EVELINA; OR, A YOUNG LADY's ENTRANCE INTO THE WORLD.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
DUBLIN: Printed for Meſſrs. PRICE, CORCORAN, R. CROSS, FITZSIMONS, WHITESTONES, CHAMBERLAINE, WILLIAMS, J. HOEY, COLLES, E. CROSS, BURNET, WALKER, JENKIN, BEATTY, EXSHAW, WHITE, and PERRIN. M.DCC.LXXIX.
TO — —
[][]TO THE AUTHORS OF THE MONTHLY and CRITICAL REVIEWS.
[v]THE liberty which I take in addreſſing to You the trifling production of a few idle hours, will, doubtleſs, move your wonder, and, probably, your contempt. I will not, however, with the futility of apologies, intrude upon your time, but briefly acknowledge the motives of my teme⯑rity: leſt, by a premature exerciſe of the patience from which I hope to profit, I ſhould abate of its benevolence, and [vi] be myſelf acceſſary to my own condem⯑nation.
Without name, without recommen⯑dation, and unknown alike to ſucceſs and diſgrace, to whom can I ſo properly apply for patronage, as to thoſe who publicly profeſs themſelves Inſpectors of all literary performances?
The extenſive plan of your critical obſervations,—which, not confined to works of utility or ingenuity, is equally open to thoſe of frivolous amuſement, and yet worſe than frivolous dullneſs,—encourages me to ſeek for your protec⯑tion, ſince,—perhaps for my ſins!—it entitles me to your annotations. To reſent, therefore, this offering, howe⯑ver inſignificant, would ill become the univerſality of your undertaking, tho' not to deſpiſe it may, alas! be out of your power.
The language of adulation, and the incenſe of flattery, though the natural inheritance, and conſtant reſource, from time immemorial, of the Dedicator, to me offer nothing but the wiſtful regret that I dare not invoke their aid. Siniſ⯑ter views would be imputed to all I [vii] could ſay; ſince, thus ſituated, to ex⯑tol your judgment, would ſeem the ef⯑fect of art, and to celebrate your im⯑partiality, be attributed to ſuſpecting it.
As Magiſtrates of the Preſs, and Cen⯑ſors for the Public,—to which you are bound by the ſacred ties of integrity to exert the moſt ſpirited impartiality, and to which your ſuffrages ſhould carry the marks of pure, dauntleſs, irrefragable truth,—to appeal for your MERCY, were to ſolicit your diſhonour; and therefore,—though it is ſweeter than frankincenſe,—more grateful to the ſenſes than all the odorous perfumes of Arabia,—and though
I court it not! to your juſtice alone I am entitled, and by that I muſt abide. Your engagements are not to the ſuppli⯑cating author, but to the candid public, which will not fail to crave
No hackneyed writer, inured to a⯑buſe, and callous to criticiſm, here [viii] braves your ſeverity;—neither does a half-ſtarved garretteer,
implore your lenity; your examination will be alike unbiaſſed by partiality and prejudice;—no refractory murmur⯑ing will follow your cenſure, no pri⯑vate intereſt be gratified by your praiſe.
Let not the anxious ſolicitude with which I recommend myſelf to your no⯑tice, expoſe me to your deriſion. Re⯑member, Gentlemen, you were all young writers once, and the moſt ex⯑perienced veteran of your corps, may, by recollecting his firſt publication, re⯑novate his firſt terrors, and learn to al⯑low for mine. For, though Courage is one of the nobleſt virtues of this nether ſphere, and though ſcarcely more re⯑quiſite in the field of battle, to guard the fighting hero from diſgrace, than in the private commerce of the world, to ward off that littleneſs of ſoul which leads by ſteps imperceptible, to all the baſe train of the inferior paſſions, and [ix] by which the too timid mind is be⯑trayed into a ſervility derogatory to the dignity of human nature;—yet is it a virtue of no neceſſity in a ſituation ſuch as mine; a ſituation which removes, even from cowardice itſelf, the ſting of ignominy;—for ſurely that Courage may eaſily be diſpenſed with, which would rather raiſe diſguſt than admi⯑ration? Indeed, it is the peculiar pri⯑vilege of an author, to rob terror of contempt, and puſillanimity of re⯑proach.
Here let me reſt,—and ſnatch myſelf, while yet I am able, from the faſcina⯑tion of EGOTISM,—a monſter who has more votaries than ever did homage to the moſt popular deity of antiquity; and whoſe ſingular quality is, that while he excites a blind and involuntary adoration in almoſt every individual, his influence is univerſally diſallowed, his power univerſally contemned, and his worſhip, even by his followers, never mentioned but with abhor⯑rence.
In addreſſing you jointly, I mean but to mark the generous ſentiments by [x] which liberal criticiſm, to the utter annihilation of envy, jealouſy, and all ſelfiſh views, ought to be diſtinguiſh⯑ed.
PREFACE.
[xi]IN the republic of letters, there is no member of ſuch inferior rank, or who is ſo much diſ⯑dained by his brethren of the quill, as the humble Noveliſt: nor is his fate leſs hard in the world at large, ſince, among the whole claſs of writers, perhaps not one can be named, of whom the votaries are more numerous, but leſs reſpect⯑able.
Yet, while in the annals of thoſe few of our predeceſſors, to whom this ſpecies of writing is indebted for being ſaved from contempt, and reſ⯑cued from depravity, we can trace ſuch names as Rouſſeau, Johnſon, * Marivaux, Fielding, Ri⯑chardſon, and Smollet, no man need bluſh at [xii] ſtarting from the ſame poſt, though many, nay, moſt men, may ſigh at finding themſelves di⯑ſtanced.
The following letters are preſented to the public—for ſuch, by novel writers, novel read⯑ers will be called,—with a very ſingular mix⯑ture of timidity and confidence, reſulting from the peculiar ſituation of the editor, who, though trembling for their ſucceſs from a conſciouſneſs of their imperfections, yet fears not being in⯑volved in their diſgrace, while happily wrapped up in a mantle of impenetrable obſcurity.
To draw characters from nature, though not from life, and to mark the manners of the times, is the attempted plan of the following letters. For this purpoſe, a young female, educated in the moſt ſecluded retirement, makes, at the age of ſeventeen, her firſt appearance upon the great and buſy ſtage of life; with a virtuous mind, a cultivated underſtanding, and a feeling heart, her ignorance of the forms, and inexperience in the manners, of the world, occaſion all the little incidents which theſe volumes record, and which form the natural progreſſion of the life of a young woman of obſcure birth, but conſpicuous beauty, for the firſt ſix months after her En⯑trance into the World.
Perhaps were it poſſible to effect the total extirpation of novels, our young ladies in gene⯑ral, [xiii] and boarding-ſchool damſels in particular, might profit from their annihilation: but ſince the diſtemper they have ſpread ſeems incurable, ſince their contagion bids defiance to the medicine of advice or reprehenſion, and ſince they are found to baffle all the mental art of phyſic, ſave what is preſcribed by the ſlow regimen of Time, and bitter diet of Experience, ſurely all attempts to contribute to the number of thoſe which may be read, if not with advantage, at leaſt without injury, ought rather to be encouraged than con⯑temned.
Let me, therefore, prepare for dſiappointment thoſe who, in the peruſal of theſe ſheets, enter⯑tain the gentle expectation of being tranſported to the fantaſtic regions of Romance, where Fiction is coloured by all the gay tints of luxurious Ima⯑gination, where Reaſon is an outcaſt, and where the ſublimity of the Marvellous rejects all aid from ſober Probability. The heroine of theſe memoirs, young, artleſs, and inexperienced, is
but the offspring of Nature, and of Nature in her ſimpleſt attire.
In all the Arts, the value of copies can only be proportioned to the ſcarceneſs of originals: among ſculptors and painters, a fine ſtatue, or a beautiful picture, of ſome great maſter, may de⯑ſervedly employ the imitative talents of younger and inferior artiſts, that their appropriation to [xiv] one ſpot, may not wholly prevent the more ge⯑neral expanſion of their excellence; but, among authors, the reverſe is the caſe, ſince the nobleſt productions of literature, are almoſt equally at⯑tainable with the meaneſt. In books, therefore, imitation cannot be ſhunned too ſedulouſly; for the very perfection of a model which is frequent⯑ly ſeen, ſerves but more forcibly to mark the in⯑feriority of a copy.
To avoid what is common, without adopting what is unnatural, muſt limit the ambition of the vulgar herd of authors: however zealous, therefore, my veneration of the great writers I have mentioned, however 1 may feel myſelf en⯑lightened by the knowledge of Johnſon, charmed with the eloquence of Rouſſeau, ſoftened by the pathetic powers of Richardſon, and exhilarated by the wit of Fielding, and humour of Smollet; I yet preſume not to attempt purſuing the ſame ground which they have tracked; whence, though they may have cleared the weeds, they have alſo culled the flowers, and though they have rendered the path plain, they have left it barren.
The candour of my readers, I have not the impertinence to doubt, and to their indulgence, I am ſenſible I have no claim: I have, there⯑fore, only to entreat, that my own words may not pronounce my condemnation, and that what I have here ventured to ſay in regard to imita⯑tion, may be underſtood, as it is meant, in a ge⯑neral [xv] ſenſe, and not be imputed to an opinion of my own originality, which I have not the vanity, the folly, or the blindneſs, to entertain.
Whatever may be the fate of theſe letters, the editor is ſatisfied they will meet with juſ⯑tice; and commits them to the preſs, though hopeleſs of fame, yet not regardleſs of cen⯑ſure.
[] EVELINA.
LETTER I.
