ever, he would have married her—what then had he done amiſs? All ſhe regretted was that he had not been fortunate enough to revenge the intended injury as ſhe moſt fervently wiſhed; he was dear to her, and ever ſhould be if heaven ſpared his life; but as to the undutiful, the diſobe⯑dient creature, who had been the ſatal cauſe of all this trouble, ſhe hoped Mr. Herbert had too much regard for her peace of mind ever to expect ſhe would ſee her more, ſhould he be weak enough to think of ſuch a thing; ſhe had taken her reſolution, one houſe ſhould never contain them both, on this ſhe was fully [155]determined; her father might do as he thought proper.

This, Caroline, is the ſubſtance of what paſſed, during Mrs. Grenville's vi⯑ſit; ſhe left me clearly convinced in her own mind that her niece would ſoon be here, figuring away in all her glory, as Lady Sommerville. Don't you think ſhe ſtands a chance of being finely mortified by the diſappointment of all her high raiſed ambitious hopes; moſt horridly ſhould I be ſo, I confeſs, could I for a moment believe he could be ſuch an idiot.

At any rate, indeed, I think he will not make himſelf ſo completely ridicu⯑lous; nor will [...]e, I preſume, [...] quite ſo eaſily forbid her preſence, as that poor tame fool it ſeems has been—No, no, Caroline! Sommerville will not be ſo ſoon intimidated, take my word for it.

I die to know how they are going on, but am out of the track of gaining far⯑ther intelligence; this, in ſpite of my better judgement, leaves me in ſome de⯑gree of anxiery—I hate ſuſpence—yet it is impoſſible—abſolutely impoſſible he can marry her. Ah! I could not ſup⯑port [156] that horrid ſtroke after the pains I have taken to prevent it; I think he can⯑not be quite ſo loſt to common ſenſe, though, after all, men are the abſurdeſt of animals, and the wiſeſt of them at times are the direct contrary.

Would I had never ſeen him! or that I could tear his perfidious image from my breaſt! I deteſt myſelf for beſtowing a thought upon ſuch an inconſtant; yet he is never one moment out of my head!—My preſent ciciſheo does all in his power to ſupplant him in my affections, and if any man could do it, Manſell would be the man; he is not wholly void of at⯑tractions, and I believe adores me: but he is not a Sommerville—however he has no reaſon to complain of my cruelty; there is no doing without ſomebody to trifle with, and he has that talent to per⯑fection.—Farewell.

LETTER XXX. Lord Sommerville to Charles Dalton, Eſq

ON my return home, after having diſ⯑patched my laſt packet to you, Frank, with a grin of ſelf applauſe on his coun⯑tenance, preſented me a letter, which he ſaid Miſs Herbert had given him to put in the poſt; but as my honour had ordered him to keep any he might get, till I came home, he thought it his duty to obey.

I found it addreſſed to a friend of her's, Miſs Fermor.—I had ſome thought of committing it to the flames without gra⯑tifying my curioſity with a ſight of its contents; but could not reſiſt the tempta⯑tion of ſeeing in what manner my adora⯑ble ſpoke of me and her paſt adventure.

I retired to my room, and, not with⯑out emotion, broke the ſeal—I had every poſſible reaſon to be flattered by her ex⯑preſſions [158]of gratitude for the ſervice I had done her; but you ſhall judge for yourſelf, Charles—I will tranſcribe her epiſtle, having a leiſure hour, and that done, proceed to inform you of other matters.

[164] Tranſported, Charles, to find my⯑ſelf mentioned by my beloved with ſuch warmth, ſuch eloquent tenderneſs, I felt a kind of pang at the thoughts of the de⯑ception I was on the point of putting in practice: I pauſed for a few moments—Had I fellowed the firſt cictates of my heart, I ſhould have inſtanly led her to the altar, and made her honourably mine by the moſt ſacred ties;—every obſtacle was then ſorgot—but a little recollection of what had paſſed brought me to my ſo⯑ber ſenſes; vet even then, I was ſtagger⯑ed—what was I to think of the account ſhe had given of the adventure? So whol⯑ly different from that I had received of it. Was it poſſible ſhe could ſo calmly talk of happineſs, of all her troubles being at an end, if the raſcal had treated her in the manner deſcribed in that curſed let⯑ter. This puzzled me—but I conſidered the ſame motives, which I concluded had made her conceal the horrid truth from me, might induce her to be ſilent on the ſubject to her friend.

This idea put an end to all my doubts and ſcruples at once; my paſſion for the lovely, injured creature continued in full [165]force; but all thoughts of matrimony fled with them. The only remaining difficul⯑ty was, how to inform her my ſearch for her Aunt had been fruitleſs, ſince her next requeſt would of courſe be that I would convey her home, which you may believe I had no thoughts of complying with; in ſhort it was to be done, the hour in which ſhe expected me was come, what would ſhe think of not ſeeing me?

While thus deliberating, I heard her bell ring, and preſently a ſervant came to let me know ſhe had enquired whether I was come in.

I now could delay no longer, but bid him return and tell her I was in the draw⯑ing room—down ſhe came inſtantly.

Well, my Lord, cried the lovely crea⯑ture, with ſweet impatience; what ſays my Aunt? Have you ſeen her? Will ſhe come ſor me, or am I to go to her? Per⯑haps ſhe is now in the houſe—Oh! tell me, do not keep me in ſuſpence! I beg of you.

Why theſe emotions, my adorable Emily? Compoſe yourſelf, my beſt love, (taking her hand and leading her to a ſeat) are you, then, ſo very impatient to leave the man who lives but in your preſence.

[166]Ah! my Lord! No triſling I beſeech you, as you value my peace! Where is my Aunt! Why is ſhe not here? She was going to the window, Charles, no doubt in hopes of ſeeing her carriage at the door.

Why is my angel thus diſturbed, (again taking her hand) did I not flatter myſelf, ſhe would think herſelf perfectly ſafe under the protection of her adoring Som⯑merville. I ſhould fear to tell her all my enquiries this morning have been in vain; but I hope to be more ſucceſsful another time.

In vain! (with a look of terror) Have you not found her, then, my Lord? Good heavens! What will become of me? How very, very unfortunate! Are you certain ſhe really came to London? I now begin to fear your Lordſhip has been miſinform⯑ed; ſhe had no ſuch deſign when I left her. I am miſerable beyond expreſſion at this cruel diſappointment.

Why miſerable, my angel? (interrupt⯑ing her) I may be more ſucceſsful in my next attempt; are you not with the man who adores you? Who would with joy ſacrifice his life to give you a moment's pleaſure!

[167]Ah! talk not of pleaſure, my Lord! while I am thus at a diſtance from my friends. Let me be gone; I will wait no longer. Alas, I have been here too long already. I wiſhed to ſee my Aunt. I feared to meet the eyes of my father unleſs ſupported by her preſence; but ſince that cannot be, let me ſet off inſtantly, for rather would I encounter his indignation, however ſevere, than. remain another hour in my preſent ſitua⯑tion; your Lordſhip cannot but ſee the impropriety of it, and will, therefore, pardon me if I appear to forget my obli⯑gations to you—I do not, believe me, I have a proper ſenſe of them, and ever ſhall; when my mind is more at eaſe than it can be at preſent, it ſhall be my ſtudy to make you ſenſible of my gratitude.

And can my charming Emily, then talk with ſo much cool indifference of leaving a man ſhe once proſeſſed to honour with her eſteem? (attempting to preſs her hand to my lips.)

You aſtoniſh me, my Lord! (haſtily withdrawing it) can Lord Sommerville be ſurpriſed at my impatience? Surely if ſo, I muſt have been greatly deceived in the opinion I believed he had formed of [168]me! But let us drop the ſubject. Per⯑mit one of your ſervants, my Lord, to get me a carriage; I have not a moment to loſe; and ſhe was going to ring the bell.

At that moment we were informed din⯑ner was ſerved.—Indulge me, my Emily, with one ſhort hour of your dear com⯑pany, and then if you will perſiſt in your cruel intention, you ſhall be obeyed.

Can you doubt it, my Lord?—I took her hand to lead her to the dining room.

Firſt let me give directions, and, till the carriage arrives, I will not reſuſe you my company, though in my preſent per⯑plexed ſtate of mind it can afford but lit⯑tle pleaſure.

Frank was waiting; the moment we entered the room I bid him order my poſt chaiſe to be got ready as ſoon as poſſible, at the ſame time giving him a look, which he perfectly underſtood.

But why your's, my Lord? pray allow me to—

Do as you are told, (interrupting her) can Miſs Herbert ſuppoſe I will ſuffer her to go ſuch a journey in any other?

She was tolerably eaſy, Charles, dur⯑ing the time we ſat at table, though fre⯑quently looking at her watch and liſten⯑ing [169]for the ſound of the carriage—above an hour paſſed and no account of it. She then grew impatient, and implored me to enquire why they were ſo dilatory?

I rung the bell, pretended to be in a rage at their ſtupidity, and charged them to make all poſſible haſte; in the mean time ſaid all that man could ſay to re⯑move her anxiety; but gueſs how it was encreaſed on Frank coming to inform me the poſtillion was not to be found; he fan⯑cied he was gone to ſee his mother, who he had heard was at the point of death, and who lived at the other end of the town.

I now ſtormed at his daring to go out of the way without permiſſion. My gen⯑tle Emily begged me to conſider the cauſe, and on that account to forgive him, at the ſame time intreating him to get her another as faſt as poſſible.

I need hardly tell you, Charles, it was ſo contrived, that under one pretence or other, the day was ſo far advanced before, we heard any more of the carriage, that it was too late to think of ſetting off that night.

It is utterly out of my power to give you an idea of her diſtreſs at theſe re⯑peated [170]and unlooked for diſappoint⯑ments: ſhe wept, ſhe wrung her hands [...]n abſolute deſpair; and, I believe, was not even then wholly void of ſuſpicion; yet my behaviour was ſo guarded, that not a look or word eſcaped me that could juſtly alarm her.

Alar med ſhe certainly was, however, to the laſt degree, and almoſt fainting with terror and apprehenſion, when, find⯑ing ſhe was under the neceſſity of ſtaying another night, ſhe begged to retire.

I now rung for Watſon, who conducted her to her apartment, and afterwards told me the young Lady had ſtrictly and poſitively deſired to have a chaiſe at the door by day light next morning, as ſhe wiſhed to ſet out as early as poſſible.

The morning came, but no carriage;—the dear creature had taken no reſt, her bell was rung repeatedly many hours be⯑fore day; but I had given directions not to anſwer it till the uſual time of break⯑faſt, and to ſecure the ſtreet-door in caſe ſhe ſhould make any attempt to leave the houſe; whether ſhe did or not atttempt it is uncertain.

About ten I went up to her dreſſing⯑room, and, tapping gently, ſhe inſtantly [171]opened the door, no doubt believing it to be Watſon. On ſeeing me ſhe ſtarted; her lovely eyes were red, and viſibly de⯑clared ſhe had been weeping.

What am I to think, my Lord?—(with a dignity in her manner, Charles, that actually overawed and diſconcerted me moſt confoundedly) of the treatment I have received? I would gladly believe the diſappointments of yeſterday were accidental: but why were my orders diſ⯑obeyed this morning? Why, or by whoſe authority is it I am now detained here, when you know the impropriety of it, and my extreme impatience to be gone?

I pauſed, Charles, abſolutely unable to pleaſe myſelf with any anſwer I could give.

Finding I ſtill gazed on her in ſilence, and no doubt ſeeing guilt pictured on my countenance, ſhe continued—Oh! my Lord! Do not for heaven's ſake! Do not give me cauſe to change the opinion I have hitherto entertained of you! I have, till now, believed you a man of honour; that my happineſs was dear to you; tell me, then, have I been deceived? Speak [172]at once, my Lord, and relieve me from this dreadful ſuſpence. Moſt ſincerely do I wiſh you may be able to remove thoſe ſuſpicions which this ſtrange, and, let me ſay, cruel and incomprehenſible behaviour has given rite to.

Throwing myſelf at her feet, I paſſion⯑ately exclaimed, Oh! my Emily! My adorable Emily! Behold the moſt faith⯑ful, the moſt tender of lovers, imploring your pardon; yes, my beſt beloved, I will confeſs I cannot whol [...]y juſtify the conduct of which you complain; I muſt own my crime, but ſurely, ſurely, I have not ſinned beyond forgiveneſs! Could I, was it in nature, I could reſign, without diſtraction, the object on whom my ſoul doated, and on whom the whole happi⯑neſs of my life depends. Oh, my charm⯑ing! my deareſt Emily! Did you love, did you adore as I do! how eaſily would you pardon the ſtep that Love has impel⯑led me to take? What hopes could I be able to indulge of ever ſeeing you again, had I ſuffered you to leave me after what has paſſed? Your family, no doubt, are now too much irritated againſt me to fa⯑vour my addreſſes; nor is this all, have I not cauſe to ſear the idol of my affec⯑tions [173]might have met with a cool recep⯑tion? Na, ſeverity from thoſe who have never, even before this unfortunate event, treated her with that tenderneſs ſhe is intitled to, and ſo juſtly merits.

This is my apology (gazing on her with ſupplicating looks) Oh! for pity ſake, let it find acceptance, treat me not with aſ⯑perity, but tell me you forgive, and make me the happieſt of men!

It is well, my Lord! Pray riſe, you have cleared up all my doubts, and I thank you for it; henceforth I ſhall know in what light to look upon thoſe pro⯑feſſions of love you may think proper to make, as well as thoſe you have hereto⯑fore offered; you have, as far as you poſſibly can, made me miſerable; and, no doubt, find it a pleaſant reflection; how I have deſerved this treatment I know not, unleſs, as a puniſhment for my cre⯑dulity in believing you incapable of ſuch an atrocious action? I have only one queſtion to aſk, for I ſcorn any reply to the very elaborate ſpeech you have taken the trouble to make, I ſhould bluſh to at⯑tempt it, though your Lordſhip has not bluſhed to utter it—Am I at liberty to quit this houſe? I know it is in your [174]power to detain me; and you may, by ſo doing, make me a very wretched, a very unhappy creature, but a guilty one you never can.

I would now have taken her hand, Charles, but ſhe withdrew it with a look of the utmoſt contempt.

Is your Sommerville then ſunk ſo very low in your eſteem, my lovely Emily, that he merits nothing but repulſes. Ah! too ſure he has been fatally deceived, while believing he once had a place in it? What have I done to deſerve this killing reſerve! Theſe cruel ſuſpicions? I have loved! Adored you with the moſt tender paſſion that ever warmed the breaſt of man! The whole ſtudy of my life ſhall be employed to convince my angel of its fervour and ſincerity; here on my knees, on this dear hand I ſwear—

Swear not, my Lord! (interrupting me) reſerve thoſe vows for ſome other, believe me they will be loſt upon me; that you were once dear to me I muſt acknow⯑ledge; but that time is paſſed, never, never to return! I now ſee you ſuch as you really are, before I ſaw you only ſuch as my weak ſimple heart repreſented [175]you; how flattering was that picture when compared with the original!—Surely, my Lord, if not wretchedly har⯑dened in guilt, the horrid contraſt muſt ſhock even yourſelf.

But I loſe time in theſe fruitleſs reflec⯑tions—if your Lordſhip wiſhes to regain any part of that confidence you have ſo juſtly forfeited, ſuffer me inſtantly to ſet off for my Father's houſe; this is the only favour I have to aſk, and the only proof you can give me that you are not ſo whol⯑ly loſt to every ſenſe of honour as I am at this moment compelled to believe.

In this cool, this mortifying ſtyle, Charles, did the dear creature continue to treat all I could ſay, either in excuſe for my conduct or to convince her of the warmth of my paſſion.

Determined not to comply with her requeſt, I took no notice of it; but in the tendereſt manner, preſſed her to indulge me with her company at breakfaſt; this ſhe pe [...]emptorily refuſed, declaring ſhe would never, on any terms, quit that room till ſhe left it in order to return home.

[176]Thus, Charles, ended our firſt confer⯑ence; you will, perhaps, tell me, I be⯑haved like a fool, that having proceeded ſo far, I ought not to have been quite ſo paſſive, that a little more courage and leſs reſpect would ſooner have brought mat⯑ters to a concluſion.

But you know her not, ſhe is not a girl to be dealt with in the common way; ſhe has a dignity, a delicacy, in ſhort, a ſomething about her that forbid one's preſuming to take the ſmalleſt liberty, certain never to be forgiven.

How the devil Morton managed, I cannot divine! Not by fair means, I'll be ſworn; or how ſhe, conſcious as ſhe muſt be by the paſt, that to be thus in a fel⯑low's power is no joke, dare treat me with ſo high a hand, I know as little.

I expected nothing but weeping and wailing; to have ſeen her at my feet im⯑ploring mercy; for a ſcene of that nature I was prepared, but her behaviour has totally diſconcerted my plan of opera⯑tions; ſo much good ſenſe, ſo much calm argument, and ſo void of apprehen⯑ſion—Curſedly provoking, Charles! Is it not? Faith I now begin to fancy ſhe ne⯑ver [177]cared a ſtraw for me! If ſhe had, ſhe could not behave in this unaccountable manner. No, it is as plain as the day, ſhe neither loves nor fears me; but, by heavens! ſhe ſhall do one or the other—I will be revenged for this proof of her duplicity! I have ſo long been accuſ⯑tomed to treat her as a divinity, that I know not how to lower her conſequence, and rank her as a mere mortal. But my pride is now concerned; it is piqued at her coldneſs; ſhe ſhall find I will no longer be ſuch an egregious puppy as to be ſo eaſily intimidated! I have gone too far to recede, and at my next viſit, ſhall more explicitly inform her of my preſent intentions, which, if ſhe is wiſe, ſhe will not reject.

Upon my ſoul, every thing conſider⯑ed, ſhe might liſten to my vows with leſs contempt! She cannot ſeriouſly, after what has happened, expect a renewal of my former propoſals, though ſcrictly ſpeaking ſhe is ſtill virtuous; I would do her all poſſible juſtice; I believe her mind pure and unſullied; but ſtill, I ſay, Charles, ſhe ſhould conſider her ſituation is widely different from what it was before that curſed event; yet ſhe [178]does not ſeem to value herſelf the lefs. Indeed, when I think of the modeſty and delicate reſerve with which ſhe conducts herſelf, and with which every look, and every action is blended, I cannot but wonder ſhe ſhould now wiſh me to marry her, which ſhe certainly expects; how⯑ever, I hope a time will come, when ſhe will ſee things in a better light.

I ſhall, for a day or two, content my⯑ſelf with enquiring after her health, as I I would give her time to make proper reflections, and if ſhe does ſo, Charles, ſhe ſhall have no reaſon to complain; ſhe ſhall find me all her heart can deſire, the whole ſtudy of my life ſhall be to render her happy.

If ſhe ever did love me, I cannot doubt but ſhe will comply; but that is a point I am not now ſo clear in as I could wiſh—naturally all ſoftneſs, all gentle timi⯑dity, how ſhe has acquired her preſent courage I cannot poſſibly conceive—Adieu.

LETTER XXXI. Same to the Same.

I TOLD you in my laſt, Charles, I had determined to give my beloved a few days leiſure, to reflect ſeriouſly on her ſituation, flattering myſelf the reſult would be favourable to my wiſhes.

At our next meeting, I had every rea⯑ſon to believe I had acted wiſely; but you will find before you come to the end of this epiſtle, ſhe is as artful as the reſt of her bewitching ſex.

Having, with infinite difficulty, re⯑ſiſted the temptation of ſeeing her for two tedious days, on the third morning I ſent a note by Watſon, intreating ſhe would permit me the honour to wait upon her, adding, my viſit ſhould be no longer than was perfectly agreeable to her. My requeſt was granted.

I found her in her dreſſing-room, ſhe had been writing, and had juſt laid by [180]her letter when I entered, to whom I did not then know; but the ſubject had af⯑fected her reatly, for the enchanting girl was ſtill in tears—ſhe endeavoured to check them, and to reſume her former eaſe and indifference; but it would not do, ſhe threw herſelf back in her chair and wept aloud.

I was ſoftened beyond expreſſion—My angel Emily, cried I, throwing myſelf at her feet, and preſſing her now unreluct⯑ant hand to my throbbing breaſt, why theſe tears? Why this diſtreſs? Look up my beſt beloved; turn thoſe dear eyes on your adoring Sommerville; ſay but you forgive him; that he has not wholly loſt that place in your eſteem, you once gave him leave to hope he poſſeſſed, and make him ſupremely bleſſed:—his heart, his fortune, all, all are your's, and every moment of his future life ſhall be entirely deveted to his Emily.

What can I ſay, my Lord? (with a ſoftneſs, a ſweetneſs in her voice and manner that melted my very ſoul) You have ſucceeded but too well in your de⯑ſigns; you have for ever ruined the peace of a young creature, who certainly never [181]injured you; but who, on the contrary, beheld you with too much partiality. Oh, my Lord! could I have believed the amiable, the generous Sommerville, for ſuch, till fatally undeceived, I fondly believed you; who, I ſay, could have ſuſpected him capable of ſuch barbarity? Alas! I, at leaſt, was far, far indeed, from thinking it in his nature!

Ah! wound not my ſoul with theſe unkind reproaches, my amiable creature; I cannot bear them from thoſe dear, thoſe lovely lips, (interrupting her, and tranſ⯑ported to find her thus ſoftened) forget the paſt. Deign but to bleſs your peni⯑tent Sommerville with one ſmile in token for forgiveneſs, and look forward to many years of exquiſite, uninterrupted happi⯑neſs.

Ah! my Lord! what reliance can I place on the man who has already ſo cru⯑elly deceived me? Or how look forward to happineſs when all my hopes of it are thus deſtroyed for ever?

Is it nothing then, my Emily, (ten⯑derly preſſing her dear ſoft hand to my heart) to be adored, to be loved as never woman was loved before, by the moſt [182]fathful, the moſt conſtant of men, by that once happy, becauſe once favoured Sommerville; my Emily is all the world to me, I aſk no greater bleſſing; I can⯑not figure to myſelf a more exquiſite fe⯑licity than a return of that paſſion which can end only with my exiſtence; give me but permiſſion to hope that you will endeavour to forget any part of my con⯑duct that has incurred your diſpleaſure, and I will patiently wait your time, you ſhall never again have cauſe to reproach me; every thought, every ſentiment of my impaſſioned heart ſhall be laid open before you; you ſhall be my guide, my monitreſs—I here ſolemnly ſwear to be wholly directed by my beſt beloved in every future action of my life; form me, make me ſuch as you would have me, only promiſe—

I will promiſe nothing, endeavouring to remove farther from me on my at⯑tempting to throw my arm round her de⯑licate waiſt, as ſhe ſat by me on the ſo⯑pha; (it was not in nature to reſiſt it, Charles;) however as I ſaw my angel was alarmed, I made ſhift to command my⯑ſelf, fully perſuaded that a ſhort time [183]would remove thoſe delicate, thoſe en⯑gaging ſcruples, and make her wholly mine.

I will promiſe nothing, my Lord, nor ought you yet to expect it; let your future conduct deſerve my approbation, and truſt to my gratitude; leave me now, I have been too much agitated for the preſent ſtate of my ſpirits, and wiſh to be alone.

Shall I venture to aſk my Emily's dear company at dinner? (quite tranſported with her condeſcending goodneſs.)

I have already ſaid, my Lord, I will promiſe nothing; if I find myſelf able, I will not refuſe; in the mean time allow me to compoſe myſelf; I am far from well, I have ſuffered much, and my mind is extremely diſtreſſed.

I now, unable to command my emo⯑tions, claſped the lovely creature to my beating heart, and having printed a thou⯑ſand kiſſes on the fofteſt, whiteſt hand that ever nature formed, thanked her for the delightful hope ſhe had given me, and withdrew

From that hour, till the moment I ex⯑pected to be again bleſſed with her pre⯑ſence, [184]I ſat loſt in a thouſand tranſport⯑ing reflections, all my fears were ba⯑niſhed, and I gave a looſe to the moſt unbounded joy. Can you, Charles, won⯑der at my ecſtacie, ſweetly engaging as ſhe had been during our enchanting in⯑terview?

The dear girl did not diſappoint me, ſhe came down, and ſtill continued the ſame amiable creature; yet ſo much bluſhing modeſty; ſo perfect a propri⯑ety in every word and look, that for my ſoul I durſt not take advantage of her re⯑turning partiality.

She left me early—and leſt me full of the moſt flattering hopes, that my love would be ſoon returned, which was now become more ardent, more firmly rooted than ever.

I ſaw her no more that day, as ſhe de⯑clined meeting me in the evening, and I would not be too importunate, but rea⯑dily admitted her apology.

Juſt as I was going out, Watſon brought me a ſecond letter, which ſhe ſaid Miſs Herbert had prevailed upon her to ſend to the poſt-office, but finding my honour was ſtill at home, thought I might chuſe to take that trouble myſelf.

[185]A pretty turn that, Charles, was it not? I eagerly took it, ſaying ſhe did perfectly right!—and returning to my apartment broke the ſeal, and had the felicity to find the contents as follows:

What ſay you to this, Charles; is ſhe not a dear, perverſe, bewitching, little hypocrite? Can you, after this proof of [189] her artifice, blame me for uſing a little in return?

So, while ſhe has life, I am to be look⯑ed upon as the moſt deteſtable of mon⯑ſters! It is deviliſhly ſevere faith! But what ſay you to her eaſy manner of ſkim⯑ming over the adventure ſhe met with from the other monſter? Not a word of that eſcapes her! Ah! let women alone! It is ſaid they cannot keep even their own ſecrets, but I ſhall henceforth beg leave to deny the fact.

Here have I read two of the ſweet crea⯑ture's letters, wrote to two of her deareſt friends; but not one ſyllable has tranſpir⯑ed in either of them relative to the ill uſage ſhe has received. Upon my ſoul I cannot, will not pardon this duplicity; by her deceitful proceeding, ſhe ſets me the example; and, by heavens! I will profit by it.

I too will diſſemble; for mine ſhe ſhall be—on that (as I ſaid beſore) I am deter⯑mined; but if poſſible, it ſhall be with her own conſent. I love! I adore her! more than ever man adored! It is there⯑fore I wiſh to reconcile her to her fate.

[190]That ſhe did love me, even this imper⯑tinent letter teſtifies; I will rekindle that love, or periſh in the attempt—yes ſhe ſhall confeſs I am ſtill dear to her—that I am not the monſter ſhe at preſent affects to think me.

Had I ſtill talked of matrimony ſhe would have treated me with leſs ſeverity; nay, even now, I'll be ſworn would joy⯑fully liſten to me on that ſubject, though ſhe is pleaſed to ſay otherwiſe; it is a conviction that I have no ſuch intention, which has given birth to this outrageous virtue, delicacy, and ſo forth.

She declares her Aunt is her only friend; and I believe, except myſelf, ſhe has not another: what her father might be, were he at liberty to follow his own inclina⯑tion, I know not; but his better half ill talke care of that, my life for it ſhe will not ſuffer his indignation to evaporate; it is in the cauſe of her hopeful nephew, who it muſt be confeſſed has been rather roughly handled, though he has a conſo⯑lation to boaſt of, ſuch as it is, which, to me, I own would afford but little. The paſſion muſt be mutual, or it has no joys [191]for your friend Sommerville, a monſter though he be.

Now, Charles, if I can contrive to per⯑ſuade the dear girl, this only remaining friend is a friend no longer, I truſt ſhe will have ſenſe enough to ſee her wiſeſt courſe will be to lay aſide her preſent haughty reſentful ſentiments, to accept my offers with a good grace, and thus confer happineſs both on herſelf and her adorer. This is my ſcheme; it is ſimple and eaſy, as thus: She ſhall believe her letter diſpatched; in due time comes a ſhort, categorical an⯑ſwer; not indeed wrote by the dear hand of her Aunt—too much inraged for that—but by thoſe of her. Aunt's abigail. Do you comprehend me? In the mean time I continue all ſubmiſſion, attention, and reſpect; this reſtores me gradually to my charmer's good opinion, and prepares her mind to make the beſt of her preſent ſituation on finding ſhe has no other re⯑ſource.

This is a ſhort ſketch of my plan, which I think can hardly fail of ſucceſs, when you reflect that her heart was once [192]mine; nay, ſtill is, I fondly hope, and am willing to believe.

Adieu, my dear Charles, I am now go⯑ing to write the important ſerawl, on which I place my greateſt dependence.

LETTER XXXII. Same to the Same.

It is over, Charles—my lovely weep⯑ing Emily is now convinced ſhe has no friend on earth to whom ſhe can apply for protection; of courſe I have only to wait patiently till the firſt tumult of her ſorrows ſubſide; and then, I truſt, reaſon will convince her ſhe cannot do better than reſign all thoughts of aſking it of any other than her devoted Sommerville.

[193]I contrived to get the letter ſent by the poſt, ſhe received it from Watſon with joyful emotions, and having no doubt of her fidelity, haſtily broke the ſeal before ſhe left the room; and happy was it ſhe did, for no ſooner had ſhe caſt her lovely eyes over the firſt lines, which were abun⯑dantly expreſſive, than claſping her hand in an agony of grief, and faintly exclaim⯑ing, then I am loſt indeed! She fell life⯑leſs on the chair where ſhe ſat.

Watſon, terrified at her fainting, flew to aſſiſt and ſupport her, having firſt rung the bell with great violence.

Gueſſing what had happened, I ran up ſtairs, and ſound my angel in this condi⯑tion, the letter lying by her on the floor; I inſtantly raiſed her in my arms, and conveyed her to her bed, where kneeling by her, I tried by every endearing and tender expreſſion, to recall her to life: theſe, and ſome drops which Watſon ad⯑miniſtered, at length, in ſome meaſure, reſtored her to my wiſhes.

I now ordered the ſervants to leave the room, and preſſing her almoſt liſeleſs hands in mine, begged her to tell me what had occaſioned ſo ſudden an indiſpoſition? [194]She no ſooner obſerved me, than ſhe look⯑ed terrified; crying, Leave me! Leave me, my Lord! nor cruelly attempt to re⯑call to life a wretched creature who can never again know peace: then, burſting into a flood of tears, ſhe, in the moſt pa⯑thetic, heart-melting expreſſions, bewail⯑ed her miſerable fate.

My love, my deareſt Emily, tell me, I conjure you tell me, what has happened thus to diſtreſs you? Am I not your friend? Your adoring lover? Can you doubt my zeal and readineſs to ſerve and oblige you? Or even to ſacrifice my life was it poſſible I could thereby reſtore my angel to peace and happineſs? Speak to me; command me; here, on my knees, I ſwear by all that's ſacred to refuſe you nothing you can aſk! Are you not dearer to me than my own ſoul?

On my Lord! my Lord! attempt no longer to deceive me, too well do I know what confidence to place in your vows and proteſtations. Perhaps when death has releaſed me from this treacherous, this wicked world, a moment may come in which you will reflect with anguiſh on [195]your conduct to one who once was weak enough to believe you faultleſs.

Heaven has ſeverely! Ah! how very ſeverely puniſhed my too eaſy credulity! At preſent your Lordſhip may perhaps triumph in your ſucceſs; you have, in⯑deed, ſucceeded but too well! You have undone me!—ruined! for ever ruined a poor young creature, who deſerved a bet⯑ter fate! But I forgive you! May heaven alſo be merciful! and forgive you too, and ſoon take me from this ſcene of inex⯑preſſible miſery! Forſaken! Given up by all my friends! Become a wretched outcaſt! What have I now to hope?