Lady Howard to the Rev. Mr. Villars.
CAN there, my good Sir, be any thing more painful to a friendly mind, than a neceſſity of com⯑municating diſagreeable intelligence? Indeed, it is ſometimes difficult to determine, whether the rela⯑tor or the receiver of evil tidings is moſt to be pitied.
I have juſt had a letter from Madame Duval; ſhe is totally at a loſs in what manner to behave; ſhe ſeems deſirous to repair the wrongs ſhe has done, yet wiſhes the world to believe her blame⯑leſs. She would fain caſt upon another the odium of thoſe misfortunes for which ſhe alone is anſwer⯑able. Her letter is violent, ſometimes abuſive, and that of you!—you, to whom ſhe is under obliga⯑tions which are greater even than her faults, but to whoſe advice ſhe wickedly imputes all the ſuf⯑ferings of her much injured daughter, the late Lady Belmont. The chief purport of her writing I will acquaint you with; the letter itſelf is not worthy your notice.
[2] She tells me that ſhe has, for many years paſt, been in continual expectation of making a journey to England, which prevented her writing for in⯑formation concerning this melancholy ſubject, by giving her hopes of making perſonal enquiries; but family occurrences have ſtill detained her in France, which country ſhe now ſees no proſpect of quitting. She has, therefore, lately uſed her ut⯑moſt endeavours to obtain a faithful account of whatever related to her ill-adviſed daughter; the reſult of which giving her ſome reaſon to apprehend that, upon her death bed, ſhe bequeathed an infant orphan to the world, ſhe moſt graciouſly ſays that if you, with whom ſhe underſtands the child is pla⯑ced, will procure authentic proofs of its relation⯑ſhip to her, you may ſend it to Paris, where ſhe will properly provide for it.
This woman is, undoubtedly, at length, con⯑ſcious of her moſt unnatural conduct: it is evident, from her writing, that ſhe is ſtill as vulgar and illi⯑terate as when her firſt huſband, Mr. Evelyn, had the weakneſs to marry her; nor does ſhe at all apo⯑logiſe for addreſſing herſelf to me, though I was only once in her company.
This letter has excited in my daughter Mirvan, a ſtrong deſire to be informed of the motives which induced Madame Duval to abandon the unfortu⯑nate Lady Belmont, at a time when a mother's pro⯑tection was ſo peculiarly neceſſary for her peace and her reputation. Notwithſtanding I was per⯑ſonally acquainted with all the parties concerned in that affair, the ſubject always appeared of too de⯑licate a nature to be ſpoken of with the principals; I cannot, therefore, ſatisfy Mrs. Mirvan otherwiſe than by applying to you.
[3] By ſaying that you may ſend the child, Madame Duval aims at conferring, where ſhe moſt owes obli⯑gation. I pretend not to give you advice; you, to whoſe generous protection this helpleſs orphan is indebted for every thing, are the beſt and only judge of what ſhe ought to do; but I am much concern⯑ed for the trouble and uneaſineſs which this unwor⯑thy woman may occaſion you.
My daughter and my grandchild join with me in deſiring to be moſt kindly remembered to the amiable girl; and they bid me remind you, that the annual viſit to Howard Grove, which we were formerly promiſed, has been diſcontinued for more than four years.
LETTER II.
Mr. Villars to Lady Howard.
YOUR Ladyſhip did but too well foreſee the perplexity and uneaſineſs of which Madame Du⯑val's letter has been productive. However, I ought rather to be thankful that I have ſo many years remained unmoleſted, than repine at my pre⯑ſent embarraſſment; ſince it proves, at leaſt, that this wretched woman is at length awakened to re⯑morſe.
In regard to my anſwer, I muſt humbly requeſt your Ladyſhip to write to this effect: ‘"That I would not, upon any account, intentionally offend Madame Duval, but that I have weighty, nay un⯑anſwerable [4] reaſons for detaining her grand-daughter at preſent in England; the principal of which is, that it was the earneſt deſire of one to whoſe will ſhe owes implicit duty. Madame Duval may be aſſured that ſhe meets with the utmoſt attention and tenderneſs; that her education, however ſhort of my wiſhes, almoſt exceeds my abilities; and that I flatter myſelf, when the time arrives that ſhe ſhall pay her duty to her grand-mother, Madame Duval will find no reaſon to be diſſatisfied with what has been done for her."’
Your Ladyſhip will not, I am ſure, be ſurpriſed at this anſwer. Madame Duval is by no means a proper companion or guardian for a young woman: ſhe is at once uneducated and unprincipled; ungen⯑tle in her temper, and unamiable in her manners. I have long known that ſhe has perſuaded herſelf to harbour an averſion for me—Unhappy woman! I can only regard her as an object of pity!
I dare not heſitate at a requeſt from Mrs. Mir⯑van, yet, in complying with it, I ſhall, for her own ſake, be as conciſe as I poſſibly can; ſince the cruel tranſactions which preceded the birth of my ward, can afford no entertainment to a mind ſo humane as her's.
Your Ladyſhip may probably have heard, that I had the honour to accompany Mr. Evelyn, the grand-father of my young charge, when upon his travels, in capacity of tutor. His unhappy mar⯑riage, immediately upon his return to England, with Madame Duval, then a waiting-girl at a ta⯑vern, contrary to the advice and entreaties of all his friends, among whom I was myſelf the moſt ur⯑gent to diſſuade him, induced him to abandon his native land, and fix his abode in France. Thither he was followed by ſhame and repentance; feelings [5] which his heart was not formed to ſupport: for, notwithſtanding he had been too weak to reſiſt the allurements of beauty, which nature, though a niggard to her of every other boon, had with a la⯑viſh hand beſtowed on his wife; yet he was a young man of excellent character, and, till thus unac⯑countably infatuated, of unblemiſhed conduct. He ſurvived this ill-judged marriage but two years. Upon his death-bed, with an unſteady hand, he wrote me the following note:
‘"My friend! forget your reſentment, in favour of your humanity;—a father, trembling for the welfare of his child, bequeaths her to your care.—O Villars! hear! pity! and relieve me!"’
Had my circumſtances permitted, I ſhould have anſwered theſe words by an immediate journey to Paris; but I was obliged to act by the agency of a friend, who was upon the ſpot, and preſent at the opening of the will.
Mr. Evelyn left to me a legacy of a thouſand pounds, and the ſole guardianſhip of his daughter's perſon till her eighteenth year, conjuring me, in the moſt affecting terms, to take the charge of her education till ſhe was able to act with propriety for herſelf; but in regard to fortune, he left her wholly dependent on her mother, to whoſe tenderneſs he earneſtly recommended her.
Thus, though he would not, to a woman low⯑bred and illiberal as Mrs. Evelyn, truſt the mind and morals of his daughter, he nevertheleſs thought proper to ſecure to her that reſpect and duty which, from her own child, were certainly her due; but, unhappily, it never occurred to him that the mo⯑ther, on her part, could fail in affection or juſtice.
Miſs Evelyn, Madam, from the ſecond to the eighteenth year of her life, was brought up under [6] my care, and, except when at ſchool, under my roof. I need not ſpeak to your Ladyſhip of the virtues of that excellent young creature. She loved me as her father; nor was Mrs. Villars leſs valued by her; while to me ſhe became ſo dear, that her loſs was little leſs afflicting to me than that which I have ſince ſuſtained of Mrs. Villars herſelf.
At that period of her life we parted; her mo⯑ther, then married to Monſieur Duval, ſent for her to Paris. How often have I ſince regretted that I did not accompany her thither! protected and ſupported by me, the miſery and diſgrace which awaited her, might, perhaps, have been avoided. But—to be brief, Madame Duval, at the inſtiga⯑tion of her huſband, earneſtly, or rather tyran⯑nically, endeavoured to effect an union between Miſs Evelyn and one of his nephews. And, when ſhe found her power inadequate to her attempt, enraged at her non-compliance, ſhe treated her with the groſſeſt unkindneſs, and threatened her with poverty and ruin.
Miſs Evelyn, to whom wrath and violence had hitherto been ſtrangers, ſoon grew weary of this uſage; and raſhly, and without a witneſs, con⯑ſented to a private marriage with Sir John Bel⯑mont, a very profligate young man, who had but too ſucceſsfully found means to inſinuate himſelf into her favour. He promiſed to conduct her to England—he did.—O, Madam, you know the reſt!—Diſappointed of the fortune he expect⯑ed, by the inexorable rancour of the Duvals, he infamouſly burnt the certificate of their marriage, and denied that they had ever been united!
She flew to me for protection. With what mixed tranſports of joy and anguiſh did I again [7] ſee her! By my advice ſhe endeavoured to procure proofs of her marriage;—but in vain: her cre⯑dulity had been no match for his art.
Every body believed her innocent, from the guiltleſs tenor of her unſpotted youth, and from the known libertiniſm of her barbarous betrayer. Yet her ſufferings were too acute for her tender frame, and the ſame moment that gave birth to her infant, put an end at once to the ſorrows and the life of its mother.
The rage of Madame Duval at her elopement, abated not while this injured victim of cruelty yet drew breath. She probably intended, in time, to have pardoned her, but time was not allowed. When ſhe was informed of her death, I have been told, that the agonies of grief and remorſe, with which ſhe was ſeized, occaſioned her a ſevere fit of illneſs. But, from the time of her recovery to the date of her letter to your Ladyſhip, I had ne⯑ver heard that ſhe manifeſted any deſire to be made acquainted with the circumſtances which attended the death of Lady-Belmont, and the birth of her helpleſs child.
That child, Madam, ſhall never, while life is lent me, know the loſs ſhe has ſuſtained. I have cheriſhed, ſuccoured, and ſupported her, from her earlieſt infancy to her ſixteenth year; and ſo amply has ſhe repaid my care and affection, that my fondeſt wiſh is now bounded in the deſire of beſtowing her on one who may be ſenſible of her worth, and then ſinking to eternal reſt in her arms.
Thus it has happened that the education of the father, daughter, and grand-daughter has devolved on me. What infinite miſery have the two firſt cauſed me! Should the fate of the dear ſurvivor be [8] equally adverſe, how wretched will be the end of my cares—the end of my days!
Even had Madame Duval merited the charge ſhe claims, I fear my fortitude would have been unequal to ſuch a parting; but, being ſuch as ſhe is, not only my affection, but my humanity re⯑coils, at the barbarous idea of deſerting the ſacred truſt repoſed in me. Indeed, I could but ill ſup⯑port her former yearly viſits to the reſpectable manſion at Howard Grove; pardon me, dear Ma⯑dam, and do not think me inſenſible of the honour which your Ladyſhip's condeſcenſion confers upon us both; but ſo deep is the impreſſion which the misfortunes of her mother have made on my heart, that ſhe does not, even for a moment, quit my ſight, without exciting apprehenſions and terrors which almoſt overpower me. Such, Madam, is my ten⯑derneſs, and ſuch my weakneſs! But ſhe is the only tie I have upon earth, and I truſt to your Ladyſhip's goodneſs not to judge of my feelings with ſeverity.
I beg leave to preſent my humble reſpects to Mrs. and Miſs Mirvan; and have the honour to be,
LETTER III.
Lady Howard to the Rev. Mr. Villars.
[9][Written ſome months after the laſt.]
YOUR laſt letter gave me infinite pleaſure: after ſo long and tedious an illneſs, how grateful to yourſelf and to your friends muſt be your return⯑ing health! You have the hearty wiſhes of every individual of this place for its continuance and in⯑creaſe.
Will you not think I talk advantage of your ac⯑knowledged recovery, if I once more venture to mention your pupil and Howard Grove together? Yet you muſt remember the patience with which we ſubmitted to your deſire of not parting with her during the bad ſtate of your health, though it was with much reluctance we forbore to ſolicit her company. My grand-daughter, in particular, has ſcarce been able to repreſs her eagerneſs to again meet the friend of her infancy; and for my own part, it is very ſtrongly my wiſh to manifeſt the regard which I had for the unfortunate Lady Bel⯑mont, by proving ſerviceable to her child; which ſeems to me the beſt reſpect that can be paid to her memory. Permit me, therefore, to lay before you a plan which Mrs. Mirvan and I have formed, in conſequence of your reſtoration to health.
I would not frighten you;—but do you think you could bear to part with your young companion for two or three months? Mrs. Mirvan propoſes to [10] ſpend the enſuing ſpring in London, whither, for the firſt time, my grandchild will accompany her: Now, my good friend, it is very earneſtly their wiſh to enlarge and enliven their party by the ad⯑dition of your amiable ward, who would ſhare, equally with her own daughter, the care and at⯑tention of Mrs. Mirvan. Do not ſtart at this pro⯑poſal; it is time that ſhe ſhould ſee ſomething of the world. When young people are too rigidly ſequeſtered from it, their lively and romantic ima⯑ginations paint it to them as a paradiſe of which they have been beguiled; but when they are ſhown it properly, and in due time, they ſee it ſuch as it really is, equally ſhared by pain and pleaſure, hope and diſappointment.
You have nothing to apprehend from her meet⯑ing with Sir John Belmont, as that abandoned man is now abroad, and not expected home this year.
Well, my good Sir, what ſay you to our ſcheme? I hope it will meet with your approbation; but if it ſhould not, be aſſured I can never be diſ⯑pleaſed at any deciſion made by one who is ſo much reſpected and eſteemed as yourſelf by,
LETTER IV.
Mr. Villars to Lady Howard.
[11]I AM grieved, Madam, to appear obſtinate, and I bluſh to incur the imputation of ſelfiſhneſs. In detaining my young charge thus long with myſelf in the country, I conſulted not ſolely my own in⯑clination. Deſtined, in all probability, to poſſeſs a very moderate fortune, I wiſhed to contract her views to ſomething within it. The mind is but too naturally prone to pleaſure, but too eaſily yield⯑ed to diſſipation: it has been my ſtudy to guard her againſt their deluſions, by preparing her to ex⯑pect,—and to deſpiſe them. But the time draws on for experience and obſervation to take place of inſtruc⯑tion: if I have, in ſome meaſure, rendered her capable of uſing the one with diſcretion, and mak⯑ing the other with improvement, I ſhall rejoice myſelf with the aſſurance of having largely con⯑tributed to her welfare. She is now of an age that happineſs is eager to attend,—let her then enjoy it! I commit her to the protection of your Lady⯑ſhip, and only hope ſhe may be found worthy half the goodneſs I am ſatisfied ſhe will meet with at your hoſpitable manſion.
Thus far, Madam, I chearfully ſubmit to your deſire. In confiding my ward to the care of Lady Howard, I can feel no uneaſineſs from her abſence, but what will ariſe from the loſs of her company, ſince I ſhall be as well convinced of her ſafety, as if ſhe were under my own roof;—but, can your Ladyſhip be ſerious in propoſing to introduce her to the gaieties of a London life? Permit me to [12] aſk, for what end, or what purpoſe? A youthful mind is ſeldom totally free from ambition; to curb that, is the firſt ſtep to contentment, ſince to di⯑miniſh expectation, is to increaſe enjoyment. I apprehend nothing more than too much raiſing her hopes and her views, which the natural vivacity of her diſpoſition would render but too eaſy to effect. The town acquaintance of Mrs. Mirvan are all in the circle of high life; this artleſs young creature, with too much beauty to eſcape notice, has too much ſenſibility to be indifferent to it; but ſhe has too little wealth to be ſought with propriety by men of the faſhionable world.
Conſider, Madam, the peculiar cruelty of her ſituation; only child of a wealthy baronet, whoſe perſon ſhe has never ſeen, whoſe character ſhe has reaſon to abhor, and whoſe name ſhe is forbidden to claim; entitled as ſhe is to lawfully inherit his fortune and eſtate, is there any probability that he will properly own her? And while he continues to perſevere in diſavowing his marriage with Miſs Evelyn, ſhe ſhall never, at the expence of her mo⯑ther's honour, receive a part of her right, as the donation of his bounty.
And as to Mr. Evelyn's eſtate, I have no doubt but that Madame Duval and her relations will diſ⯑poſe of it among themſelves.
It ſeems, therefore, as if this deſerted child, though legally heireſs to two large fortunes, muſt owe all her rational expectations to adoption and friendſhip. Yet her income will be ſuch as may make her happy, if ſhe is diſpoſed to be ſo in pri⯑vate life; though it will by no means allow her to enjoy the luxury of a London fine lady.
Let Miſs Mirvan, then, Madam, ſhine in all the ſplendor of high life, but ſuffer my child ſtill [13] to enjoy the pleaſures of humble retirement, with a mind to which greater views are unknown.
I hope this reaſoning will be honoured with your approbation; and I have yet another motive that has ſome weight with me; I would not wil⯑lingly give offence to any human being, and ſurely Madame Duval might accuſe me of injuſtice, if, while I refuſe to let her grand-daughter wait upon her, I conſent to her joining a party of pleaſure to London.
In ſending her to Howard Grove, not one of theſe ſcruples ariſe; and therefore Mrs. Clinton, a moſt worthy woman, formerly her nurſe, and now my houſekeeper, ſhall attend her thither next week.
Though I have always called her by the name of Anville, and reported in this neighbourhood that her father, my intimate friend, left her to my guardianſhip, yet I have thought it neceſſary to let her be herſelf acquainted with the melancholy circumſtances attending her birth; for, though I am very deſirous of guarding her from curioſity and impertinence, by concealing her name, fa⯑mily, and ſtory, yet I would not leave it in the power of charce, to ſhock her gentle nature with a tale of ſo much ſorrow.
You muſt not, Madam, expect too much from my pupil. She is quite a little ruſtic, and knows nothing of the world; and though her education has been the beſt I could beſtow in this retired place, to which Dorcheſter, the neareſt town, is ſeven miles diſtant, yet I ſhall not be ſurpriſed if you ſhould diſcover in her a thouſand deficiencies of which I have never dreamt. She muſt be very much altered ſince ſhe was laſt at Howard Grove,—but I will ſay nothing of her; I leave her to your [14] Ladyſhip's own obſervations, of which I beg a faithful relation; and am,
LETTER V.
Mr. Villars to Lady Howard.
THIS letter will be delivered to you by my child,—the child of my adoption,—my affection! Unbleſt with one natural friend, ſhe merits a thouſand. I ſend her to you, innocent as an an⯑gel, and artleſs as purity itſelf: and I ſend you with her the heart of your friend, the only hope he has on earth, the ſubject of his tendereſt thoughts, and the object of his lateſt cares. She is one, Madam, for whom alone I have lately wiſhed to live; and ſhe is one whom to ſerve I would with tranſport die! Reſtore her but to me all innocence as you receive her, and the fondeſt hope of my heart will be amply gratified!
LETTER VI.
Lady Howard to the Rev. Mr. Villars.
[15]THE ſolemn manner in which you have com⯑mitted your child to my care, has in ſome mea⯑ſure dampt the pleaſure which I receive from the truſt, as it makes me fear that you ſuffer from your compliance, in which caſe I ſhall very ſin⯑cerely blame myſelf for the earneſtneſs with which I have requeſted this favour; but remember, my good Sir, ſhe is within a few days ſummons, and be aſſured I will not detain her a moment longer than you wiſh.