Every thing, my beſt beloved! Every thing in the power of the man who adores you! whoſe whole ſtudy it ſhall be from this moment to ſupply to you the loſs of thoſe unkind friends you lament; they were not worthy to poſſeſs ſo ineſtimable a treaſure, they knew not the value of the jewel they thus reject; but your de⯑voted Sommerville knows it well, and will preſerve it as the greateſt bleſſing heaven can beſtow on him.

Look up then, my beſt love, turn thoſe dear eyes upon him; truſt him, place a [196]proper confidence in him, and you ſhall be happy, happy as it is in the power of the moſt faithful, the moſt tender of lo⯑vers to make you.

Let me inſtantly quit this houſe then, my Lord? This, and this only, I aſk as a proof of your ſincerity.

By heavens you ſhall, my Emily! Even this cruel requeſt I will comply with, though I thereby deprive myſelf of every poſſible hope of felicity! Yes, I will give you this painful proof of my ſincerity; but firſt let me ſee you reſtor⯑ed to tranquillity; you are not at preſent, my angel, in a condition to think of re⯑moving; ſurely my behaviour has been ſuch as might baniſh every idea of fear, or ſuſpicion; depend upon its continu⯑ance, depend upon my honour. Never, my lovely Emily, ſhall it be ſuch as to incur your diſpleaſure.

I love, I adore you, it is true, with a paſſion more ardent than words can ex⯑preſs, on a return of which, my whole happineſs is centered; but it muſt be vo⯑luntary, never will your Sommerville for⯑get that reſpect you ſo juſtly merit; he will leave to time, and his unremitted [197]endeavours to convince you of his ten⯑derneſs and affection, to produce that wiſhed-for change in your ſentiments, which can alone conſtitute his felicity.

In the interim he is, and ever will be your unchangeable friend; as ſuch look upon, as ſuch command him—but do not be too precipitate, my deareſt creature, reflect ſeriouſly on what you would wiſh to do, whether return to your Father—your Aunt—or. …

Oh, my Lord! (again burſling into tears) Why! Ah, why all thoſe obliging profeſſions of friendſhip now? When well you know they come too late for my peace! My Father!—My Aunt!—Alas! Alas! I have no longer!—

She could not proceed, her anguiſn put it out of her power to finiſh the ſentence. Upon my ſoul, Charles, her diſtreſs ſof⯑tened me even to tears; the drops ſell on her lovely hand.

Ah! my Lord, is it poſſible there ſhould yet remain any degree of tenderneſs, of compaſſion, in a heart that ha hitherto been ſo callous, ſo capable of acting as you have done? Even you weep, my Lord, who have been the voluntary au⯑thor of all my ſorrows, think then, can I [198]ever hope that my tears will ceaſe to flow? But let me ſeize the favourable mo⯑ment to renew my ſuit: am I at liberty to leave you? No matter where! or to whom I go! Heaven, I truſt, will not wholly abandon me; on that I rely—I have been a weak but not a guilty crea⯑ture, my Lord, and doubt not providence will guide my ſteps to ſome more hoſpi⯑table door than thoſe which are now for ever ſhut againſt me! And again ſhe ſob⯑bed as if her heart would break.

By heavens! Charles, it was too much! I could hardly ſupport her ten⯑der, gentle complaints; no reproaches! No violent exclamations! But all angelic ſoftneſs! I was temped to pronounce myſelf a villain; to repent, and to make a full confeſſion—I did not, yet, how⯑ever, ſtill hoping time would be my friend.

I left her rather more compoſed, (con⯑fiding in the promiſe I had given her) that ſhe might conſider what ſtep ſhe was to take, ſaying I would wait on her again when ſhe did me the honour to let me know ſhe had come to a reſolution.

I waited ſeveral hours, but no ſum⯑mons coming, my patience was at length [199]exhauſted, and I went up to her apart⯑ment.

Forgive me, my Emily, I come to make a propoſal, which I flatter myſelf will meet your approbation.

Though it is worſe than death to part from the deareſt treaſure I have on earth, to be ſpearated from the loved object of my tendereſt affections; I will not break my word, I have promiſed and will per⯑form; hear me, my angel, and then judge how far it will be agreeable to you.

At preſent, I preſume, from ſome words that dropped from thoſe dear lips, you would not wiſh to return either to your Father or Aunt.

She ſighed deeply, and raiſed her fine eyes to heaven in deſpair.

Suppoſe then, my deareſt creature ſhould, till their diſpleaſure ſubſides, go to a houſe of mine in the country.—

Of yours, my Lord! (exclaimed ſhe.)

Here me patiently, my Emily; it is mine, but I never reſide there, nor will I preſume to attempt ſeeing you without your permiſſion, of this I give you my honour; the preſent inhabitants are only the ſteward and his wife, worthy honeſt [200]people—I will not even offer to accom⯑pany you; Watſon ſhall conduct you to them, and if you will permit her, remain there to attend you; ſhe is now no ſtran⯑ger to you, and I truſt you have found her behaviour unexceptionable.

The ſituation is retired, but a moſt de⯑ſirable ſummer reſidence; there you will be at liberty to write to your friends, to make your peace with them, which I cannot believe will be attended with any difficulty, and every ſcruple raiſed by my beloved's ideas of delicacy muſt vaniſh, as no one need know the houſe is mine.

Some where you muſt be, and certain⯑ly the country is more eligible, on every account, than being in town, where you are ſo intirely a ſtranger.

I ſhall give proper orders that you ſhall find every thing as convenient as poſſible, and be treated with that reſpect, which indeed no one can poſſibly reſuſe to ſo much excellence; my carriage, or any other if more agreeable, tho' I could wiſh you would not ſo far mortiſy me as to reject that, ſhall wait your commands.

Yet I hope you will not leave me till to-morrow; one ſhort day my Emily may [201]ſurely indulge me in; what ſays my an⯑gel? Have I been ſo happy as to propoſe a plan that does not diſpleaſe her?

Alas! my Lord, I would gladly believe you really now are deſirous of repairing, as far as poſſible, the cruel injury you have done me! I can have but one objec⯑tion—it is ſtill being, in ſome meaſure, under your Lordſhip's protection! How is it poſſible to reconcile this with my ideas of propriety?

(She then pauſed for a moment,) Yet what better can I do, ſituated as I un⯑happily am; to ſtay longer here would be infinitely worſe! it is a ſad alterna⯑tive, my Lord! but I think you muſt be ſincere, and ſhall therefore only ſtipulate, that you will not attempt to ſee me while I am at your houſe.

Moſt ſolemnly, my love, do I ſwear it, unleſs by your permiſſion, (and in this I was ſincere, not doubting but that permiſſion would in due time be granted.)

Before I left her every thing was final⯑ly ſettled; I prevailed on her to remain that day and the next, that I might have time to write to Brown and his wife, in [202]order that every thing might be ready for her reception.

To-morrow! Ah, Charles! to-morrow then my charmer bids me adieu! Wat⯑ſon accompanies her, and is to remain as long as ſhe is found neceſſary; by this means I ſhall learn how things go on; I did not demand the liberty of writing to her leſt ſhe ſhould have refuſed me. Now I can do as I pleaſe, and ſhall not fail to indulge myſelf in that ſatisfaction.

My heart tells me, all will yet be well; ſhe cannot but approve my whole con⯑duct, one inſtance of it excepted, and that I truſt will be forgiven.

What an enviable fate will mine then be, and how amply ſhall I be rewarded for all the ſelf-denial I have practiſed while I had the lovely creature thus in my power? Can there be a greater proof, Charles, of the fervour and purity of my paſſion? Perhaps you may look upon it in a different light, but you are deceived, a heart like my Emily's is worth waiting for, and her perſon without it, all beau⯑tiful and deſirable as it is, would not ſatisfy me.

To-morrow!—Ah, would that painful trial was over! To-morrow my adorable [203]leaves me! But I muſt hope, and think there is a reward in ſtore for this heroic deed.—Farewell, my dear Dalton, I am ever your's,

LETTER XXXIII, Miſs Herbert to Miſs Fermer.

OFFER your thanks to heaven! with mine, my dear Sophia, for the hap⯑py preſervation of your friend, in the great danger I have expoſed to: that I have eſcaped from a ſtate of un⯑ſpeakable miſery, and from the power of a man whoſe artful conduct I had every reaſon to fear, would, in the end, have wrought my undoing, in ſpite of all my caution.

Oh! my dear! What terrors have I not ſuffered? It is impoſſible to tell you the pains that have been taken to ſeduce [204]me from the paths of virtue, by the moſt artful! the moſt dangerous of men! Dangerous, becauſe but too amiable! once I thought him more ſo than any of his perfidious ſex—but now my prayer is, that I may never behold him more.

Yes, Sophia, I now ſee him as he is; and happy, thrice happy do I think my⯑ſelf in making the diſcovery of his baſe⯑neſs before it was too late.—

I have ſome reaſon to fear, the few lines I wrote to you on my deliverance from that wretch, Morton, never reached you, as I think you would not have failed to oblige me with an anſwer. If ſo, you are yet, 'tis probable, ignorant of many things, which, to repeat, would only diſtreſs us both. Spare me, then, my dear friend, let me paſs them over in ſilence, and merely tell you, by what fortunate event I now write from a place of ſafety.

Sommerville!—Yes, Sophia, the ele⯑gent, the accompliſhed Sommerville! For in ſpite of the wretchedneſs he has ſo cruelly brought upon me, I muſt do him the juſtice to ſay he merits thoſe epithets. But alas! How are thoſe en⯑gaging [205]perfections obſcured and tarniſhed by ten thouſand vices?

Deceived by Sommerville, I ſay, into a belief that my Aunt was in Lon⯑don, I conſented to let him convey me to her there.—But had I not agreed to this plan, I am now fatally convinced I could not have avoided the ſnare he had laid for me. I ſoon diſcovered his un⯑generous, his infamous views; though he took all imaginable pains to alarm me as little as poſſible.

His behaviour, during the tedious days I was compelled to ſpend in his houſe, was perfectly reſpectful; his care, his attention, and unremitted endeavours to oblige, and reconcile me to my fate, great beyond expreſſion! I ſaw plainly he had not a doubt of ſucceſs, and had nothing, therefore, to fear from vio⯑lence.

Shocking as it was, to be thus cruelly detained from my friends, it was yet a conſiderable conſolation, his houſekeeper had orders to provide me in thoſe neceſ⯑ſaries I ſtood in need of; this ſhe obeyed, and I was under the neceſſity of making uſe of them, having been torn from the [206]protection of my Aunt, with no other cloaths than thoſe I had on.—I need hardly add, many more were provided, and thoſe too, in more profuſion, and of a more coſtly nature than I had either in⯑clination or occaſion for.

Ah! how little was he acquainted with the ſentiments of your Emily! If he could, for a moment, believe, trifles of that kind could aid his vile purpoſe!

Determined by ſome means or other to make my eſcape, I judged it prudent to diſſemble, as this would make him leſs on his guard.

I firſt, however, wiſhed to inform my Aunt of my ſituation; no difficulty had been made when I begged they would put the letter I wrote to you in the poſt; at leaſt I prevailed. Though now I fear, as I ſaid, it never reached you. Alas, Sophia! that to my Aunt was more for⯑tunate. But how was I ſhocked? How were all my hopes cruſhed, when I re⯑ceived her cruel, her dreadfully cruel anſwer?

I had ſcarcely caſt my eyes over its heart-rending contents, than, unable to ſupport the blow, I fainted.

[207]How long I continued in a happy in⯑ſenſibility I know not; but when I re⯑covered from that enviable ſtate, I found the author of all my ſorrows kneeling by my bed-ſide, to which they had con⯑veyed me, diftracted by his apprehen⯑ſions.

He had, no doubt, read the fatal let⯑ter, and I am perſuaded pleaſed himſelf with the thought, that I had not now a friend on earth to whom I could fly for protection; for ſo my once kind Aunt aſſured me in the moſt ſevere terms—yet he appeared ſincerely affected at the con⯑dition in which he ſaw me, and in the tendereſt, moſt affectionate manner, pro⯑teſted there was nothing in his power he would not do to reſtore my tranquillity; begged me to command him; declared my happineſs was infinitely dearer to him than his own; that every word, every action of his life ſhould prove it to me.

All I aſk, my Lord, is liberty to leave this houſe.

How was I delighted, Sophia, to hear him, without heſitationi, grant my re⯑queſt. I really believed he at laſt began [208]to repent of what he had done. True, he uſed every poſſible endeavour to diſ⯑ſuade me from my purpoſe, but finding nothing would prevail, he left me to compoſe my ſpirits, and at leiſure, to reflect on the plan I meant to purſue.

Alas, Sophia! on what could I now determine? Forbid my Aunt's, forbid my father's houſe, their doors for ever ſhut againſt me—to whom could I fly for protection? My mind was in a ſtate of diſtraction; my thoughts all confuſion, I could fix on nothing, but at all events to leave the man I had ſo much reaſon to dread.

Finding I did not ſend for him again as I had promiſed, when I came to ſome reſolution, he retrned to me, and beg⯑ged I would calmly liſten to a propoſal he had to offer, which he flatttered him⯑ſelf would meet my approbation.

This was, ſince I would not be pre⯑vailed upon to bleſs him longer with my company, which he valued more than life, that I would condeſcend to reſide for a while in a houſe of his in the coun⯑try, where I ſhould be perfectly retired, and where I might, without thoſe deli⯑cate [209]ſcruples which now robbed him of me, try every means to make my peace with my family, who would perhaps be more readily reconciled to me, when no longer with him.

I naturally objected to this, as being ſtill his houſe.

He replied, they might remain igno⯑rant of that circumſtance, as he never had lived there, and repeatedly ſwore he never would attempt to viſit me with⯑out my permiſſion.

I pauſed a while, diſtreſſed beyond meaſure, not knowing on what to re⯑ſolve; at length, however, I conſidered I might poſſibly find it eaſier, as he ſaid, to make my peace there, than while under his immediate protection; and, I confeſs, I ſhuddered at the idea of find⯑ing myſelt in London without a ſingle friend to whom I could apply for it—thoſe in the country, I feared, might be as much prejudiced againſt me as my own family.

In ſhort, Sophia, I agreed; glad, be⯑yond expreſſion, at his conſent at any rate to my releaſe.

[210]He begged me to delay my cruel pur⯑poſe for a day or two, that he might write to his ſteward to get every thing in order for my reception; his houſekeeper was alſo to accompany me, and to conti⯑nue as long as I found her neceſſary.

The happy wiſhed-for hour of my de⯑liverance at length arrived—I left him, Sophia, and though ſtill diſtracted with ten thouſand painful apprehenſions for the future, found my heart relieved from great part of its diſtreſs.

I confeſs I had ſtill many doubts of his ſincerity—I could not eaſily perſuade my⯑ſelf he had wholly given up his diſho⯑nourable views; the change in his ſenti⯑ments was too ſuddden, after all the arti⯑fice, all the trouble he had taken to get me into his power, to leave me without ſuſpicion; but, to get from him was a great point gained.

I might be miſtaken; it was poſſible he might be leſs wicked than he had hitherto appeared;—at any rate it was infinitely better than continuing where I was; that, was certain miſery, this ſtep might pre⯑vent my ruin.

[211]Thank heaven! my dear Sophia, this has been effected; for Providence, ever kind and merciful, ſent me a friend when leaſt expected; an amiable, generous, compaſſionate friend, who does me the juſtice to believe me innocent, though un⯑fortunate; and who, by every obliging attention, endeavours to make me forget the paſt, and look forward to happier days.

We ſet out pretty early in the morn⯑ing. Mrs. Watſon, the name of my tra⯑velling companion, and who I till then had looked upon as a decent good kind of woman, now began to talk to me with more freedom and familiarity than ſhe had ever preſumed to do, ran out in moſt ridiculous praiſes of her Lord, ſaid he was the moſt generous, the handſomeſt and beſt of men, that where he once took a fancy (this, Sophia, was her elegant ex⯑preſſion) he ſpared no expence, nothing was too good or too dear.