You deſire my opinion of her.
She is a little angel! I cannot wonder that you ſought to monopolize her. Neither ought you, at finding it impoſſible.
Her face and perſon anſwer my moſt refined ideas of complete beauty: and this, though a ſubject of praiſe leſs important to you, or to me, than any other, is yet ſo ſtriking, it is not poſſible to paſs it unnoticed. Had I not known from whom ſhe received her education, I ſhould, at firſt ſight of ſo perfect a face, have been in pain for her underſtanding; ſince it has been long and juſtly remarked, that folly has ever ſought alli⯑ance with beauty.
She has the ſame gentleneſs in her manners, the ſame natural grace in her motions, that I formerly ſo much admired in her mother. Her character ſeems truly ingenuous and ſimple; and, at the [16] ſame time that nature hus bleſſed her with an ex⯑cellent underſtanding, and great quickneſs of parts, ſhe has a certain air of inexperience and in⯑nocency that is extremely intereſting.
You have no reaſon to regret the retirement in which ſhe has lived; ſince that politeneſs which is acquired by an acquaintance with high life, is in her ſo well ſupplied by a natural deſire of ob⯑liging, joined to a deportment infinitely engaging.
I obſerve with great ſatisfaction a growing affec⯑tion between this amiable girl and my grand-daugh⯑ter, whoſe heart is as free from ſelfiſhneſs or con⯑ceit, as that of her young friend is from all guile. Their attachment may be mutually uſeful, ſince much is to be expected from emulation, where nothing is to be feared from envy. I would have them love each other as ſiſters, and reciprocally ſupply the place of that tender and happy relati⯑onſhip to which neither of them have a natural claim.
Be ſatisfied, my good Sir, that your child ſhall meet with the ſame attention as our own. We all join in moſt hearty wiſhes for your health and happineſs, and in returning our ſincere thanks for the favour you have conſerred on us.
LETTER VII.
Lady Howard to the Rev. Mr. Villars.
[17]BE not alarmed, my worthy friend, at my ſo ſpeedily troubling you again; I ſeldom uſe the ceremony of waiting for anſwers, or writing with any regularity, and I have at preſent immediate occaſion for begging your patience.
Mrs. Mirvan has juſt received a letter from her long-abſent huſband, containing the welcome news of his hoping to reach London by the be⯑ginning of next week. My daughter and the Captain have been ſeparated almoſt ſeven years, and it would therefore be needleſs to ſay what joy, ſurpriſe, and conſequently confuſion, his, at preſent, unexpected return has cauſed at Howard Grove. Mrs. Mirvan, you cannot doubt, will go inſtantly to town to meet him; her daughter is under a thouſand obligations to attend her; I grieve that her mother cannot.
And now, my good Sir, I almoſt bluſh to pro⯑ceed;—but, tell me, may I aſk—will you permit—that your child may accompany them? Do not think us unreaſonable, but conſider the many in⯑ducements which conſpire to make London the happieſt place at preſent ſhe can be in. The joyful occaſion of the journey; the gaiety of the whole party; oppoſed to the dull life ſhe muſt lead if left here, with a ſolitary old woman for her ſole companion, while ſhe ſo well knows the chearfulneſs and felicity enjoyed by the reſt of the family,—are circumſtances that ſeem to merit [18] your conſideration. Mrs. Mirvan deſires me to aſſure you, that one week is all ſhe aſks, as ſhe is certain that the Captain, who hates London, will be eager to reviſit. Howard Grove: and Maria is ſo very earneſt in wiſhing to have the company of her friend, that, if you are inexora⯑ble, ſhe will be deprived of half the pleaſure ſhe otherwiſe hopes to receive.
However, I will not, my good Sir, deceive you into an opinion that they intend to live in a retired manner, as that cannot be fairly expected. But you have no reaſon to be uneaſy concerning Madame Duval; ſhe has no correſpondent in England, and only gains intelligence by common report. She muſt be a ſtranger to the name your child bears; and, even ſhould ſhe hear of this excurſion, ſo ſhort a time as a week, or leſs, ſpent in town upon ſo particular an occaſion, though previous to their meeting, cannot be con⯑ſtrued into diſreſpect to herſelf.
Mrs. Mirvan deſires me to aſſure you, that if you will oblige her, her two children ſhall equally ſhare her time and her attention. She has ſent a commiſſion to a friend in town to take a houſe for her, and while ſhe waits for an anſwer con⯑cerning it, I ſhall for one from you to our pe⯑tition. However, your child is writing herſelf, and that, I doubt not, will more avail than all we can poſſibly urge.
My daughter deſires her beſt compliments to you, if, ſhe ſays, you will grant her requeſt, but not elſe.
Adieu, my dear Sir,—we all hope every thing from your goodneſs.
LETTER VIII.
Evelina to the Rev. Mr. Villars.
[19]THIS houſe ſeems to be the houſe of joy; every face wears a ſmile, and a laugh is at every body's ſervice. It is quite amuſing to walk about, and ſee the general confuſion; a room leading to the garden is fitting up for Captain Mirvan's ſtudy. Lady Howard does not ſit a moment in a place; Miſs Mirvan is making caps; every body ſo buſy!—ſuch flying from room to room!—ſo many orders given, and retracted, and given again!—nothing but hurry and perturbation.
Well but, my dear Sir, I am deſired to make a requeſt to you. I hope you will not think me an incroacher; Lady Howard inſiſts upon my writing!—yet I hardly know how to go on; a petition implies a want,—and have you left me one? No, indeed.
I am half aſhamed of myſelf for beginning this letter. But theſe dear ladies are ſo preſſing—I cannot, for my life, reſiſt wiſhing for the pleaſures they offer me,—provided you do not diſ⯑approve them.
They are to make a very ſhort ſtay in town. The captain will meet them in a day or two. Mrs. Mirvan and her ſweet daughter both go;—what a happy party! Yet I am not very eager to accom⯑pany them: at leaſt, I ſhall be very well con⯑tented to remain where I am, if you deſire that I ſhould.
[20] Aſſured, my deareſt Sir, of your goodneſs, your bounty, and your indulgent kindneſs, ought I to form a wiſh that has not your ſanction? Decide for me, therefore, without the leaſt apprehen⯑ſion that I ſhall be uneaſy, or diſcontented. While I am yet in ſuſpenſe, perhaps I may hope, but I am moſt certain, that when you have once determined, I ſhall not repine.
They tell me that London is now in full ſplen⯑dour. Two Play-houſes are open,—the Opera-Houſe,—Ranelagh,—the Pantheon.—You ſee I have learned all their names. However, pray don't ſuppoſe that I make any point of going, for I ſhall hardly ſigh to ſee them depart without me; though I ſhall probably never meet with ſuch ano⯑ther opportunity. And, indeed, their domeſtic happineſs will be ſo great,—it is natural to wiſh to partake of it.
I believe I am bewitched! I made a reſolution when I began, that I would not be urgent; but my pen—or rather my thoughts, will not ſuffer me to keep it—for I acknowledge, I muſt acknowledge, I cannot help wiſhing for your permiſſion.
I almoſt repent already that I have made this confeſſion; pray forget that you have read it, if this journey is diſpleaſing to you. But I will not write any longer; for the more I think of this affair, the leſs indifferent to it I find my⯑ſelf.
Adieu, my moſt honoured, moſt reverenced, moſt beloved father! for by what other name can I call you? I have no happineſs or ſorrow, no hope or fear, but what your kindneſs beſtows, or your diſpleaſure may cauſe. You will not, I am ſure, ſend a refuſal, without reaſons unanſwerable, and [21] therefore I ſhall chearfully acquieſce. Yet I hope—I hope you will be able to permit me to go.
I cannot to you ſign Anville, and what other name may I claim?
LETTER IX.
Mr. Villars to Evelina.
TO reſiſt the urgency of entreaty, is a power which I have not yet acquired: I aim not at an au⯑thority which deprives you of liberty, yet I would fain guide myſelf by a prudence which ſhould ſave me the pangs of repentance. Your impatience to fly to a place which your imagination has painted to you in colours ſo attractive, ſurprizes me not; I have only to hope that the livelineſs of your fancy may not deceive you: to refuſe, would be to raiſe it ſtill higher. To ſee my Evelina happy, is to ſee myſelf without a wiſh: go then, my child, and may that Heaven which alone can, direct, preſerve, and ſtrengthen you! To That, my love, will I daily offer prayers for your felicity; O may it guard, watch over you! defend you from danger, ſave you from diſtreſs, and keep vice as diſtant from your perſon as from your heart! And to Me, [22] may it grant the ultimate bleſſing of cloſing theſe aged eyes in the arms of one ſo dear—ſo deſervedly beloved!
LETTER X.
Evelina to the Rev. Mr. Villars.
THIS moment arrived. Juſt going to Drury-Lane Theatre. The celebrated Mr. Garrick per⯑forms Ranger. I am quite in extacy. So is Miſs Mirvan. How fortunate, that he ſhould happen to play! We would not let Mrs. Mirvan reſt till ſhe conſented to go; her chief objection was to our dreſs, for we have had no time to Londonize our⯑ſelves; but we teized her into compliance, and ſo we are to ſit in ſome obſcure place, that ſhe may not be ſeen. As to me, I ſhould be alike unknown in the moſt conſpicuous or moſt private part of the houſe.
I can write no more now. I have hardly time to breathe—only juſt this, the houſes and ſtreets are not quite ſo ſuperb as I expected. However, I have ſeen nothing yet, ſo I ought not to judge.