Ah! you are a fortunate young lady I am ſure, (continued ſhe) how many, no leſs beautiful, would envy your ſituation! Here now you are going to reign ſole miſ⯑treſs of the ſweeteſt ſpot that ever you [212]ſaw in your life; and, to be ſure, 'tis far more agreeable than being cooped up in London as you were.

I was aſtoniſhed—ſhocked—and all my fears returned; fully convinced ſhe was ſent with me merely as a guard, to prevent any attempt I might make to eſcape: ſhe durſt not have talked in this ſtyle had not her vile employer let her fully into his infamous intentions; ſhe, no doubt, had her inſtructions, and, I am perſuaded, would have been but too faithful to the truſt repoſed in her.

I made few anſwers to her imperti⯑nence, but ſuffered her to run on as ſhe pleaſed, fully determined to proceed no further than the inn we were to ſleep at, if I could poſſibly help it. I took care, however, to ſay nothing likely to create ſuſpicion; ſhe then had none, believing I was perfectly ſatisfied with my condi⯑tion.

When arrived at the laſt ſtage of that day's journey we ſtopped, and ſhe went to order beds and ſupper.—I obſerved an ele⯑gant carriage in the court-yard as we came in. Ah, what would I have given to have known whether it belonged to male or fe⯑male; [213]if the latter, I was determined to contrive ſome means of making my ſitua⯑tion known. Alas! I had already been too cruelly deceived by the former, ever to truſt them more.

On Watſon's return, I careleſsly aſked her if ſhe knew the owner; as I was then viewing it from the window, being ſtill light enough for that purpoſe. Know! Yes, that I do full well! and little does Lady Mary Craven gueſs, I fancy, I am here, unleſs ſhe may have ſeen my Lord's carriage, as you have ſeen her's. Mercy on us! What would ſhe ſay, did ſhe know as much as I know! ſhe would tear your eyes out!

My eyes! (amazed.) What on earth do you mean?

Mean! Why ſurely you muſt have heard his Lordſhip talk of her; why ſhe is the very perſon he was to have married! Aye, and would have married had he not taken ſuch a fancy to you, at leaſt the world ſays ſo; and to tell you the truth, I believe it; but to be ſure his honour has a right to do as he thinks fit; though by not doing it, he muſt, they ſay, loſe great part of his fortune.

[214]Sophia! can you conceive my afto⯑niſhment? I was now, if poſſible, more anxious to meet with an opportunity of ſpeaking to her: much I had indeed heard of her, and even my cruel betray⯑er ſpoke of her with eſteem, though he had hitherto declined fulfilling his en⯑gagement.

The horrid phraſe the creature had made uſe of ſhocked me, I inſtantly con⯑ceived her Ladyſhip had heard of my in⯑tended union with him; and alſo, per⯑haps, of what had ſince happened. I felt mortified, exceedingly ſo, and would have given worlds for an opportunity to juſtify myſelf, but how to procure it I knew not.

A thought occured to me; the firſt time Watſon left the room, which ſhe fre⯑quently did, as I preſume ſhe found the people of the houſe more cheerful com⯑panions than I was.

I took a ſlip of paper, which fortunate⯑ly lay on the table, and with my pencil wrote a few lines, ſtrongly expreſſing the miſery of my ſituation, and begging, for the love of heaven! her Ladyſhip would condeſcend to ſee me! The means of [215]doing ſo I left to herſelf, as I could think of none likely to ſucceed, without creat⯑ing ſuſpicion in the creature I had every reaſon to believe was placed over me as a ſpy.

This I ſealed, and gave the waiter, who came to cover the table for ſupper, charging him to convey it inſtantly into the Lady's own hand.—He could have no reaſon to refuſe this requeſt—away he went, and left me agitated with ten thou⯑ſand hopes and fears.

Near half an hour elapſed before his return.—I ſat in terrors. Watſon had two or three times been in the room dur⯑ing his abſence, but ſtill finding little pleaſure in my company, made her viſits very ſhort.

To my no ſmall joy, at laſt the waiter entered, Sophia, and giving me a ſealed note, ſaid, if I had any further commands, I had only to ring the bell, and he would attend.

I opened it, trembling from head to foot, and had ſcarce power to read the contents; my eyes grew perfectly dim, I feared I ſhould faint; however, a glaſs of water, which I inſtantly drank, relieved [216]me.—Theſe were the few words the dear paper contained: MADAM, "I FEEL myſelf much intereſted in your happineſs; I cannot doubt the facts you have mentioned, they are dreadful! Your applying to a ſtranger, is a convinc⯑ing proof the ſituation you are in is not agreeable to you; depend on ſeeing me this evening; I will contrive to diſpoſe of the woman you tell me has the charge of you, and ſhall be happy to render you any ſervice in my power."

Heavens! Sophia! judge what were my feelings at that delightful moment; it is not in the power of language to give you an idea of them! Supper came in a moment after, and Watſon followed it.

I feared ſhe would remark the change which muſt have taken place in my coun⯑tenance: at dinner I had deſired her to ſit at table with me; but now, under pre⯑tence that ſhe would be better amuſed elſewhere, I told her I would diſpenſe with her company; ſhe ſeemed perfectly fatiſfied. I, Sophia, was ſtill more ſo.—I ſoon finiſhed my repaſt.

[217]The cloth was but juſt removed when the door opened, and in came my gene⯑rous friend! for well does her Ladyſhip merit that tender appellation.

Ah, Madam! (covered with bluſhes, and attempting to throw myſelf at her feet) can you pardon an unhappy young creature for preſuming to take ſo great a liberty? Were I alſo a guilty one, believe me, I would not have.—

Say no more—make no apologies, ten⯑derly raiſing me, and taking my hand in the moſt engaging manner, I have not a doubt of your innocence; that lovely countenance, that amiable timidity, thoſe artleſs bluſhes, plainly declare it.

Sit down, (continued ſhe, ſeating her⯑ſelf by me, and ſtill kindly holding my hand) we have no time to loſe in idle ce⯑remony; I am not intirely a ſtranger to your ſtory, I have even heard part of it ſince I came into this houſe; your duenna has not the talent of keeping a ſecret; ſhe has already been talking of it to my wo⯑man, and no doubt to others; but it is of no conſequence, if you wiſh to eſcape from her.

[218]Ah, Madam! (interrupting her) it is all I aſk of heaven.

Enough, my lovely girl, depend upon it you ſhall then; and for all other matters, we will leave them to talk over at more leiſure; at preſent, let us think only how to manage the firſt point; yet it will not, I believe, require much con⯑trivance: I think the wretch will not dare to diſpute my authority.

She was ſilent for a moment; then ſaid, I have ordered my woman to keep her in chat till I return, and that will be no very difficult matter, for ſhe ſeems an arrant goſſip; but I have changed my mind, ſhe may as well find me here, my preſence, I am perſuaded, will not pro⯑duce any bad effect: ring for her, Miſs Herbert, and without ſcruple, ſay, you have accepted the offer I have made you, of ſleeping with me; let her form what conjectures ſhe pleaſes, my life for it, ſhe will not dare to oppoſe your deſign.

How, my dear Madam, ſhall I ever repay this goodneſs; this unſpeakable obligation? (taking her hand, and reſ⯑pectfully preſſing it to my lips.)

[219] O! very eaſily, my dear! But we will talk of that another time, you for⯑get that I have a double pleaſure in what I am now doing: firſt, I hope I am ſerving you; and ſecondly, diſappoint⯑ing a man who richly deſerves ſome mor⯑tification from me. You know not how I enjoy the thoughts of his amazement, when he hears his intended wife, and in⯑tended miſtreſs, have ſo accidentally had a rencontre.

Pardon me, my dear, for the expreſ⯑ſion; it can only caſt a reflection on the wicked ſeducer! His vile intentions you have nothing to do with, he is a wild good for nothing moital, nor have I ever, believe me, regretted his not claiming my hand, which, I give you my word, would have been to no purpoſe; I ſhall chuſe to beſtow it on a worthier object, I do aſſure you; but ring your bell if you pleaſe, it is late, and we muſt ſet out early to-morrow, as I mean to get home in the evening.

Is ſhe not a delightful woman, Sophia?—I obeyed, and the waiter entered.

Tell the perſon who came with me, ſaid I, I ſhall be glad to ſpeak to her.

[220] She made her appearance a moment after; but, to give you an idea of her aſtoniſhment on ſeeing my companion is utterly impoſſible. I could hardly keep my gravity.

Your young Lady (ſaid Lady Mary) has been ſo good as to ſay ſhe will oblige me by ſteeping in my room to night; you may carry her things there, my maid will ſhow you the way.

Madam! my Lady!—I—I!—in your room, did your Ladyſhip ſay?—I—fear!—that is, I!—

O! fear nothing! I will take as much care of her as you can do. I am rather a coward, and dare not ſleep alone; you may go, we ſhall follow you preſently. Order my woman to bring lights.

Sophia, never was there a more comic ſcene; the creature was ready to [...]ink into the earth—the ſtyle in which my kind friend ſpoke to her; the eaſy man⯑ner; as if ſhe took it for granted ſhe could have no objections, ſo wholly diſ⯑concerted the few ideas nature had given her, that ſhe could make none.

Never mortal looked ſo ſooliſh. She had nothing for it but to ſneak off and [221]obey. Taken ſo entirely unawares, ſo unprepared for ſuch an event, what could ſhe do? She was utterly confounded, and unable to ſay one word either for or againſt the plan, ſo left us to enjoy her perplexity; which we certainly did not a little.

Soon after her Ladyſhip's woman came to let us know our apartment was ready—ſhe, too, looked amazed, but ſaid nothing. In the entry we found Wat⯑ſon, accompanied by the ſervant (who had attended us from London) and alſo the poſtillion; as I paſſed ſhe attempted to ſtop me.

Miſs, Miſs! Pray let me ſpeak one word? For heaven ſake do!—John!—Richard!—can't your!—I wiſh—they ſtood gaping, but made no anſwer.

I ſlid by; ſaying, ſhe could have no⯑thing to tell me but what I could hear as well in the morning; and, with trem⯑bling ſteps, ſcarce able to ſupport myſelf, hurried up ſtairs.

It was evident ſhe had made this effort to prevent me; and certainly might have made a very diſagreeable buſtle, had her auxiliary troops ſeconded her motion [222]with ſpirit; but happily, for me, they did not. They had, I preſume, received no orders from their maſter on the ſub⯑ject; who, with all his art and cunning, had not, I fancy, foreſeen that ſuch an accident might happen; perhaps too, though ſo greatly his inferior in ſome things, they might be no leſs ſuperior in others; and ſcorned to be farther con⯑cerned in ſo treacherous an affair.

In ſhort, my dear Sophia, every thing fortunately ſucceeded to our wiſh. Next morning we left the houſe, without in⯑terruption.—Watſon was not even viſi⯑ble; I gave every thing I had been obliged to receive from her, to one of the ſer⯑vants, charging her to deliver them into her own hands; and with a joy you can have no conception of, drove to this hoſ⯑pitable, this delightful manſion, where I meet with every poſſible attention and reſpect.

My only diſtreſs now is, the diſplea⯑ſure of my dear Father and Aunt; could I but obtain their forgiveneſs, my heart would be at peace. Lady Mary has kindly promiſed to intercede for me; I mean to write again; ſhe is to write alſo. [223]Ah, Sophia! pray with me her eloquence may not plead in vain; this alone is wanting to complete my felicity.

Adieu, my dear friend, you ſhall hear from me again when theſe important let⯑ters are diſpatched, and then have a more particular account of my generous protectreſs; there cannot be a more amiable creature—Ah! the deceitful, the cruel Sommerville, is unworthy of her! She knows it now better than ever. She deteſts him for his perfidy to your poor Emily; and I need not, I hope, add, I too look upon him as the baſeſt of men. Thank heaven, I have happily eſcaped all his ſnares! May he, before it is too late, ſee his errors and repent!

I go now to write to my father and aunt, ſhould their anſwers be propitious, I ſhall be once more your truly happy, as well as affectionate,

LETTER XXXIV. Lord Sommerville to Charles Dalton, Eſq

NEVER! Never Charles, was there ſo unfortunate a fellow as I am at this moment; by heavens! I could curſe my very exiſtence, for being ſuch a con⯑founded fool! duped by an artful witch, I have acted the part of a conſummate villain! I have injured, inſulted, the beſt, the moſt eſtimable of her ſex, and have deſervedly loſt her for ever! Yes, ſhe muſt look upon me as the moſt de⯑teſtable, the moſt unworthy of mankind; but here I ſwear by all that's ſacred, I will be nobly revenged! that fiend, in the ſhape of Lady Stanley, ſhall not eſcape with impunity: dearly ſhall ſhe be made to rue the effects of her diabo⯑lical plotting, or my wits ſhall ſail me.

Oh, Charles! I am undone! ruined! all my hopes of happineſs for ever de⯑ſtroyed! [225]by that vile harpy's contrivance, my Emily! my lovely, my engaging, gentle Emily!—muſt at this moment exe⯑crate the very name of her repenting, truly penitent Sommerville! I am now aſtoniſhed at my ſtupid credulity! How was it in nature, I could believe ſo ſcan⯑dalous, ſo improbable a ſtory? her very looks! every word! every ſweet expreſ⯑ſion the dear girl uttered!—her letters, which, I like a mean deſpicable traitor ſaw, by ſuch unjuſtifiable means, all! all might have told me it was falſe.

In thoſe artleſs, innocent letters, ſhe calls me a Monſter, Charles! Too juſtly might the lovely injured creature look upon me in that odious light! No never! never while I have breath, ſhall I reco⯑ver my own good opinion! How then dare I, can I hope to regain hers? and yet without that bleſſing, life muſt be a tor⯑ment.

But let me endeavour to be more expli⯑cit, that you may comprehend me, and you will then confeſs I have but too much cauſe for theſe exclamations.

My adorable Emily, not wholly void of ſuſpicion, (I now know to my coſt) leſt me, accompanied by Watſon, as I men⯑tioned [226]to you we had agreed upon. The very next day, to my utter confuſion, I received the following letter from my friend, Major Manſell; judge if you can of my emotions, on reading its dreadful contents.

Had this reached me a few days ſoon⯑er, it might have ſaved me from endleſs remorſe, and I might now have been ſu⯑premely bleſt in the poſſeſſion of my an⯑gel, Emily; for angels are not more pure, more ſpotleſs.—Ah, Charles! I ought never to have entertained a doubt of it; but my conſcience tells me, I was unworthy to call ſuch excellence mine.

Read Manſell's letter, and then ſay, is there any puniſhment I can contrive, equal to crimes of that hagg, Lady Stanley?

My dear Sommerville,

I THINK I know you too well to be⯑lieve my ſucceeding your Lordſhip in the good graces of the fair widow, gave you one moment's uneaſineſs, or that it could poſſibly weaken your friendſhip; as a [227]proof of mine, accept this letter, which I wiſh from my ſoul, may come time enough to prevent thoſe infamous effects, which an injured, a jealous woman in⯑tended to produce by arts ſhe practiced, with but too much ſucceſs.

I had long ſuſpected the indifference ſhe affected, on your quitting her for the amiable, the much injured, Miſs Herbert, was merely put on to conceal the pangs it gave her; it was unnatural to imagine a conqueſt, like Lord Som⯑merville, could be reſigned with ſo much eaſe; you cannot have forgot how often I have ſaid I doubted her Ladyſhip's ſincerity, I have now moſt inconteſtable proofs of my penetration.

You know I was on a pretty intimate footing with her before you left us; ſhe has attractions, my Lord, and knows how to ſet them off to advantage as well as any one of her ſex. I had no ſerious views in the devoirs I paid her; ſhe could not but know it, I have therefore nothing to reproach myſelf with.

I often talked of your Lordſhip, I wiſhed to diſcover her real ſentiments, as I ſuſpected them, and did all in my [228]power to throw her off her guard; I part⯑ly ſucceeded, and was fully convinced, by her own confeſſion (though ſhe did not, I believe, mean to be quite ſo expli⯑cit, had I not artfully drawn her on by my queſtions, and appearing to admire her ſpirit) that the lovely Emily was car⯑ried off by her contrivance.