Well, adieu, my deareſt Sir, for the preſent; I could not forbear writing a few words inſtantly on my arrival; though I ſuppoſe my letter of thanks for your conſent is ſtill on the road.
[23] Saturday Night.
O my dear Sir, in what raptures am I returned! Well may Mr. Garrick be ſo celebrated, ſo univer⯑ſally admired—I had not any idea of ſo great a performer.
Such eaſe! ſuch vivacity in his manner! ſuch grace in his motions! ſuch fire and meaning in his eyes!—I could hardly believe he had ſtudied a written part, for every word ſeemed ſpoke from the impulſe of the moment.
His action—at once ſo graceful and ſo free!—his voice—ſo clear, ſo melodious, yet ſo wonder⯑fully various in its tones—ſuch animation!—every look ſpeaks!
I would have given the world to have had the whole play acted over again. And when he danced—O how I envied Clarinda! I almoſt wiſhed to have jumped on the ſtage and joined them.
I am afraid you will think me mad, ſo I won't ſay any more; yet I really believe Mr. Garrick would make you mad too, if you could ſee him. I intend to aſk Mrs. Mirvan to go to the play every night while we ſtay in town. She is extremely kind to me, and Maria, her charming daughter, is the ſweeteſt girl in the world.
I ſhall write to you every evening all that paſſes in the day, and that in the ſame manner as, if I could ſee, I ſhould tell you.
Sunday.
This morning we went to Portland chapel, and afterwards we walked in the Mall in St. James's Park, which by no means anſwered my expectati⯑ons: it is a long ſtraight walk, of dirty gravel, ve⯑ry uneaſy to the feet; and at each end, inſtead of an open proſpect, nothing is to be ſeen but houſes [24] built of brick. When Mrs. Mirvan pointed out the Palace to me—I think I was never much more ſurpriſed.
However the walk was very agreeable to us; every body looked gay, and ſeemed pleaſed, and the ladies were ſo much dreſſed, that Miſs Mirvan and I could do nothing but look at them. Mrs. Mirvan met ſeveral of her friends. No wonder, for I never ſaw ſo many people aſſembled together before. I looked about for ſome of my acquaint⯑ance, but in vain, for I ſaw not one perſon that I knew, which is very odd, for all the world ſeemed there.
Mrs. Mirvan ſays we are not to walk in the Park again next Sunday, even if we ſhould be in town, becauſe there is better company in Kenſing⯑ton Gardens. But really if you had ſeen how much every body was dreſſed, you would not think that poſſible.
We are to go this evening to a private ball, gi⯑ven by Mrs. Stanley, a very faſhionable lady of Mrs. Mirvan's acquaintance.
We have been a ſhopping, as Mrs. Mirvan calls it, all this morning, to buy ſilks, caps, gauzes, and ſo forth.
The ſhops are really very entertaining, eſpecially the mercers; there ſeem to be ſix or ſeven men be⯑longing to each ſhop, and every one took care, by bowing and ſmirking, to be noticed; we were con⯑ducted from one to another, and carried from room to room, with ſo much ceremony, that at firſt I was almoſt afraid to follow.
I thought I ſhould never have choſen a ſilk, for they produced ſo many, I knew not which to fix upon, and they recommended them all ſo ſtrongly that I fancy they thought I only wanted perſuaſion [25] to buy every thing they ſhewed me. And, indeed, they took ſo much trouble, that I was almoſt aſha⯑med I could not.
At the milliners, the ladies we met were ſo much dreſſed, that I ſhould rather have imagined they were making viſits than purchaſes. But what moſt diverted me was, that we were more frequently ſerved by men than by women; and ſuch men! ſo finical, ſo affected! they ſeemed to underſtand eve⯑ry part of a woman's dreſs better than we do our⯑ſelves; and they recommended caps and ribbands with an air of ſo much importance, that I wiſhed to aſk them how long they had left off wearing them!
The diſpatch with which they work in theſe great ſhops is amazing, for they have promiſed me a com⯑pleat ſuit of linen againſt the evening.
I have juſt had my hair dreſſed. You can't think how oddly my head feels; full of powder and black pins, and a great cuſhion on the top of it. I believe you would hardly know me, for my face looks quite different from what it did before my hair was dreſſed. When I ſhall be able to make uſe of a comb for myſelf I cannot tell, for my hair is ſo much entangled, frizzled they call it, that I fear it will be very difficult.
I am half afraid of this ball to-night, for, you know, I have never danced but at ſchool; however, Miſs Mirvan ſays there is nothing in it. Yet I wiſh it was over.
Adieu, my dear Sir; pray excuſe the wretched ſtuff I write, perhaps I may improve by being in this town, and then my letters will be leſs unwor⯑thy your reading. Mean time I am,
Poor Miſs Mirvan cannot wear one of the caps ſhe made, becauſe they dreſs her hair too large for them.
LETTER XI.
Evelina in continuation.
I HAVE a vaſt deal to ſay, and ſhall give all this morning to my pen. As to my plan of writ⯑ing every evening the adventures of the day, I find it impracticable; for the diverſions here are ſo very late, that if I begin my letters after them, I could not go to bed at all.
We paſt a moſt extraordinary evening. A pri⯑vate ball this was called, ſo I expected to have ſeen about four or five couple; but, Lord, my dear Sir, I believe I ſaw half the world! Two very large rooms were full of company; in one, were cards for the elderly ladies, and in the other, were the dancers. My mamma Mirvan, for ſhe always calls me her child, ſaid ſhe would ſit with Ma⯑ria and me till we were provided with partners, and then join the card players.
The gentlemen, as they paſſed and repaſſed, looked as if they thought we were quite at their diſpoſal, and only waiting for the honour of their commands; and they ſauntered about in a careleſs indolent manner, as if with a view to keep us in ſuſpenſe. I don't ſpeak of this in regard to Miſs Mirvan and myſelf only, but to the ladies in ge⯑neral; and I thought it ſo provoking, that I de⯑termined, in my own mind, that, far from humour⯑ing [27] ſuch airs, I would rather not dance at all, than with any one who ſhould ſeem to think me ready to accept the firſt partner who would con⯑deſcend to take me.
Not long after, a young man, who had for ſome time looked at us with a kind of negligent imper⯑tinence, advanced, on tiptoe, towards me; he had a ſet ſmile on his face, and his dreſs was ſo fop⯑piſh, that I really believe he even wiſhed to be ſtared at; and yet he was very ugly.
Bowing almoſt to the ground, with a ſort of ſwing, and waving his hand with the greateſt con⯑ceit, after a ſhort and ſilly pauſe, he ſaid, ‘"Ma⯑dam—may I preſume?"—’and ſtopt, offering to take my hand, I drew it back, but could ſcarce forbear laughing. ‘"Allow me, Madam,"’ (con⯑tinued he, affectedly breaking off every half mo⯑ment) ‘"the honour and happineſs—if I am not ſo unhappy as to addreſs you too late—to have the happineſs and honour—"’
Again he would have taken my hand, but, bow⯑ing my head, I begged to be excuſed, and turned to Miſs Mirvan to conceal my laughter. He then deſired to know if I had already engaged myſelf to ſome more fortunate man? I ſaid No, and that I believed I ſhould not dance at all. He would keep himſelf, he told me, diſengaged, in hopes I ſhould relent; and then, uttering ſome ridiculous ſpeeches of ſorrow and diſappointment, though his face ſtill wore the ſame invariable ſmile, he re⯑treated.
It ſo happened, as we have ſince recollected, that during this little dialogue, Mrs. Mirvan was con⯑verſing with the lady of the houſe. And very ſoon after another gentleman, who ſeemed about ſix⯑and-twenty years old, gayly, but not ſoppiſhly, [28] dreſſed, and indeed extremely handſome, with an air of mixed politeneſs and gallantry, deſired to know if I was engaged, or would honour him with my hand. So he was pleaſed to ſay, though I am ſure I know not what honour he could re⯑ceive from me; but theſe ſort of expreſſions, I find, are uſed as words of courſe, without any diſ⯑tinction of perſons, or ſtudy of propriety.
Well, I bowed, and I am ſure I coloured; for indeed I was frightened at the thoughts of dancing before ſo many people, all ſtrangers, and, which was worſe, with a ſtranger; however, that was unavoidable, for though I looked round the room ſeveral times, I could not ſee one perſon that I knew. And ſo, he took my hand, and led me to join in the dance.
The minuets were over before we arrived, for we were kept late by the milliner's making us wait for our things.
He ſeemed very deſirous of entering into con⯑verſation with me; but I was ſeized with ſuch a panic, that I could hardly ſpeak a word, and no⯑thing but the ſhame of ſo ſoon changing my mind, prevented my returning to my ſeat, and declining to dance at all.
He appeared to be ſurpriſed at my terror, which I believe was but too apparent: however, he aſked no queſtions, though I fear he muſt think it very odd; for I did not chooſe to tell him it was owing to my never before dancing but with a ſchool⯑girl.
His converſation was ſenſible and ſpirited; his air and addreſs were open and noble; his manners gentle, attentive, and infinitely engaging; his per⯑ſon is all elegance, and his countenance the moſt animated and expreſſive I have ever ſeen.
[29] In a ſhort time we were joined by Miſs Mirvan, who ſtood next couple to us. But how was I ſtartled, when ſhe whiſpered me that my partner was a nobleman! This gave me a new alarm; how will he be provoked, thought I, when he finds what a ſimple ruſtic he has honoured with his choice! one whoſe ignorance of the world makes her perpetually fear doing ſomething wrong!
That he ſhould be ſo much my ſuperior every way, quite diſconcerted me; and you will ſuppoſe my ſpirits were not much raiſed, when I heard a lady in paſſing us, ſay, ‘"This is the moſt difficult dance I ever ſaw."’
‘"O dear, then,"’ cried Maria to her partner, ‘"with your leave, I'll ſit down till the next."’
‘"So will I too, then,"’ cried I, ‘"for I am ſure I can hardly ſtand."’
‘"But you muſt ſpeak to your partner firſt,"’ anſwered ſhe; for he had turned aſide to talk with ſome gentlemen. However, I had not ſufficient courage to addreſs him, and ſo away we all three tript, and ſeated ourſelves at another end of the room.
But, unfortunately for me, Miſs Mirvan ſoon after ſuffered herſelf to be prevailed upon to at⯑tempt the dance; and juſt as ſhe roſe to go, ſhe cried, ‘"My dear, yonder is your partner, Lord Orville, walking about the room in ſearch of you."’
‘"Don't leave me, then, dear girl!"’ cried I; but ſhe was obliged to go. And then I was more uneaſy than ever; I would have given the world to have ſeen Mrs. Mirvan, and begged of her to make my apologies; for what, thought I, can I poſſibly ſay for myſelf in excuſe for running away? he muſt either conclude me a fool, or half mad, for any one brought up in the great world, and [30] accuſtomed to its ways, can have no idea of ſuch ſort of fears as mine.
I was in the utmoſt confuſion, when I obſerved that he was every where ſeeking me, with apparent perplexity and ſurpriſe; but when, at laſt, I ſaw him move towards the place where I ſat, I was ready to ſink with ſhame and diſtreſs. I found it abſolutely impoſſible to keep my ſeat, becauſe I could not think of a word to ſay for myſelf, and ſo I roſe, and walked haſtily towards the card-room, reſolving to ſtay with Mrs. Mirvan the reſt of the evening, and not to dance at all. But before I could find her, Lord Orville ſaw and approached me.
He begged to know if I was not well? You may eaſily imagine how much I was confuſed. I made no anſwer, but hung my head, like a fool, and looked on my fan.
He then, with an air the moſt reſpectfully ſe⯑rious, aſked if he had been ſo unhappy as to of⯑fend me?
‘"No, indeed!"’ cried I: and then, in hopes of changing the diſcourſe, and preventing his further inquiries, I deſired to know if he had ſeen the young lady who had been converſing with me?
No;—but would I honour him with my com⯑mands to ſee for her?
‘"O by no means!"’
Was there any other perſon with whom I wiſhed to ſpeak?
I ſaid no, before I knew I had anſwered at all.
Should he have the pleaſure of bringing me any refreſhment?
I bowed, almoſt involuntarily. And away he flew.
[31] I was quite aſhamed at being ſo troubleſome, and ſo much above myſelf as theſe ſeeming airs made me appear; but indeed I was too much confuſed to think or act with any conſiſtency.
If he had not been ſwift as lightning, I don't know whether I ſhould not have ſtolen away again; but he returned in a moment. When I had drank a glaſs of lemonade, he hoped, he ſaid, that I would again honour him with my hand, as a new dance was juſt begun. I had not the preſence of mind to ſay a ſingle word, and ſo I let him once more lead me to the place I had left.
Shocked to find how ſilly, how childiſh a part I had acted, my former fears of dancing before ſuch a company, and with ſuch a partner, returned more forcibly than ever. I ſuppoſe he perceived my uneaſineſs, for he intreated me to ſit down again, if dancing was diſagreeable to me. But I was quite ſatisfied with the folly I had already ſhewn, and therefore declined his offer, though I was really ſcarce able to ſtand.
Under ſuch conſcious diſadvantages, you may eaſily imagine, my dear Sir, how ill I acquitted myſelf. But, though I both expected and de⯑ſerved to find him very much mortified and diſ⯑pleaſed at his ill fortune in the choice he had made, yet, to my very great relief, he appeared to be even contented, and very much aſſiſted and en⯑couraged me. Theſe people in high life have too much preſence of mind, I believe, to ſeem diſcon⯑certed, or out of humour, however they may feel; for had I been the perſon of the moſt conſequence in the room, I could not have met with more at⯑tention and reſpect.
When the dance was over, ſeeing me ſtill very much ſlurried, he led me to a ſeat, ſaying that he [32] would not ſuffer me to fatigue myſelf from po⯑liteneſs.
And then, if my capacity, or even if my ſpirits had been better, in how animated a conver⯑ſation might I have been engaged! It was then that I ſaw the rank of Lord Orville was his leaſt recommendation, his underſtanding and his man⯑ners being far more diſtinguiſhed. His remarks upon the company in general were ſo apt, ſo juſt, ſo lively, I am almoſt ſurpriſed myſelf that they did not re-animate me; but indeed I was too well convinced of the ridiculous part I had myſelf played before ſo nice an obſerver, to be able to enjoy his pleaſantry: ſo ſelf-compaſſion gave me feeling for others. Yet I had not the courage to attempt either to defend them, or to rally in my turn, but liſtened to him in ſilent embarraſſ⯑ment.
When he found this, he changed the ſubject, and talked of public places, and public performers; but he ſoon diſcovered that I was totally igno⯑rant of them.
He then, very ingeniouſly, turned the diſ⯑courſe to the amuſements and occupations of the country.
It now ſtruck me, that he was reſolved to try whether or not I was capable of talking upon any ſubject. This put ſo great a conſtraint upon my thoughts, that I was unable to go further than a monoſyllable, and not even ſo far, when I could poſſibly avoid it.
We were ſitting in this manner, he converſing with all gaiety, I looking down with all fooliſh⯑neſs, when that fop who had firſt aſked me to dance, with a moſt ridiculous ſolemnity, approach⯑ed, and after a profound bow or two, ſaid, ‘"I [33] humbly beg pardon, Madam,—and of you too, my Lord,—for breaking in upon ſuch agreeable converſation—which muſt, doubtleſs, be much more delectable—than what I have the honour to offer—but—"’
I interrupted him—I bluſh for my folly,—with laughing; yet I could not help it, for, added to the man's ſtately foppiſhneſs, (and he actually took ſnuff between every three words) when I looked round at Lord Orville, I ſaw ſuch ex⯑treme ſurpriſe in his face,—the cauſe of which appeared ſo abſurd, that I could not for my life preſerve my gravity.
I had not laughed before from the time I had left Miſs Mirvan, and I had much better have cried then; Lord Orville actually ſtared at me; the beau, I know not his name, looked quite enraged. ‘"Refrain—Madam,"’ (ſaid he, with an important air,) ‘"a few moments refrain!—I have but a ſentence to trouble you with.—May I know to what accident I muſt attribute not having the honour of your hand?"’
‘"Accident, Sir!"’ repeated I, much aſto⯑niſhed.
‘"Yes, accident, Madam—for ſurely,—I muſt take the liberty to obſerve—pardon me, Madam, it ought to be no common one—that ſhould tempt a lady—ſo young a one too,—to be guilty of ill manners."’
A confuſed idea now for the firſt time entered my head, ſomething I had heard of the rules of aſſemblies; but I was never at one before,—I have only danced at ſchool,—and ſo giddy and heedleſs I was, that I had not once conſidered the impropriety of refuſing one partner, and after⯑wards accepting another. I was thunderſtruck at [34] the recollection: but, while theſe thoughts were ruſhing into my head, Lord Orville, with ſome warmth, ſaid, ‘"This lady, Sir, is incapable of meriting ſuch an accuſation!"’
The creature—for I am very angry with him,—made a low bow, and with a grin the moſt malicious I ever ſaw, ‘"My Lord, ſaid he, far be it from me to accuſe the lady, for having the diſcernment to diſtinguiſh and prefer—the ſuperior attractions of your Lordſhip."’
Again he bowed, and walked off.
Was ever any thing ſo provoking? I was ready to die with ſhame. ‘"What a coxcomb!"’ ex⯑claimed Lord Orville; while I, without know⯑ing what I did, roſe haſtily, and moving off, ‘"I can't imagine, cried I, where Mrs. Mirvan has hid herſelf!"’
‘"Give me leave to ſee,"’ anſwered he. I bowed and ſat down again, not daring to meet his eyes; for what muſt he think of me, between my blunder and the ſuppoſed preference?
He returned in a moment, and told me that Mrs. Mirvan was at cards, but would be glad to ſee me; and I went immediately. There was but one chair vacant, ſo, to my great relief, Lord Orville preſently left us. I then told Mrs. Mirvan my diſaſters, and ſhe good-naturedly blamed her⯑ſelf for not having better inſtructed me, but ſaid ſhe had taken it for granted that I muſt know ſuch common cuſtoms. However, the man may, I think, be ſatisfied with his pretty ſpeech, and carry his reſentment no farther.
In a ſhort time, Lord Orville returned. I con⯑ſented, with the beſt grace I could, to go down another dance, for I had had time to recollect myſelf, and therefore reſolved to uſe ſome exer⯑tion, [35] and, if poſſible, appear leſs a fool than I hitherto had: for it occurred to me that, inſigni⯑ficant as I was, compared to a man of his rank and figure, yet, ſince he had been ſo unfortunate as to make choice of me for a partner, why I ſhould endeavour to make the beſt of it.
The dance, however, was ſhort, and he ſpoke very little; ſo I had no opportunity of putting my re⯑ſolution in practice. He was ſatisfied, I ſuppoſe, with his former ſucceſsleſs efforts to draw me out: or, rather, I fancied, he has been inquiring who I was. This again diſconcerted me, and the ſpi⯑rits I had determined to exert, again failed me. Tired, aſhamed, and mortified, I begged to ſit down till we returned home, which we did ſoon after. Lord Orville did me the honour to hand me to the coach, talking all the way of the honour I had done him! O theſe faſhionable people!