My manner of treating the affair gratified her vanity, and ſhe was weak enough, in the courſe of ſeveral conver⯑ſations I had with her on the ſubject, not only to own it, but to triumph in the ſucceſs of her cruel plot, laughing at the fellow who had been her dupe, and the reward he had met with for his heroic achievement.

I alſo found ſhe had formed hopes of drawing you again into her lure, having thus robbed you of her charming rival; this, it is true, ſhe had too much pride to acknowledge in direct terms; but I more than ſurmiſed it from ſeveral unguarded expreſſions ſhe occaſionally dropped.

You, my dear Sommerville, returned unſucceſsful, after having made every poſſible inquiry, in order to diſcover the wretch who had injured you in ſo flagrant [229]a manner, you had ſearched in vain, and it appears her hopes of regaining your heart were no leſs ſo, ſhe could not con⯑ceal her mortification at the diſappoint⯑ment even from me.

You ſoon diſappeared a ſecond time.—Little did I dream Lady Stanley was the ſecret ſpring that occaſioned your ſudden departure.

But of this, too, I have by mere acci⯑dent diſcovered ſuch evident proofs as almoſt amount to certainty.

Going a few days ago to call upon her, I found ſhe had walked out, but had or⯑dered the ſervants, in caſe I came before ſhe returned, to ſay ſhe ſhould be at home preſently.

Accordingly I went up to her dreſſing room to wait for her, meaning to amuſe myſelf with a book till ſhe arrived; I ſaw none on her toilet, and began looking about in hopes of finding one; her cabi⯑net ſtood open, I fancied I might meet with one there; ſeveral letters and looſe papers lay ſcattered up and down; and there they might have lain in perfect ſaſe⯑ty for me, had not my eye caught the name of Miſs Herbert on one of them; [230]all things conſidered, I think my curio⯑ſity was pardonable—I took it up—but gueſs my ſurprize when I found it addreſ⯑ſed to your Lordſhip, as coming from the fellow's houſekeeper who had carried off your lovely Emily.—I haſtily took a copy, which I encloſe, that you may be enabled to judge whether you ever re⯑ceived ſuch a one—if ſo, we cannot doubt her being the author, as it is in her Lady⯑ſhip's own hand writing, though ſhe would hardly ſend it to you without being ſuſ⯑ficiently diſguiſed, or more likely, get ſome other to write it for her.

One of the two you may depend on, for how elſe could ſhe come by ſuch a wicked abominable ſcrawl?—true—it might never have been ſent, one can hardly believe any woman could be ca⯑pable of ſuch an infernal ſcheme; but this your Lordſhip will be able to clear up to yourſelf.

I would gladly hope, ſhe did not carry her malice and revenge quite ſo ſar, and if ſhe actually did, that you would give no credit to the horrid ſtory; ſince in that caſe I fear the amiable Miſs Herbert, in regard to whom I am told your inten⯑tions [231]before her unfortunate adventure were perfectly honourable, may have ſunk in your Lordſhip's eſteem.

Whether the wretch really did treat her with indignity—whether he was brute enough to take advantage of her unhap⯑py ſituation, having her thus in his power, I cannot ſay—but this vile forgery is at leaſt no proof of it.

It is ſuſpected the lovely girl is now your's, my Lord; but this wants con⯑firmation; her friends, I hear, have not yet been able to trace her ſteps, or to diſ⯑cover who it was that delivered her from Morton; however by the deſcription he gives of the perſon, they gueſs it is your Lordſhip.

But if ſo, why does ſhe not appear?—This queſtion I aſk, and can only account for it, by ſuppoſing, what I am very un⯑willing to believe.

By our paſt friendſhip, my dear Som⯑merville, let me entreat the favour of hearing from you, and if poſſible clear yourſelf from ſuſpicions which pain me to entertain. I know you are not fault⯑leſs more than myſelf; the very beſt of us are not ſo; but ſurely, my Lord, you [232]would reſpect the virtue of a young lady ſo truly deſerving your tenderneſs and protection.

Pardon the freedom of theſe reflections in conſideration of the motives which in⯑duce me to trouble you with this letter; that it may fully anſwer my well meant purpoſe, is the ſincere wiſh of your Lord⯑ſhip's affectionate friend, and moſt obe⯑dient ſervant,

F. MANSELL.

Taking it for granted you have now, Charles, read my friend's diſtracting let⯑ter, let me aſk what puniſhment you think ſufficiently ſevere for the author of all this miſery?—I need not remind you of my receiving the curſed ſcrawl, of which he found the copy, you know it—and know alſo, I was dolt, idiot enough to give credit to the vile tale, and alſo the fatal, the unpardonable effects of my too eaſy credulity.

Ah, Charles! they have for ever de⯑ſtroyed my peace! I now, when too late, find my injured! much injured Emily! is dearer to me than life, that to call her [233]mine, honourably mine, is ſo neceſſary to my happineſs that I think I ſhall not have patience to endure the inſipidity of my exiſtence without her!

And yet what hopes remain? None I am afraid! ſhe cannot but deſpiſe my conduct, ignorant as ſhe is of the cruel deception that had been practiſed, and conſcious of her innocence, I muſt appear a brute.

Well might the angelic girl call me monſter; had I not obtained the promiſe of her dear hand? Were we not on the point of being for ever united by the moſt ſacred ties? What had ſhe done then to produce ſo horrid a change in my ſenti⯑ments!—Ah, nothing! Nothing!

I am abſolutely more than half diſtract⯑ed, Charles, and cannot proceed, though I have ſtill much to tell you, and much you will wonder, I am certain, at the ſtrange event I am going to relate; you will con⯑feſs it is one of thoſe unaccountable acci⯑dents, which one can hardly conceive happen by chance—yet, ſo it certainly was.

The account Watſon gives, (whom I had nearly put to death in my firſt tranſ⯑port [234]of rage and diſappointment) is as follows:—

At the inn, where my Emily was to ſleep the firſt night of her journey, whoſe carriage do you think, Charles, was the firſt object the ſtupid animal ſaw ſtanding in the yard? and which ſhe well knew, as ſhe had ſeen it often, nor was ſhe ignorant of my engage⯑ment with its owner!—No other than Lady Mary Craven's!

To be ſure, my Lord, I had no notion of what would happen—how ſhould I? (cried ſhe, when attempting to juſtify herſelf)—I knew her Ladyſhip's woman, and thought there could be no harm in chatting to her a little; and pleaſe your honour, I am ſure I ſaid nothing that could diſcover my buſineſs there, nor did I know Miſs Herbert was acquainted with her Ladyſhip; nay, for that matter, ſhe certainly was not, for her maid told me ſo.

What you mentioned her name then, and told her ſhe was with you? (cried I, in a rage.)

Oh, dear, my Lord!—Indeed, indeed! I—I!—that is I only!…

[235]Go on, (interrupting her) ſcarce able to contain my indignation.

Why, my Lord, when Miſs rang her bell and ordered me to attend, which I ſuppoſed was to conduct her to her bed⯑chamber, who ſhould I find ſitting in the very ſame room with her, but Lady Mary. Your honour may well think I was very much ſurpriſed, and knew not what to ſay or do.

I have prevailed on Miſs Herbert (ſaid ſhe) to ſleep in my apartment to night; juſt for all the world, pleaſe your Lord⯑ſhip, as if they had been the moſt intimate friends. Go, carry your Lady's things up ſtairs, my woman will ſhow you the way—theſe were her Ladyſhip's very words, my Lord. I ſtood like a fool, to be ſure, for what could I ſay?—I never was ſo ſluſtered in all my days; at laſt, however, I did venture to ſay ſomething, though I hardly know what; but her Ladyſhip cut me ſhort, by repeating her orders, ſo I was obliged to obey.

When come a little to myſelf, I ran to John and Richard, and bid them ſtand by me, and I would try to prevent her getting up ſtairs—I trembled every joint of me, [236]as I waited their coming—but it was all to no purpoſe. Miſs, ſome how or other, ſlipped by me, though I once had hold of her gown too, and they ſtood looking on, never ſo much as putting out a hand to help me, or daring to ſpeak a word.

And, ſo, pleaſe your honour, next morning, they were both gone in her La⯑dyſhip's carriage, before I was up; and one of the maids delivered me all her things; that is, the trunk, and the key; and to be ſure, I found every individual thing in it, except the cloaths ſhe had on.

Confeſs, Charles, this is a very extra⯑ordinary event;—moſt unaccountably ſo; how, in the courſe of a few hours—nay leſs, ſhe could contrive to introduce herſelf to an abſolute ſtranger, to intereſt her ſo much in her favour, (yet who could behold the ſweet creature with indiffer⯑ence?) to contract ſuch an intimacy! ſuch a friendſhip!—I am bewildered! perplexed—and what is worſe, feel all the horrors of re [...]orſe and deſpair!

I abſolutely cannot upport the torment of her thinking me [...] villain.—And how juſtify myſelf? granting I could, by re⯑lating [237]facts, mitigate my offences? How attempt ſeeing her in the preſence of her new friend? How appear before her? Had ſhe fallen into any other hands, I might have found courage for it, deſpica⯑ble as I muſt be in her dear eyes; but here it is impoſſible.

I have deſerved ſome reproaches alſo, I am ſorry to fay, from her Ladys;hip:—Ah! how will my character be torn to pieces between them; what a ſubject for their tète-â-tètes? Could my evil genius have been more perverſe, than in thus bringing the only two women acquaint⯑ed, I wiſhed might never meet! There is a whimſicallity in it, Charles, which, were I not half mad with vexation, would force a ſmile.

Let me now ſay a few words of that ſerpent! that worſe than witch! that dia⯑bolical widow!—I cannot give it up, Charles, I muſt be revenged—help me, if you ever wiſh I ſhould know one mo⯑ment's reſt; help me to contrive the means.—Poiſon would be too merciful! No, I wiſh to torment, to mortify, to hum⯑ble her in the moſt abject manner. Try what you can do for me. But at preſent [238]I can only think of my loſt, my adorable Emily!—Mine did I ſay! Ah, Charles!—Yet ſhe might have been mine—ſhe had promiſed it;—that reflection drives me mad.

LETTER XXXV. Miſs Herbert to Miſs Fermer.

TEN thouſand thanks to my dear Sophia, for her obliging congratulations on all my troubles being happily over:—they are nearer being ſo, my dear friend, than you yet know. You ſay you have not a doubt of my being ſoon reſtored to the favour of my family; you are not miſtaken; I have received the tendereſt letter imaginable from my Aunt, who gives me hopes my dear Fa⯑ther will pardon all the trouble I have involuntarily occaſioned him: nay, does now pardon me, but cannot yet ſo far [239]ſucceed as to gain my Mother's permiſſion for me to return home.

This circumſtance gives much pleaſure to my generous friend, who had preſſed me not to leave this place; and if oblig⯑ed to go for a while, inſiſted I ſhould re⯑turn, and if poſſible, ſpend ſome months with her; finding how matters were at my Father's, and that of courſe I was to go to my Aunt, ſhe has wrote in the moſt polite and preſſing terms to beg ſhe will ſpare me to her for ſome time; I think ſhe will not refuſe ſome flattering a requeſt.

And now, Sophia, let me tell you, though it will ſhock you as much as it has me, to find man can be ſo very baſe, ſo wholly loſt to every ſenſe of honour, I find Lord Sommerville is more guilty, more treacherous than even I till now be⯑lieved him; though, alas, there needed no further prooſ to render him, in my opinion, completely worthleſs.

Would you believe it, Sophia, my Aunt tells me ſhe never received the let⯑ter I wrote her, and to which I received ſo cruel an anſwer.—How mean! how horrid, to ſtoop to ſuch artifice!—It is now evident he got poſſeſſion of it, and, [240]in order to facilitate his vile ſchemes, wrote the anſwer himſelf, which gave me ſuch infinite pain and diſtreſs: that to you, no doubt, ſhared the ſame fate, ſince you wrote me word you never received it.

Good heaven, Sophia! that a man ſo apparently amiable and generous, ſo very ſuperior to the generality of his ſex, ſhould, under thoſe engaging appearances, conceal ſo bad a heart, ſo deſpicable a character.

Ah, how thankful am I, our intended union did not take place; miſery muſt inevitably have been the conſequence, what elſe could have followed? Though for a while I might have been deceived; ſoon, too ſoon, I doubt not he would have thrown off the maſk, and your poor Emily would have been completely wretched.

Have I not then infinite cauſe to thank the merciful interpoſition of Providence, for delivering me from ſo dreadful a fate; and alſo for procuring me ſo amiable a friend as I find in my generous, my kind protectreſs.

My dear Lady Mary informs me, te greateſt friendſhip had ſubſiſted between [241]her Father and the late Lord Sommer⯑ville, that an alliance between the fami⯑lies had for many years been an object on which they had both ſet their hearts; that in an affair of the utmoſt importance, her's had conferred a very eſſential obli⯑gation on his friend: this he could no otherwiſe repay, than by confirming the promiſe he had before given, that his ſon ſhould, ſince his Lordſhip did him the honour to wiſh it, either give his hand, or forſeit half his eſtate, which in that caſe ſhould be ſettled on the lady. To this her father objected—but in vain; it was the only return he could make, he ſaid, and ſhould his ſon be ſo blind to his own intereſt and happineſs as to refuſe fulfilling the engagement, (a thing he had no reaſon to fear) he thought in ſettling his fortune in this manner, he inflicted but too mild a puniſhment for his folly and ingratitude.

Her Ladyſhip's father died before ſhe had attained her fifteenth year; ſhe then accompanied her Aunt (who ſtill lives with her) abroad.

Lord Sommerville died ſome years after; his ſon, who was then on his tra⯑vels, [242]was ſent for home, but arrived too late, as his father had breathed his laſt: what his ſentiments were, on finding the clauſe I have mentioned fully ratified, ſhe can only gueſs by his conduct, which pretty clearly informed her he had no in⯑clination to perform the ſtipulated en⯑gagement.

One thing I had almoſt forgot, which is, that they are ſecond couſins; and, that Sommerville ſucceeded to the eſtate he now enjoys, in conſequence of its being entailed on the male heir, otherwiſe it would have devolved to Lady Mary; ſo that ſtrictly ſpeaking, he is not to forfeit any part of it, but which is nearly the ſame thing, is to pay to her an equivalent ſum of money.

Theſe, in as few words as I could give you them, are the particulars of that affair; he has never been more attentive to her than even cold good breeding requires; and happy it is her Ladyſhip never be⯑held him with any degree of partiality; ſhe wiſhed him to reject her, yet would not inform him of her ſentiments, merely that ſhe might have it in her power to puniſh him for his irregularities, well [243]knowing he is highly povoked at being thus fettered.

Her own fortune is very conſiderable, nor does ſhe mean to augment it by the ſum ſhe is, on his rejecting her hand, to receive from him: had he proved him⯑ſelf more worthy, ſhe aſſures me, ſhe intended reſigning her claim; but ſince he is ſuch a libertine, ſhe propoſes ac⯑cepting the money, and ſettling it on a young gentleman, his Lordſhip's neareſt relation, who is uncommonly amiable and deſerving, but whoſe family eſtate, by the extravagance of his predeceſſor, is reduced almoſt to nothing.

This, Sophia, is her generous inten⯑tion, nor is it poſſible to find an objec⯑tion to it: the artful, the deſigning Som⯑merville will, after all, in his eſtate, poſ⯑ſeſs but too much for the baſe purpoſes in which he employs it.

Lady Mary has a great ſhare of vivaci⯑ty, and often diverts me when talking of Lord Sommerville's embarraſſed ſituation, and the aſtoniſhment he muſt have been in on hearing of our firſt meeting, and that I am now actually reſident with her—it was certainly a very droll accident, [244]Sophia, as could poſſibly happen, yet nothing of the marvellous neither, as her houſe is within a few miles of that to which I was going.

I am delighted to find, by my Aunt's letter, that wretch Morton is in a fair way of recovery, ſince baſe as he has proved himſelf, I ſhould have been ſhocked be⯑yond expreſſion to have been the cauſe of his death: ſhe tells me, when he is able to travel he is going abroad and of courſe has no farther thoughts of perſecuting me.

Thus you ſee, my dear Sophia, my troubles are really nearly over; not en⯑tirely, indeed, ſince I cannot be perfectly happy while my poor Father is thus go⯑verned by a tyrant, and not at liberty to ſhew me that indulgence to which his heart inclines him; but he has ſo long been accuſtomed to obey, without a murmur, that I truſt he is not ſo ſenſible of his diſ⯑agreeable ſituation as I am.

Lady Stanley, ſhe alſo ſays, is flirting away, at a great rate, with Major Man⯑ſell, and ſeems wholly to have forgotten the inconſtant Sommerville, and by the manner in which you find I ſpeak of him, [245]I hope you will ſee plainly all your kind fears are groundleſs.

No, no, Sophia! partial as I once was to him, believe me I am ſo no longer; nor is it in nature he ever ſhould regain that place in my eſteem he has ſo juſtly forfeited; be under no apprehenſions therefore on that account, nor fear that I ſhall find any difficulty in expelling his image from my breaſt; it is already done, Sophia, and were I even to ſee him again, which I ſincerely wiſh I never may, be aſſured it will be with all the indifference you can poſſibly deſire. One may pity, but to love an unworthy object, knowing him to be ſuch, muſt, I think, be an im⯑poſſibility.

I have not yet, Sophia, ſaid half I ought to have done, in regard to my amiable friend; but hitherto I have had ſo many other ſubjects which I wiſhed to acquaint you with, that ſhe muſt, and I am con⯑vinced, would readily excuſe me, did ſhe know I had been guilty of this apparent neglect and ingratitude.

My dear Lady Mary, then, is about two and twenty, tall and elegantly formed; her face, tho' not perfectly beautiful, has [246]yet an unſpeakable ſweetneſs of expreſ⯑ſion, which many, who from having mere⯑ly a regularity of features are ſtiled ſo, have not: her eyes are particularly fine, her teeth uncommonly ſo; in ſhort, to me, ſhe is an exceeding fine woman; and for underſtanding, real wit, and vivacity, I have never met with her equal; add to this, ſhe is miſtreſs of every faſhionable accompliſhment, and has the moſt melo⯑dious voice I ever heard in my life.

Such is the woman whoſe hand Lord Sommerville declined accepting; or, ra⯑ther properly ſpeaking, declined paying his addreſſes to, for it is by no means clear he would have obtained it if he had: now it is moſt certain, as ſhe tells me, her heart has long been engaged to another; to whom ſhe would ere now have been united, had ſhe not made a point of waiting a decent time to ſee how his Lordſhip would proceeed.

But, I will wait no longer, ſaid ſhe, to me, yeſterday, as we were talking on the ſubject; my reſolution is unalterably fixed; I will now make it my buſineſs to know his; it is not uſual for ladies to make the firſt advances, nor ſhould I in [247]any other circumſtances; I might no doubt marry without conſulting him, but I feel a wicked pleaſure in the thoughts of the dilemma into which I ſhall throw him, by deſiring his final determination.

Ah! my dear Lady Mary, is it in na⯑nature he ſhould one moment heſitate?

Oh! very poſſible my dear! of that I think he has given me pretty convincing proofs, but thank my ſtars, all men do not ſee with his eyes! I purpoſe writing to him, his anſwer will no doubt afford me ſome diverſion; and not a little will he be amazed, as well as puzzled, when he has the felicity to receive my epiſtle; he no doubt flatters himſelf I ſhall (in hopes ſome twenty years hence, he will relent and take me) live quietly a ſpinſter till that joyous hour arrives.—Woefully does he deceive himſelf, if he has any ſuch ridiculous idea: In a few days I hope to preſent my intended caro ſpoſo to you Emily; you ſhall then judge whe⯑ther it is poſſible I am likely to be ſuch a fool.

And now a word or two of her Lady⯑ſhip's Aunt, Mrs. Selby, and I have done. There cannot be a more worthy, or more [248]agreeable woman, ſhe doats upon her charming niece, who has for many years been intirely under her care, is highly pleaſed with the object on whom ſhe has placed her affections, and is no leſs impa⯑tient than he is, to have the affair finally concluded; to me ſhe behaves in the kindeſt, the moſt friendly manner; in⯑deed, my being a favourite of Lady Ma⯑ry's was quite ſufficient to inſure me a gracious reception from her.

I have every reaſon to think her Lady⯑ſhip has conceived a very ſincere regard for me, the unhappy ſituation in which ſhe firſt found me, greatly intereſted her in my favour; and ſince ſhe has, as ſhe obligingly ſays, known me better, ſhe finds me worthy her tendereſt friendſhip and eſteem, and hopes our attachment will not only be mutual, but laſting as our lives.—Nothing ſhe ſmiling, aſ⯑ſured me, the other day, could poſſibly weaken it on her ſide, except my robbing her a ſecond time of her lover—as to Sommerville, I pardon you, Emily, ſaid ſhe, but ſhould you preſume to captivate Lord Neville, not all thoſe bewitching ſmiles ſhall ſave you from the effects of my wrath and indignation.

[249]Farewell, my dear Sophia, I ſhall be ever your affectionate friend,

LETTER XXXVI. Lady Stanley to Mrs. Groſvenor.

WHAT a couple of bungling fools have I had to deal with, Caroline! my revenge is but half completed, and I could curſe them for their ſtupidity!

Would you believe it! the girl has, after all my trouble, eſcaped from them both! and that too in triumph! The firſt was too great a coward to accompliſh my purpoſe; and the other, though I doubt not his intentions were favourable as I could wiſh, yet by his ridiculous delicacy, reſpect, and ſuch ſtuff, has ſucceeded no better; he, however, cannot know Mor⯑ton was ſuch an idiot, unleſs he has been [250]daſtardly enough to confeſs it, in hopes to ſcreen himſelf from farther vengeance; and this I think cannot be, as they have never met ſince the damſel was reſcued by the valourous arm of Sommerville; who of courſe, believes the ſtory I wrote him, in the name of the honeſt houſe⯑keeper.

She has now, as I ſaid, made her eſcape from him too; but never! never will you gueſs by whoſe means!—Only Lady Mary Craven! The very woman to whom he has for years been engaged to give his worthleſs hand!—True as you are alive! with her ſhe is at preſent, and there, I pray heaven ſhe may remain! For I could not ſo far command myſelf, as to ſee her with patience; my only conſolation is, I have kept them all in a pretty decent buſtle for ſome time paſt; and, I think, put a final ſtop to her being Lady Sommerville.—Should he, after all, be fooliſh enough to think of ſuch a thing—her gratitude to her bene⯑factreſs, to her new friend, muſt be an unſurmountable bar to a Lady of her re⯑fined, romantic, ſentiments; ſo I have done with the whole ſet, and ſhall now find ſome other way to amuſe myſelf.

[251]Manſell, yeſterday, while at dinner with me, received letters from London; one of them ſeemed to give him particu⯑lar pleaſure; to tell you the truth, I fancied it might be from ſome favourite fair one; and jokingly told him my ſuſ⯑picions.

He kept me ſome time in ſuſpence, not a little flattered, I ſuppoſe, at the ſymptoms of jealouſy I had diſcovered: at laſt, however, he gave it me to read, and I found it was actually from Som⯑merville, acquainting him, a friend of their's, the Duke de Saint Clair, whom they had both known in Paris, and from whom they had received a thouſand diſ⯑tinguiſhing marks of attention, was then in town, had viſited moſt parts of the kingdom, and meant ſoon to ſet out on another tour. The reaſon of his writing, was to inform Manſell, the Duke had made many obliging enquiries after him, and finding it would not be far out of his road, intended calling upon him, he therefore thought it not amiſs to give him notice of his Grace's deſign, that he might be prepared to receive him, and to ſhew him every thing worth no⯑tice in this part of the country.

[252]And pray, what kind of mortal is this fame Duke? Young, or old? handſome, or a fright? rich, or poor?

Nay (laughing) half theſe queſtions at a time would be more than my memory could retain; pray begin again.

Pho! how horridly ſtupid! Why old or young then? come try if you can anſwer me that?

Neither; about two or three and thirty, will that ſuit you? juſt my age!

Don't be impertinent, Manſell! I care not a ſtraw though he were as old as—what do you call him? I give you my word.

Well, now to your next queſtion, let me ſee, what was it? O, ‘handſome, or a fright.’—Why to this too, I muſt reply as before—neither!

Ah ſhocking! I'll lay my life he is ſome queer figure, ſome aukward ill made animal, before I ſee him!

Now for the laſt, and not leaſt import⯑ant, "rich, or poor?"

Aye, as you ſay, that circumſtance may help to decide in regard to his other perfections, out with it!

Rich as a ſew then! immenſely rich! and ſprung from—

[253]No matter who (interrupting him) we are too wiſe in England, and know too well the value of money, to trouble our heads about family; we leave that ſilly pride to thoſe poor ſouls who have no⯑thing elſe to boaſt of.

Well, what think you of him? (ſmil⯑ing)

Oh, charming! Is it poſſible I ſhould not think him ſo?

One queſtion your Ladyſhip has quite forgot.

Pray what may that be? I know full as much about him already as I deſire.

What no ſpark of curioſity remaining, to be informed whether he has a heart and hand to beſtow?

Why what a jealous wretch thou art, Manſell! No, poſitively then, I will not aſk any ſuch matter, leſt I ſhould hear of your dangling in your garters before to-morrow, and I do not want to be haunted by your ghoſt; it is quite ſufficient that I am ſo by your imper⯑tinent ſelf! So pray make yourſelf eaſy.

This ſame Duke, ſhould he keep his word, Caroline, may afford us a little [254]amuſement; I ſhould rather ſay we muſt contrive to amuſe him, as he is a ſtran⯑ger, which comes all to the ſame thing.

To tell you the truth I begin to ſigh for a little variety, and have thoughts of going to ſome watering place; the wo⯑men hereabouts are a parcel of formal odd beings, and pretend to give them⯑ſelves airs truly; as for the men, I am tired of them, there are too few, one hates to ſee the ſame faces perpetually; I ſhall ſtay, however, till I ſee what kind of a creature this ſame Duke turns out: I fancy, by what I can gather from his friend Manſell, his riches are his great⯑eſt recommendation, and no bad one neither let me tell you.

Adieu.—Sommerville is not expected here for ſome time—ſo much the better. I have now for ever done with him.

LETTER XXXVII. Miſs Herbert to Miſs Fermer.

LADY Mary has received a polite anſwer from my Aunt, with her ready conſent to my ſtaying as long as it is agreeable to her Ladyſhip; adding, ſhe is highly flattered by her very obliging requeſt. She alſo, Sophia, writes in the kindeſt manner to me, ſo that I really am now the happieſt creature imaginable; every thing I meet with here conſpires to make me ſo, and to baniſh the hor⯑rid remembrance of paſt ſorrow from my recollection; the whole now appears like a frightful dream, and as ſuch, I endeavour to drive it from my memory, on which it has nevertheſs made too deep an impreſſion ever to be intirely eraſed.

Lord Neville arrived here a few days ſince, accompanied by a particular friend, [256]a Sir Henry Cardigan; the former is one of the fineſt figures I ever ſaw, and his manner equally pleaſing, he ſeems to adore Lady Mary, who is no leſs partial to him; one may hope, therefore, they will, though in high life, be a truly hap⯑py pair, which, I am afraid, is by no means a common caſe in the faſhionable circle.

Her Ladyſhip has wrote to Lord Som⯑merville.—I would give worlds you could have ſeen her letter, but it was impoſſi⯑ble to aſk a copy, nor could I do it juſtice by attempting to repeat its con⯑tents; no other woman, I am perſuaded, could have acquitted herſelf ſo well on ſo aukward an occaſion. Lord Neville is impatient for the anſwer, as on that depends his happy day.

She cannot forgive Lord Sommerville, for propoſing to me a private marriage, ſince avarice could alone be his motive, no doubt he hoped thereby to evade the clauſe in his father's will, but had he entertained for me that regard ſhe is pleaſed to ſay I merit, that circumſtance ought to have had no weight.

[257]Ah, Sophia! there is too much truth in her remark; I was a very, very weak creature, not to ſee his conduct in the ſame light I now do; perhaps there might be ſome little excuſe for me, young and inexperienced as I was; but my Aunt! Surely, Sophia, ſhe ought to have—Yet this is ungenerous! It is an ungrateful re⯑turn for her well meant compliance; ſhe could only have my happineſs in view, But let me drop the humbling, the morti⯑fying ſubject; never again ſhall his deteſt⯑ed name ſully my paper, nor ſhould I have mentioned him now, had it not been to tell you of the letter he has by this time received. Should he at laſt conſent to ac⯑cept her Ladyſhip's hand, (which I need hardly add ſhe has no thoughts of giving him) he will thereby prevent the loſs of that money, on which it is plain he ſets ſo great a value; if he declines it, it is her own, and as I told you before, ſhe purpoſes beſtowing it on a more deſerv⯑ing object. Lord Neville, ſo far from diſapproving this generous deſign, de⯑clares, if poſſible, it raiſes her in his eſteem, and renders her more dear to him.

[258]Thus, Sophia, we are on the point of having a wedding, at which I am to figure as bride's-maid, and the amiable Sir Henry, as my companion on the happy occaſion; by the bye, I have not treated that gentleman well; I had nearly finiſh⯑ed my epiſtle without ſaving one word about him, though were I to ſay all in his praiſe, they tell me he deſerves, I might fill another page or two. How true the eulogium I cannot judge on ſo ſhort an acquaintance; all I can at preſent affirm is, that he is uncommonly engaging, and his perſon very elegant. He has been unfortunate, I hear, in a firſt attachment, which has left a kind of melancholy on his ſpirits, which intereſts one ſirangely in his favour. Lady Mary has ſet me the taſk of removing his dejection, ſays ſhe is otherwiſe employed, and therefore leaves him wholly to my care; adding, there is a ſort of ſimilarity in our ſituations, and of courſe I muſt feel for him. How far they are ſimilar, I know not, being yet a ſtran⯑ger to the particulars of his; in my next I may, perhaps, be able to inform you.

I muſt, now, my dear friend, bid you adieu—they ſend for me. We are going [259]to have a little concert, and I am to ac⯑company her Ladyſhip on the harpſi⯑chord; I told you, I believe, ſhe ſings like an angel. Another ſummons.—Adieu.

LETTER XXXVIII. Lady Stanley to Mrs. Groſvenor.

Our formidable beau is arrived; and, would you believe it, after the account Manſell gave me, is actually handſome? Much more ſo than with his more impor⯑tant attractions was by any means neceſſa⯑ry. As for his Grace's underſtanding, that is neither here nor there; he is a Duke, Caroline; and, were he an idiot, I have too much ſenſe myſelf to quarrel with him for that.

[260]It will not, I preſume, ſurpriſe you much to hear, I, as uſual, engroſs his whole attention; can I poſſibly help it, if the fellows will be perverſe enough to prefer me to the mortified Colcheſter beiles? It was much the ſame caſe in London; and I have accordingly been moſt joyouſly hated in both places.

Poor Manſell, I believe, wiſhes him at the devil; and heartily repents introduc⯑ing him; but there's no help for that nei⯑ther. What would you think if I ſhould, a ſecond time, give up my liberty for the ſake of being Madame là Ducheſſe? Hea⯑vens! What a glorious triumph over Sommerville! Would it were in my of⯑fer! But I dare not expect it, for fear of a diſappointment; yet he is certainly ſtruck with me; nay, even Manſell (though much againſt the grain) has aſſured me he has been making a thou⯑ſand enquiries—Says he never beheld ſo fine a woman! So much of the eaſy, French vivacity—ſo much wit—in ſhort, ſo many attractions, that he fears he ſhall not be able to eſcape the faſcinating pow⯑er of my charms.