Well, my dear Sir, was it not a ſtrange even⯑ing? I could not help being thus particular, be⯑cauſe, to me, every thing is ſo new. But it is now time to conclude. I am, with all love and duty,
LETTER XII.
Evelina in continuation.
[36]THERE is to be no end to the troubles of laſt night. I have, this moment, between perſuaſion and laughter, gathered from Maria the moſt curi⯑ous dialogue that ever I heard. You will, at firſt, be ſtartled at my vanity; but, my dear Sir, have patience!
It muſt have paſſed while I was ſitting with Mrs. Mirvan in the card-room. Maria was taking ſome refreſhment, and ſaw Lord Orville advanc⯑ing for the ſame purpoſe himſelf; but he did not know her, though ſhe immediately recollected him. Preſently after, a very gay-looking man, ſtepping haſtily up to him, cried, ‘"Why, my Lord, what have you done with your lovely partner!"’
‘"Nothing!"’ anſwered Lord Orville, with a ſmile and a ſhrug.
‘"By Jove, cried the man, ſhe is the moſt beau⯑tiful creature I ever ſaw in my life!"’
Lord Orville, as he well might, laughed, but anſwered, ‘"Yes, a pretty modeſt-looking girl."’
‘"O my Lord!"’ cried the madman, ‘"ſhe is an angel!"’
‘"A ſilent one,"’ returned he.
‘"Why ay, my Lord, how ſtands ſhe as to that? She looks all intelligence and expreſſion."’
‘"A poor weak girl!"’ anſwered Lord Orville, ſhaking his head.
[37] ‘"By Jove,"’ cried the other, ‘"I am glad to hear it!"’
At that moment, the ſame odious creature who had been my former torment, joined them. Ad⯑dreſſing Lord Orville with great reſpect, he ſaid, ‘"I beg pardon, my Lord,—if I was—as I fear might be the caſe—rather too ſevere in my cen⯑ſure of the lady who is honoured with your pro⯑tection—but, my Lord, ill breeding is apt to pro⯑voke a man."’
‘"Ill-breeding!"’ cried my unknown champion, ‘"impoſſible! that elegant face can never be ſo vile a maſk!"’
‘"O Sir, as to that,"’ anſwered he, ‘"you muſt allow me to judge; for though I pay all deference to your opinion—in other things,—yet I hope you will grant—and I appeal to your Lordſhip alſo—that I am not totally deſpicable as a judge of good or ill manners."’
‘"I was ſo wholly ignorant,"’ ſaid Lord Orville gravely, ‘"of the provocation you might have had, that I could not but be ſurpriſed at your ſingular reſentment."’
‘"It was far from my intention, anſwered he, to offend your Lordſhip; but really, for a per⯑ſon who is nobody, to give herſelf ſuch airs,—I own I could not command my paſſions. For, my Lord, though I have made diligent enquiry—I cannot learn who ſhe is."’
‘"By what I can make out,"’ cried my defender, ‘"ſhe muſt be a country parſon's daughter."’
‘"He! he! he! very good, 'pon honour!"’ cried the fop,—‘"well, ſo I could have ſworn by her manners."’
And then, delighted at his own wit, he laughed, and went away, as I ſuppoſe, to repeat it.
[38] ‘"But what the deuce is all this?’ demanded the other.
‘"Why a very fooliſh affair,"’ anſwered Lord Orville; ‘"your Helen firſt refuſed this coxcomb, and then—danced with me. This is all I can ga⯑ther of it."’
‘"O Orville,"’ returned he, ‘"you are a happy man!—But, ill-bred?—I can never believe it? And ſhe looks too ſenſible to be ignorant."’
‘"Whether ignorant or miſchievous, I will not pretend to determine, but certain it is, ſhe attended to all I could ſay to her, though I have really fatigued myſelf with fruitleſs endeavours to enter⯑tain her, with the moſt immoveable gravity; but no ſooner did Lovel begin his complaint, than ſhe was ſeized with a fit of Laughing, firſt af⯑fronting the poor beau, and then enjoying his mor⯑tification."’
‘"Ha! ha! ha! why there's ſome genius in that, my Lord, though perhaps rather ruſtick."’
Here Maria was called to dance, and ſo heard no more.
Now tell me, my dear Sir, did you ever know any thing more provoking? ‘"A poor weak girl!" "ignorant or miſchievous!"’ What mortifying words! I'm reſolved, however, that I will never again be tempted to go to an aſſembly. I wiſh I had been in Dorſetſhire.
Well, after this, you will not be ſurpriſed that Lord Orville contented himſelf with an enquiry after our healths this morning, by his ſervant, without troubling himſelf to call; as Miſs Mirvan had told me he would: but perhaps it may be only a country cuſtom.
I would not live here for the world. I don't care how ſoon we leave town. London ſoon [39] grows tireſome. I wiſh the Captain would come Mrs. Mirvan talks of the opera for this evening; however, I am very indifferent about it.
Well, my dear Sir, I have been pleaſed, againſt my will, I could almoſt ſay, for I muſt own I went out in very ill-humour, which I think you can't wonder at: but the muſic and the ſinging were charming; they ſoothed me into a pleaſure the moſt grateful, the beſt ſuited to my preſent diſpoſition in the world. I hope to perſuade Mrs. Mirvan to go again on Saturday. I wiſh the opera was every night. It is, of all entertain⯑ments, the ſweeteſt and moſt delightful. Some of the ſongs ſeemed to melt my very ſoul. It was what they call a ſerious opera, as the comic firſt ſinger was ill.
To-night we go to Ranelagh. If any of thoſe three gentlemen who converſed ſo freely about me ſhould be there—but I won't think of it.
Well, my dear Sir, we went to Ranelagh. It is a charming place, and the brilliancy of the lights, on my firſt entrance, made me almoſt think I was in ſome inchanted caſtle, or fairy palace, for all looked like magic to me.
The very firſt perſon I ſaw was Lord Orville. I felt ſo confuſed!—but he did not ſee me. After tea, Mrs. Mirvan being tired, Maria and I walked round the room alone. Then again we ſaw him, ſtanding by the orcheſtra. We, too, ſtopt to hear a ſinger. He bowed to me; I courtſied, and I am ſure I coloured. We ſoon [40] walked on, not liking our ſituation; however, he did not follow us, and when we paſt by the orcheſtra again, he was gone. Afterwards, in the courſe of the evening, we met him ſeveral times, but he was always with ſome party, and never ſpoke to us, tho' whenever he chanced to meet my eyes, he condeſcended to bow.
I cannot but be hurt at the opinion he enter⯑tains of me. It is true, my own behaviour in⯑curred it—yet is himſelf the moſt agreeable, and, ſeemingly, the moſt amiable man in the world, and therefore it is, that I am grieved to be thought ill of by him: for of whoſe eſteem ought we to be ambitious, if not of thoſe who moſt merit our own?—But it is too late to reflect upon this now. Well, I can't help it;—How⯑ever, I think I have done with aſſemblies!
This morning was deſtined for ſeeing ſights, auc⯑tions, curious ſhops, and ſo forth; but my head ached, and I was not in a humour to be amuſed, and ſo I made them go without me, though very unwillingly. They are all kindneſs.
And now I am ſorry I did not accompany them, for I know not what to do with myſelf. I had re⯑ſolved not to go to the play to-night; but I believe I ſhall. In ſhort, I hardly care whether I do or not.
I thought I had done wrong! Mrs. Mirvan and Maria have been half the town over, and ſo en⯑tertained!—while I, like a fool, ſtayed at home to do nothing. And, at an auction in Pall-Mall, who ſhould they meet but Lord Orville! He ſat next to Mrs Mirvan, and they talked a great deal [41] together: but ſhe gave me no account of the con⯑verſation.
I may never have ſuch another opportunity of ſeeing London; I am quite ſorry that I was not of the party; but I deſerve this mortification, for having indulged my ill-humour.
We are juſt returned from the play, which was King Lear, and has made me very ſad. We did not ſee any body we knew.
Well, adieu, it is too late to write more.
Captain Mirvan is arrived. I have not ſpirits to give an account of his introduction, for he has really ſhocked me. I do not like him. He ſeems to be ſurly, vulgar, and diſagreeable.
Almoſt the ſame moment that Maria was pre⯑ſented to him, he began ſome rude jeſts upon the bad ſhape of her noſe, and called her a tall, ill⯑formed thing. She bore it with the utmoſt good⯑humour; but that kind and ſweet-tempered wo⯑man, Mrs. Mirvan, deſerved a better lot. I am amazed ſhe would marry him.
For my own part, I have been ſo ſhy, that I have hardly ſpoken to him, or he to me. I can⯑not imagine why the family was ſo rejoiced at his return. If he had ſpent his whole life abroad, I ſhould have ſuppoſed they might rather have been thankful than ſorrowful. However, I hope they do not think ſo ill of him as I do. At leaſt, I am ſure they have too much prudence to make it known.
We have been to the opera, and I am ſtill more pleaſed than I was on Tueſday. I could have thought myſelf in paradiſe, but for the continual talking of the company around me. We ſat in the pit, where every body was dreſſed in ſo high a ſtyle, that, if I had been leſs delighted with the performance, my eyes would have found me ſuffi⯑cient entertainment from looking at the ladies.