[261]Much of this, Caroline, I muſt ſet down as Pariſian gallantry. Yet, ſaying it of me, is more flattering than to me—not that he is wanting in the latter, for his whole converſation is made up of compliments; he has ſenſe enough, it is plain, to know his forte; he would not ſhine much I believe on any other ſub⯑ject but that's a trifle, and you know "nonſenſe is eloquence in, love."

We were laſt night at the aſſembly. Every eye was fixed upon us. I danced with him—to be ſure, he made no very brilliant figure on the occaſion—well enough, however, for a Duke—a ſtranger to our country dances too. By the bye I forget who it is that aſſerts for a fact that fools can never excel in that accompliſh⯑menth—Do not ſet his Grace down on that liſt, neither, I beſeech you; not quite ſo bad as that, though no Soloman!

This morning we had a party on horſe⯑back; he was in raptures—ſwore nothing could excel the elegance of my figure, the grace, the eaſe with which I managed the animal. It is a mercy I am ſo perfect a miſtreſs of the French language, or I ſhould loſe a thouſand flaming ſpeeches, [262]for he cannot expreſs himſelf well in Engliſh. I have promiſed to teach him, on condition he will prolong his ſtay, but he fears it will not be in his power, hav⯑ing promiſed to meet a friend, who is to proceed with him in his intended tour.

This is rather againſt me, Caroline, to be ſure; and perhaps Manſell too, may, out of revenge, (for he is jealous as the very devil) whiſper a few anecdotes in his ear, that may damp the ardour of his paſſion. This evening I am to have a concert and ſupper at my own houſe; there is no time to loſe you ſee.

If I can ſucceed, Caroline, how I ſhall enjoy the delightful thoughts of Sommer⯑ville's aſtoniſhment. I vow this is my principal motive for wiſhing I could gain ſo important a conqueſt; he may then, perhaps, ſee the folly of prefering an in⯑ſignificant girl to me; beſides, I die to ſee Paris—ſee it, to be ſure I may, whenever I pleaſe; but to make my firſt appear⯑ance there with ſo much eclat, and ſo much ſplendour!

Adieu, I muſt go and dreſs may all the graces lend me their aid on this occaſion, [263]and I will be their moſt obedient ſervant ever after.

LETTER XXXIX. Miſs Herbert to Miſs Fermer.

THE expected anſwer is arrived, So⯑phia; I may, perhaps, before I cloſe this, be able to get permiſſion to take a copy of it, which you ſhall have, in the mean time I will only tell you, Sommer⯑ville has ſet her Ladyſhip free:—in the moſt graceful and delicate manner a thing of that nature was capable of, he has de⯑clined the honour of her hand.

Lord Neville has now prevailed upon his adored Lady Mary, to fix the day which is to make him (he ſays) the happieſt of [264]men, and I believe he ſays true; this day fortnight ſhe has agreed to give him her hand, in the mean time, preparations of every kind are going on with the ut⯑moſt expedition, and all is joy and feſti⯑vity.

Even Sir Henry's ſpirits are much more chearful than they were; this her Lady⯑ſhip is pleaſed to attribute to me; but I cannot take the merit of it, Sophia, though I confeſs I have obeyed her in⯑junctions to the utmoſt, and he appears grateful for my attentions; I play to him, ling to him, and frequently walk with him before the reſt of the family are ſtir⯑ring, for we are early riſers: his conver⯑ſation is highly entertaining; there is a ſoftneſs a gentleneſs in his manners, which is extremely pleaſing.

Do not be ſilly now, Sophia, and infer from what I have ſaid, a thouſand ridicu⯑lous things; I will at once convince you, you are miſtaken, by telling you the cauſe of that melancholy to which he has ſo long been a prey, and you will confeſs there is little chance of his ever forming a ſecond engagement with any of our ſex.

[265]A young Lady of large fortune ſaw him at Scarborough, about three years ago; ſhe fell deſperately in love with him, and tried every poſſible means to at⯑tract his attention, but in vain; ſhe was not, it ſeems, remarkably handſome, though agreeable, and highly accom⯑pliſhed: every one ſaw the conqueſt he had gained, and many wondered how he could reſiſt the temptation of ſo great a fortune; that alone was none to him, his own was abundantly ſufficient to ſatisfy his ambition. They met again in Lon⯑don: ſtill his behaviour was merely po⯑lite, and ſuch as every woman of faſhion is intitled to, from a man of breeding; ſhe was taken extremely ill—the doctors de⯑clared her in the utmoſt danger; nothing they could preſcribe gave her the ſmalleſt relief: ſhe repeatedly ſaid, ſhe wiſned not to live, life was inſupportable to her, that ſhe looked for death as for her dear⯑eſt and only friend: this aſtoniſhed and ſhocked her doating mother:—in ſhort, Sophia, ſhe at laſt confeſſed, it was her hopeleſs paſſion for Sir Henry which had reduced her to the condition in which ſhe then lay.—Mrs. Johnſtone inſtantly ſent [266]for him, and plainly told him her diſtreſs; that her daughter was infinitely dearer to her than life, beſought him if his heart was not already engaged to another, to take pity on her loved Julia; her fortune was very conſiderable, her temper the moſt amiable, her family and connections ſuch as would do honour to any man.—The generous Cardigan was deeply af⯑fected, he had no attachment, and was perſuaded he could not but be happy, united to a woman who had given ſuch ſtriking proofs of her partiality, though he felt for her no other ſentiments than thoſe of eſteem and friendſhip; theſe re⯑flections induced him to comply with her wiſhes, and thoſe of her deſpairing mo⯑ther. This information ſoon reſtored her to health—in a ſhort time they were married, and ſhe was the happieſt of wo⯑men; Sir Harry, too, perfectly ſatisfied with his condition, from the pleaſing re⯑flection that he had, by the ſacrifice he had made, rendered her ſo.

Sophia! my dear Sophia! bluſhing for my ſex I write it! This very woman in leſs than a twelvemonth eloped with an Enſign in a marching regiment, fled [267]with him to France; ſoon in her turn for⯑ſaken by her worthleſs gallant, ſhe gave in to every kind of exceſs, and about a year and a half ago ſhe died an object of pity and wretchedneſs in Paris. I leave you to make your own reflections on this dreadful ſtory, and ſhall only add, you may now judge, if after having experi⯑enced ſuch miſery in the married ſtate, (though with ſuch flattering proſpects) it is likely he ſhould ever venture to con⯑fide a ſecond time in any of our ſex, or truſt his honour, his ſelicity, in their hands. No, no, Sophia, be aſſured he never will. Adieu for the preſent—I will try what I can do to get the copy I mentioned.

P. S. You muſt be content without the copy of the letter I hoped to have got for you. Lady Mary is ſo much engaged, I could not think of giving her the trou⯑ble of looking for it; nor am I quite cer⯑tain it is a proper requeſt—Suffice it to ſay, his Lordſhip has managed the point with a better grace than we expected.—The pretence he urges for declining the honour of her hand is, that his heart is irrevocably attached to another, of courſe unworthy her Ladyſhip's acceptance; ſhe has only therefore to command him, and ſhall find him ready to fulfill the engage⯑ment, to which he is bound by his fa⯑ther's will, wiſhing her every poſſible happineſs with a more deſerving object— [272]Ah, Sophia, a more unworthy one ſhe can hardly meet with.

LETTER XL. Same to the Same.

MY dear Sophia, my Aunt has juſt wrote me a moſt wonderful piece of news!—Yet, I know not why I ſhould look upon it in that light neither, ſince her Ladyſhip's beauty at leaſt, whatever her other perfections may do, is ſuffici⯑ently attractive for even a conqueſt of this flattering nature—Lady Standley I mean!—A Pariſian Duke, my dear, of im⯑menſe fortune too! He came it ſeems, to ſpend a few days with Major Manſell—ſaw her—was captivated—and has ac⯑tually made propoſals; whether they have met with a gracious reception my Aunt is not certain, but I can hardly doubt of it, her vanity alone I think will induce [273]her to be propitious; nay, few women, I fear, could reſiſt ſo brilliant a tempta⯑tion—a Ducheſs, Sophia,—Virtue, you ſee, is ſometimes even rewarded in this life.

Lady Mary's day of days, as you call it, draws very near; this is Monday, on Friday next ſhe has promiſed to reward Lord Neville's patience: heaven grant they may be happy as they deſerve to be! You beg me to tell you minutely every thing that paſſes between the en⯑gaging Sir Henry and your Emily; you have taken, it would ſeem, a prodigious fancy to him, Sophia.—Shall I, or ſhall I not gratify your curioſity? I think I will, as I know it is not of the impertinent kind; know then that I begin to believe he ſpoke the truth, when he ſaid, I was miſtaken in a certain conjecture I had formed: if he ever has vowed to revenge the injury he has received from one of our ſex by ſlighting all the reſt; I ſuſpect he begins to repent of his intended cru⯑elty, at leaſt he evidently makes your Emily an exception, for to her he devotes his whole time and moſt pleaſing atten⯑tion.

[274]And now let me obſerve, it is either a miſtaken notion to affirm, we can only once in our lives experience a ſerious at⯑tachment, or I certainly never yet did ſo; and, when I compare my preſent ſenti⯑ments with thoſe I felt for that wretched man who ſo ill deſerved my partiality, I am of opinion I deceived myſelf, and that the terrors of being compelled to give my hand to one my heart abhorred, made me the more readily believe the other had made an impreſſion on it: my Aunt, too, ſo averſe from the one match, and ſo very anxious for the other.—In ſhort, Sophia, I will be ingenuous; ſhould the amiable Sir Henry really entertain any ſuch deſign, as Lady Mary, and in⯑deed I myſelf am rather of opinion he does, I feel it will not greatly diſpleaſe me.—But am I honeſt, my dear Sophia, in ſpeaking thus coldly on the ſubject? I fear not, yet till one is quite certain, you know, it is at leaſt prudent.—Ah! So⯑phia, you would abſolutely adore him; he is exactly the original of that picture you have ſo often drawn, for the man who alone could have power to engage your affections; and is not your friendſhip and [275]mine founded on a ſimilarity of ſenti⯑ments; judge then, whether it is poſſible I ſhould behold him with indifference.

Farewell.—I had no deſign, when I ſat down, to write ſo long a letter; all I meant was to tell you of Lady Stanley's conqueſt—yet, like a ſilly weak crea⯑ture, as I fear I am, I have told you things infinitely more intereſting; I do not re⯑pent, however, and am, your's.

LETTER XLI. Lady Stanley to Mrs. Groſvenor.

COULD I have patience to delay for a few days, I ſhould no longer have addreſ⯑ſed you as the comparatively inſignificant Lady Stanley, but in the character of Madame la Ducheſſe de Saint Clair; very true, Caroline, ſo make up your mind [276]to bear this event without envy; no very eaſy matter let me tell you; but it is the wiſeſt thing you can do, ſince what I now ſay is a fact;—a ſomething has ever whiſ⯑pered me I was born to make a diſtin⯑guiſhed figure in life; talents like mine were not given to be hid in a napkin; is not that the phraſe, Caroline?—No mat⯑ter, I do not mean to conceal them; I have before ſaid, how aſtoniſhed, how delightfully amazed will Sommerville be, his Dulcinea too, who preſumed to diſ⯑pute his heart with me; let me repeat the joyous intelligence, Caroline; in a few days, nay before this can poſſibly reach you, I ſhall be no more, but Madam In Ducheſſe may perhaps condeſcend to let you know what is become of me.—I have conſented to accompany his Grace in his intended tour; pity to diſappoint him you know; ſeeing a little more of the world is not amiſs, nor will he be the worſe for it, if, as they ſay, it tends to improve one.

No violent paſſion on my ſide you are a witneſs, ſince I am not quite blind to his imperfections,—no—but I can ſhut my eyes, which comes exactly to the ſame thing.

[277]Ah! "he comes! he comes! the con⯑quering hero comes!" I fly on the wings of ambition to "meet the Lord of all my wiſhes;" and ſuch he is, for what can any reaſonable woman wiſh for more than to be decorated with a ducal coronet.—His carriage is at the door.—Your's, for the laſt time.

LETTER XLII. Major Manſell to Lord Sommerville.

THE happy knot is irrevocably tied, Sommerville—but ſhe will poiſon us both, I believe, for the tricks we have played her, yet I can hardly hold my pen for laughing;—I had even the impudence to ſtand father on the occaſion, and give her away—his Grace! Ha! ha! ha! his Grace, I ſay, behaved thro' the whole farce infinitely better than I expected; for though a brazen dog, yet he is as ig⯑norant [278]as the devil!—How ſhe could be ſo eaſily duped is beyond my comprehen⯑ſion; yet every thing was carried on ſo plauſibly; the letter you ſent me, telling me of his intended viſit, on purpoſe for her Ladyſhip's inſpection, was an excel⯑lent ſtroke; it had all the effect you could deſire.—I ſaw ſhe inſtantly formed her plan of conqueſt.—He came—I ſaid no⯑thing of introducing him to her;—wil⯑ling to prevent ſuſpicion, the motion ſhould come from herſelf; ſhe gave ma⯑ny broad hints,—but for two whole days I would not underſtand them;—at laſt ſhe plainly aſked me, ſaying, ſhe thought ſhe could not do leſs than ſhow ſome lit⯑tle attention to a ſtranger of his rank.

How I kept my countenance the Lord knows; nothing could have given me the power of doing it, but my deſire to re⯑venge the irreparable injury ſhe had done you, and faith, Sommerville, we have ſucceeded to a miracle! I accompanied his Grace to her houſe, ſhe was adorned for conqueſt, ſo that he was caught by the firſt glance of her eye; ſhe ſaw it, and did her utmoſt to ſecure her captive; from that moment he was her moſt devoted ſlave; and flattered her as never woman [279]was flattered; this covered all his de⯑fects.—In ſhort, he had not been here above a week when he made honourable propoſals; ſhe faintly objected to their ſhort acquaintance—this obſtacle he con⯑trived to remove.—She, now, as her friend conſulted me; I replied, her Lady⯑ſhip could alone judge of what was likely to make her happy—no doubt in point of rank and fortune, the offer was un⯑exceptionable, but I had hoped her heart was otherwiſe engaged—meaning to my⯑ſelf.

Pho! pho! (ſcarce able to conceal her joy) we have played the fool long enough, Manſell, it is high time we ſhould grow wiſe!

I acquieſced; affecting, however, to put on a mortified look—the day was accordingly fixed, a licenſe obtained, and as I have already told you, I had actually the face to lead her to the altar and give her away.—His Grace was all rapture, and her Grace no leſs delighted I believe, though ſhe did not ſo very plainly diſ⯑cover her tranſport—I ſpent the evening with the happy pair, and at a proper hour left them.

[280]How to deſcribe the next day's ſcene is abſolutely out of my power.—Indeed, you may ſwear I did not think proper to be a witneſs; I had not courage or impudence for that, call it which you pleaſe; but his Grace's two ſervants—Alas! his no longer—gave me a few of the particulars. I had given them their inſtructions, and they implicitly followed them.

About one o'clock next morning they both went to her houſe; and finding the happy couple were ſitting moſt ſociably togeter at breakfaſt, marched in with⯑out ceremony, and Richard being the beſt orator of the two, his hat in one hand, and ſcratching his head with the other, ſaid, I ſuppoſe you have done with us now Mounſeer, and we may take back the carriage and horſes to our maſ⯑ter; you know his Lordſhip ſaid he could not lend them to you for above ten days or a fortnight, and you have had them almoſt twice that time already, not that I believe his honour will be an⯑gry, ſeeing, as how, you have married ſo fine a Lady.—I hope, however, be⯑fore we go, you will pleaſe to give us [281]ſomething to drink your's and madam's health.

Her Grace, aſtoniſhed and enraged at their behaviour, (and believing they had drank too much already) was ſtill more ſo on finding the Duke bore with ſo much patience their unparalleled inſolence.

For heavens ſake! my dear Lord Duke, (riſing terrified from her ſeat)—turn thoſe abominable wretches out of the room; how can you ſuffer them to ap⯑proach you in that condition?

Why what offence pray? (returned Richard) we only came civilly to tell him we were going home with the car⯑riage to our maſter; he knows we ought to have been at home before now.

The fellow's mad, cried ſhe, almoſt frantic; for his Grace ſtill kept ſilent; who is your maſter? What Lord are you a talking of? Get out of my preſence this inſtant or I will order you both to be thrown out at the window.

What Lord! Why Lord Sommerville to be ſure! Mercy on us! has not Moun⯑ſeer there told you all about it? I beg pardon if I have ſaid any thing amiſs—I thought, for ſartain, your Ladyſhip [282]muſt have known that you had married my Lord's Valee de Chamber. I am ſure, we all knew he came down here on pur⯑poſe, and borrowed the horſes, carri⯑age, aye, and us too, to make a figure with.

Heaven and earth! What is it I hear? and, inſtantly overpowered by the ſhock, fell lifeleſs on the floor.

His Grace now rung for help, diſmiſ⯑ſed the fellows, and what followed I know not, farther than that ſhe had ſet off in a poſt chaiſe and four early next morning, leaving him maſter of the premiſes; and as her lawful huſband, I ſhould imagine he has a right to enjoy all the profits ariſing from them. I have not ſeen him ſince, having been obliged to go to Norwich on particular buſineſs that very day, where I ſhall remain, pro⯑bably, a week or more; ſo expect to hear from you before I return to the re⯑giment.

You may well believe the whole coun⯑try will be in a fine buz about her Lady⯑ſhip's adventure, nor is there one ſoul, I may venture to pronounce, who will not rejoice in her diſgrace; the airs ſhe [283]gave herſelf, added to ſome other mat⯑ters, had rendered her odious to every mortal hereabouts, to the women parti⯑cularly; as for us fellows that is another affair.

Where ſhe will bend her courſe, hea⯑ven knows! but I fancy ſhe will never figure in this part of the world again. Perhaps ſhe is gone to Paris, in order to look after his Grace's property there, while he condeſcends to ſuperintend her's in England. Ignorant as he is of moſt things, I'll lay my life he contrives to receive her rents, and to ſpend them too; but all this is mere conjecture, for ought I know to the contrary he may by this time have gone after his bride.

I preſume your Lordſhip cares as lit⯑tle about the matter as I do; we have done her buſineſs pretty effectually, and ſhe may now make the beſt ſhe can of her bargain. Perhaps Richard may have been able to give you ſome of the particu⯑lars I have related, more diſtinctly than I have done, he being a witneſs, nay, a principal in the denouement of the plot. Adieu, dear Sommerville. I hope you [284]find your too juſt ndignation pretty well appeaſed.

P. S. To complete your Lordſhip's triumph, what think you of inſerting the following paragraph in the Morning Poſt:—A few days ago was married, by a ſpecial licenſe, the Right Honourable Lady Stanley, to Monſieur Courrois, Valet de Chambre to Lord Sommerville.

LETTER XLIII. Miſs Herbert to Miſs Fermer.

WELL, my dear, our wedding is over!—My friend, Lady Mary, is now the happy, the adored wife of her amiable Neville!—This is the firſt leiſure hour, [285]ſince the joyful event, I have been able to dedicate to my Sophia; nor have I time at preſent to write much, as we are to have half a hundred people to dine with us, and I am not yet dreſſed; we have balls and concerts out of number, as will be the viſits we ſhall have to re⯑turn; but thoſe once over, I hope we ſhall ſettle for a while, though not very long, I believe, as my Lord is impatient to conduct his lovely bride to his own ſeat, where ſhe inſiſts upon it I muſt accompany her. Her Aunt will remain here.

I have not yet given my anſwer, nor can I, till I hear from mine, which I expect to do every hour, having already wrote to her on the ſubject; my dear Father is out of the queſtion; he ſeems to have given me quite up, but too well I know it does not proceed from want of tenderneſs—I hope a time will come in which I may receive, from his own lips, pardon for all the trouble and uneaſineſs I have given him.

Sir Henry—What of him? (cries my kind Sophia.)

[286]Why, my dear, I think I may now venture to ſay, my company has in a great meaſure made him forget his paſt misfortunes;—he has in the moſt engag⯑ing manner, aſſured me, the poſſeſſion of my hand, and heart, is alone want⯑ing to render him the happieſt of man⯑kind.

And what anſwer did I make? you aſk, Sophia.

Ah, my dear friend, could I believe this, and one moment heſitate? Impoſſi⯑ble! In my own mind I mean!—No neceſſity for being quite ſo haſty in ac⯑knowledging my real ſentiments, though I fear he gueſſed them!—In fine, he by ſome means or other obtained my per⯑miſſion to write to my Father. Lady Neville is almoſt as much delighted with the proſpect of your Emily's felicity as ſhe was with her own.—The poſt this moment arrived—a letter for me—I muſt lay down my pen till I read its contents.

LETTER XLIV. Same to the Same.

READ the contents of the incloſed, my dear Sophia, and you will find a full [290]explanation of the myſtery contained in my laſt; I will not anticipate, nor add even one of the thouſand reflections I have made. Return it by next poſt; and believe me your's, in a violent hurry,

LETTER XLV. Miſs Herbert to Miſs Fermer.

WELL, my dear Sophia!—our curi⯑oſity you find is at length fully gratified—What think you of the artful! The horrid Lady Stanley! Your aſtoniſhment, no doubt, equalled mine, ſurpaſs it, it could not.—Was there ever, do you think, another ſo complete a wretch in female form? I would gladly hope not.

The amiable Sir Henry was much alarmed on reading the Major's letter; I ſaw his colour change as he peruſed it, and his eyes frequently turned on me—was it poſſible he could really for a mo⯑ment fear my reſentment was over, be⯑cauſe his friend had proved he was not quite ſo great a villain as I had believed him?—Or rather made an attempt to prove it, for in fact, I do not find him much leſs ſo than he was before; her Ladyſhip being ſo very vile a creature does not excuſe him; whatever he might, by her arts, be perſuaded to believe, it is impoſſible to juſtify him—nay, I think [295]his baſe, his ungenerous behaviour to me afterward was infinitely the more unpar⯑donable.—Was he not, Sophia, the moſt abandoned of mankind! Could he, be⯑cauſe he believed me ſo cruelly injured by another, have wiſhed to render me ſtill more miſerable?—Ah! No, no!—None but a libertine, like himſelf, could have been capable of forming ſo execra⯑ble a deſign—Well may he deſpair of re⯑gaining my eſteem—heaven forbid I ſhould be ſo loſt to every ſenſe of honour and delicacy, as to be able to beſlow it on ſo unworthy an object.

Lady Mary, as well as myſelf, obſerv⯑ed Sir Henry's emotions.

Ah, (cried ſhe ſmiling) poor Sir Henry has now no chance; he may even take refuge on the neareſt friendly willow he can meet with; to be ſure our Emily cannot be ſo cruel as to refuſe her pardon to his Lordſhip; you ſee he is not quite ſo black as his friend would perſuade us, and we fooliſhly believed him; ſhe is too good a Chriſtian, I hope, not to forget and forgive, beſides, you find he repents moſt ſeriouſly.

Ah, Lady Neville, ſpare your raillery, do not torture me by.…

[296]Nay, Sir Henry (interrupting him) I I beſeech you ſpare me, you ſurely pay me a wretched compliment, while you ſuppoſe it poſſible I can ever feel any ſentiments but thoſe of horror and con⯑tempt for ſo worthleſs a being—could I ever look upon him in a more favourable light I ſhould little merit that friendſhip and eſteem with which you honour me.—I believe, Sophia, I looked rather grave.

He threw himſelf at my feet and (re⯑ſpectfully taking my hand) cried, never, my adorable Emily, will I reſe from this humble poſture till you have ſmiled for⯑giveneſs! I ought, indeed, to have known my angel better! I bluſh for my folly, but a true paſſion is ever apprehen⯑ſive; only ſay you pardon me, and tell me I have not wholly forfeited!

Come, come, Emily! put the creature out of his miſery. I am too happy my⯑ſelf not to wiſh every mortal equally ſo (looking on her amiable huſband, who ſeized her hand, and preſſed it with fer⯑vour to his lips.) Come, ſay ſomething civil, and ſet his ſimple heart at reſt!

It muſt then be on condition Sir Henry does me more juſtice for the future than [297]to believe I can ever be ſo blind to my own felicity as to prefer any man to him, much leſs the worthleſs one who has cauſed his preſent perplexity.

He flung his arms tenderly round me, and before I could poſſibly diſengage my⯑ſelf, preſſed me to his breaſt, with looks which plainly ſpoke his gratitude.

That's a good girl! You have really made me a handſome ſpeech, conſidering it was extempore, and ſince we are all friends again, ſuppoſe I make a propoſal, which I think will contribute not a little to keep us ſo.

Oh by all means, (not dreaming what it was to be) I give you my word there is nothing I deſire more.

Well then, Emily, ſuppoſe!—ſuppoſe now you were to do the very genteel thing! and tell us, you will, before the end of this week—let me ſee—this is Wedneſday—aye juſt ſo—before the end of this week give your hand to—

Ah! my dear Lady Neville, (endea⯑vouring to interrupt her) how can you be ſo very ſilly?—I felt my face in a glow, Sophia! and ſtopped.

Sir Henry flew to her, (joy ſparkling in his intelligent countenance) thus, on [298]my knees, let me thank my kind, my good friend, for her generous interpoſi⯑tion! Then riſing, and taking my hand, can my lovely Emily refuſe to oblige the amiable Lady Neville? Say my deareſt creature, you will comply with her re⯑queſt, and make me the happieſt of—

Stop, I beſeech you, Sir Henry; poſi⯑tively, I will not be ſo taken in: her La⯑dyſhip is very ſly; how could I evr ima⯑gine this was her fine propoſal? If I had, can you believe I ſhould ſo readily have agreed to hear it?

Oh! not for the world, to be ſure, laughing at my fooliſh attempt to juſtify myſelf (and, to ſay truth, Sophia, it was ſufficiently ſo; but I was horridly diſconcerted) who could ever have fan⯑cied ſuch a wicked thing? But now, having ſo clearly acquitted yourſelf to the ſatisfaction of all whom it may con⯑cern, ſuppoſe, as I was ſaying, you ſhould name to-morrow.

And pray Miſs Herbert! But we will not differ about trifles; ſo, to end all diſ⯑putes, let it be Saturday.

[299]In ſhort, Sophia, by ſome means or other, ſhe actually carried her point; and, on Saturday next! Bleſs me, my dear friend, what am I to do? No pre⯑parations made! Mercy on me! I had a thouſand things to think of! A thouſand things to ſettle!—She ſays all that will be an amuſement hereafter—it is ſo in the common ſtyle, to lay in a ſtock of fine⯑ry, as if a girl was afraid when once mar⯑ried ſhe ſhould never get another new gown again as long as ſhe lived.

I ſhould have told you, Sir Henry has received moſt gracious anſwers both from my Father and Aunt. I wiſhed much to have had them both preſent at the ce⯑remony; but the former (had there been no other impediment) is at this time laid up with the gout; and, as for the latter, Lady Neville jeſtingly ſays, one old fidget⯑ing Aunt is enough at a time, and ſhe will lend me hers—the truth of the mat⯑ter is, Mrs. Grenville earneſtly begged to be excuſed, but is extremely deſirous of ſeeing us as ſoon as poſſible after⯑wards.

So the important affair was ſettled this very morning—Wedneſday—Thurſday Friday—only three days—Good heaven! [300]my dear, Sophia, is it actually poſſible? Sir Henry aſſured me of it not an hour ago; and can I now, for the firſt time, begin to doubt his veracity.

LETTER XLVI. Lady Neville to Miſs Fermer.

YOUR friend, Emily, was on the point of taking up her pen to tell you ſhe was married laſt Saturday. I happened to pop into her room at the very inſtant, and foreſeeing ſhe would make but a poor hand of it, with her tremors, trepidations, and ſo forth, took it quietly from her, ſent her down to her Sir Henry, reſolv⯑ed to acquaint you with it myſelf.

As to my being quite a ſtranger to Miſs Fermer, that obſtacle, we flatter our⯑ſelves, will ſoon be removed, as we hope to call in upon you in the tour we are going to make, and by that means I ſhall be ſo no longer; in the mean time you [301]muſt fancy the viſit over, and it is per⯑fectly the ſame thing—Do you compre⯑hend me?

Well, and ſo on Saturday, as I was ſaying, the dear girl was married!—Some folks now, who have happier ta⯑lents, would fill half a dozen pages hav⯑ing ſuch a theme; but I ſee nothing wonderful in it—She ſo lovely! He ſo diſcerning!—

As ſoon as we are ready we ſhall ſet off for her father's; it is proper I, under whoſe roof this affair has been tranſact⯑ed, ſhould preſent Sir Henry, you know, leſt they ſhould accuſe him of running away with her without my leave.

Then away we march to ſhow him to her Aunt—next to you; but you, (pray obſerve) are to pack up your very beſt bib and tucker, as we mean to take you with us, ſo pray don't fail to be ready.

When we leave our Aunt, we proceed to my Lord's ſeat, ſtay there till I have looked about me a little; ſet matters to rights, as a notable wife ought to do, find a thouſand fauts, turn off half a ſcore of his favourite domeſtics, &c. &c. to ſhow I know who is miſtreſs, and that he has not married a raw ignorant girl.

[302]Well, after that Sir Henry takes us all to his Chateau, trembling no doubt for the example I have ſet his gentle Emily; when ſhe has, in her turn, played the wife there for a few days, we whiſk up to London and buy finery; of courſe are preſented, ſhow ourſelves at every public place, meet with univerſal admi⯑ration; and then return to the country; where, having compoſed our features into a proper degree of gravity, we commence wives in ſober downright earneſt.

That very amiable creature, Lady Stanley, alias Madame la Ducheſſe, has wiſely taken herſelf out of the kingdom, ſome ſay to France; and his Grace having conſulted a lawyer, and finding he is, bona fida, lord and maſter of all ſhe has left behind her, makes himſelf eaſy, and is reſolved ſhe ſhall ſeek him before he goes in queſt of her. How they will end their days, the deponent ſaith not.

There child! there is all the news I am miſtreſs of. Don't forget the part I have aſſigned you, and believe me,

LETTER LVII. Lord Sommerville to Charles Dalton, Eſq.

CHARLES, I have actually ſeen her!—ſeen my enchanting, my ſtill ador⯑ed Emily!—Seen her the wiſe of ano⯑ther, and yet I live!

In the oppoſite box, at the playhouſe, I beheld the lovely creature, infinitely more ſo, if poſſible, than ever—I had heard of her being married only a few days before; but, for the care and watchful attention of Sedly, who was with me when I was informed of it, and who has never quitted me ſince, I ſhould certainly have ſhot myſelf through the head!—I was mad! Diſtracted! and I have him to thank for not being guilty of ſome deſperate action.

When I ſaw her, he forcibly held me, for I was abſurd enough to attempt fly⯑ing to her.—Happily he made me quit the houſe—happily, I ſay, for with con⯑fuſion I write, I have injured the dear angel too much already ever to wiſh to diſtreſs her farther.

[304]I returned home in an agony, that I think would even have excited pity in her dear breaſt; ordered my things to be packed up, late as it was, and actually ſet out that night for Dover, from whence I write theſe lines while waiting for the packet.

Never! never more! will I ſubject myſelf to the inexpreſſible torment of ſeeing her again, but will quit England for ever, that I may not run that ha⯑zard.

Now, my dear Dalton, for the laſt time while reſident in my native land, do I bid you adieu, and am your unhappy, but ſincere friend.