I was very glad I did not ſit next the Captain, for he could not bear the muſic, or ſingers, and was extremely groſs in his obſervations on both. When the opera was over, we went into a place called the coffee-room, where ladies as well as gentlemen aſſemble. There are all ſorts of re⯑freſhments, and the company walk about, and chat, with the ſame eaſe and freedom as in a pri⯑vate room.
On Monday we go to a ridotto, and on Wed⯑neſday we return to Howard Grove. The Captain ſays he won't ſtay here to be ſmoked with filth any longer; but, having been ſeven years ſmoked with a burning ſun, he will retire to the country, and ſink into a fair-weather chap.
Adieu, my dear Sir.
LETTER XIII.
Evelina in continuation.
[43]WE came home from the ridotto ſo late, or ra⯑ther, ſo early, that it was not poſſible for me to write. Indeed we did not go, you will be fright⯑ened to hear it,—till paſt eleven o'clock: but nobody does. A terrible reverſe of the order of nature! We ſleep with the ſun, and wake with the moon.
The room was very magnificent, the lights and decorations brilliant, and the company gay and ſplendid. But I ſhould have told you, that I made very many objections to being of the party, according to the reſolution I had formed. How⯑ever, Maria laughed me out of my ſcruples, and ſo, once again—I went to an aſſembly.
Miſs Mirvan danced a minuet, but I had not the courage to follow her example. In our walks I ſaw Lord Orville. He was quite alone, but did not obſerve us. Yet, as he ſeemed of no party, I thought it was not impoſſible that he might join us; and tho' I did not wiſh much to dance at all,—yet, as I was more acquainted with him than with any other perſon in the room, I muſt own I could not help thinking it would be infinitely more deſireable to dance again with him, than with an entire ſtranger. To be ſure, after all that had paſſed, it was very ridiculous to ſuppoſe it even probable, that Lord Orville would again honour [44] me with his choice; yet I am compelled to con⯑feſs my abſurdity, by way of explaining what fol⯑lows.
Miſs Mirvan was ſoon engaged; and, preſently after, a very faſhionable, gay-looking man, who ſeemed about 30 years of age, addreſſed himſelf to me, and begged to have the honour of dancing with me. Now Maria's partner was a gentleman of Mrs. Mirvan's acquaintance; for ſhe had told us it was highly improper for young women to dance with ſtrangers, at any public aſſembly. In⯑deed it was by no means my wiſh ſo to do; yet I did not like to confine myſelf from dancing at all; neither did I dare refuſe this gentleman, as I had done Mr. Lovel, and then, if any acquaint⯑ance ſhould offer, accept him: and ſo, all theſe reaſons combining, induced me to tell him—yet I bluſh to write it to you!—that I was already en⯑gaged; by which I meant to keep myſelf at liberty to dance or not, as matters ſhould fall out.
I ſuppoſe my conſciouſneſs betrayed my artifice, for he looked at me as if incredulous; and, inſtead of being ſatisfied with my anſwer, and leaving me, according to my expectation, he walked at my ſide, and, with the greateſt eaſe imaginable, began a converſation, in that free ſtyle which only belongs to old and intimate acquaintance. But, what was moſt provoking, he aſked me a thouſand queſtions concerning the partner to whom I was engaged. And, at laſt, he ſaid, ‘"Is it really poſſible that a man whom you have honoured with your accept⯑ance, can fail to be at hand to profit from your goodneſs?"’
I felt extremely fooliſh, and begged Mrs. Mir⯑van to lead to a ſeat, which ſhe very obligingly did. The Captain ſat next her, and, to my great ſur⯑priſe, [45] this gentleman thought proper to follow, and ſeat himſelf next to me.
‘"What an inſenſible!"’ continued he, ‘"why, Madam, you are miſſing the moſt delightful dance in the world! The man muſt be either mad, or a fool.—Which do you incline to think him your⯑ſelf?"’
‘"Neither, Sir,"’ anſwered I, in ſome confuſion.
He begged my pardon for the freedom of his ſuppoſition, ſaying, ‘"I really was off my guard, from aſtoniſhment that any man can be ſo much and ſo unaccountably his own enemy. But where, Madam, can he poſſibly be?—has he left the room?—or has not he been in it?"’
‘"Indeed, Sir,"’ ſaid I peeviſhly, ‘"I know no⯑thing of him."’
‘"I don't wonder that you are diſconcerted, Madam, it is really very provoking. The beſt part of the evening will be abſolutely loſt. He deſerves not that you ſhould wait for him."’
‘"I do not, Sir,"’ ſaid I, ‘"and I beg you not to—"’
‘"Mortifying, indeed, Madam,"’ interrupted he, ‘"a lady to wait for a gentleman!—O fie!—care⯑leſs fellow!—what can detain him?—Will you give me leave to ſeek him?"’
‘"If you pleaſe, Sir,"’ anſwered I, quite terri⯑fied leſt Mrs. Mirvan ſhould attend to him, for ſhe looked very much ſurpriſed at ſeeing me enter into converſation with a ſtranger.
‘"With all my heart,"’ cried he; ‘"pray what coat has he on?"’
‘"Indeed I never looked at it."’
‘"Out upon him!"’ cried he; ‘"What! did he addreſs you in a coat not worth looking at?—What a ſhabby dog!"’
[46] How ridiculous! I really could not help laugh⯑ing, which, I fear, encouraged him, for he went on.
‘"Charming creature!—and can you really bear ill uſage with ſo much ſweetneſs?—Can you, like patience on a monument, ſmile in the midſt of diſappointment?—For my part, though I am not the offended perſon, my indignation is ſo great, that I long to kick the fellow round the room!—unleſs, indeed,—(heſitating and looking earneſtly at me,) unleſs, indeed—it is a partner of your own creating?"’
I was dreadfully abaſhed, and could not make any anſwer.
‘"But no!"’ cried he, (again, and with warmth,) ‘"it cannot be that you are ſo cruel! Softneſs itſelf is painted in your eyes:—You could not, ſurely, have the barbarity ſo wantonly to trifle with my miſery?"’
I turned away from this nonſenſe, with real diſguſt. Mrs. Mirvan ſaw my confuſion, but was perplexed what to think of it, and I could not ex⯑plain to her the cauſe, leſt the captain ſhould hear me. I therefore propoſed to walk, ſhe conſented, and we all roſe; but, would you believe it? this man had the aſſurance to riſe too, and walk cloſe by my ſide, as if of my party!
‘"Now,"’ cried he, ‘"I hope we ſhall ſee this ingrate.—Is that he?"—’pointing to an old man, who was lame, ‘"or that?"’ And in this manner he aſked me of whoever was old or ugly in the room. I made no ſort of anſwer; and when he found that I was reſolutely ſilent, and walked on, as much as I could, without obſerving him, he ſuddenly ſtamped his foot, and cried out, in a paſ⯑ſion, ‘"Fool! idiot! booby!"’
[47] I turned haſtily toward him: ‘"O Madam,"’ continued he, ‘"forgive my vehemence, but I am diſtracted to think there ſhould exiſt a wretch who can ſlight a bleſſing for which I would forfeit my life!—O! that I could but meet him!—I would ſoon—But I grow angry: pardon me, Madam, my paſſions are violent, and your injuries affect me!"’
I began to apprehend he was a madman, and ſtared at him with the utmoſt aſtoniſhment. ‘"I ſee you are moved, Madam,"’ ſaid he, ‘"generous creature!—but don't be alarmed, I am cool again, I am indeed,—upon my ſoul I am,—I entreat you, moſt lovely of mortals! I entreat you to be eaſy."’
‘"Indeed, Sir,"’ ſaid I very ſeriouſly, ‘"I muſt inſiſt upon your leaving me; you are quite a ſtran⯑ger to me, and I am both unuſed, and averſe to your language and your manners."’
This ſeemed to have ſome effect on him. He made me a low bow, begged my pardon, and vowed he would not for the world offend me.
‘"Then, Sir, you muſt leave me,"’ cried I.
‘"I am gone, Madam, I am gone!"’ with a moſt tragical air; and he marched away, a quick pace, out of ſight in a moment; but before I had time to congratulate myſelf, he was again at my elbow.
‘"And could you really let me go, and not be ſorry?—Can you ſee me ſuffer torments inexpreſ⯑ſible, and yet retain all your favour for that miſ⯑creant who flies you?—Ungrateful puppy!—I could baſtinado him!"’
‘"For Heaven's ſake,"’ my dear, cried Mrs. Mirvan, ‘"who is he talking of?"’
‘"Indeed—I do not know, Madam,"’ ſaid I, ‘"but I wiſh he would leave me."’
‘"What's all that there?"’ cried the Captain.
[48] The man made a low bow, and ſaid, ‘"Only, Sir, a ſlight objection which this young lady makes to dancing with me, and which I am endeavour⯑ing to obviate. I ſhall think myſelf greatly ho⯑noured, if you will intercede for me."’
‘"That lady, Sir,’ ſaid the Captain coldly, ‘"is her own miſtreſs."’ And he walked ſullenly on.
‘"You Madam,"’ ſaid the man, (who looked de⯑lighted, to Mrs. Mirvan,) ‘"you, I hope, will have the goodneſs to ſpeak for me."’
‘"Sir,"’ anſwered ſhe gravely, ‘"I have not the pleaſure of being acquainted with you."’
‘"I hope when you have, Ma'am,"’ cried he, (undaunted,) ‘"you will honour me with your ap⯑probation; but while I am yet unknown to you, it would be truly generous in you to countenance me; and, I flatter myſelf, Madam, that you will not have cauſe to repent it."’
Mrs. Mirvan, with an embarraſſed air, replied, ‘"I do not at all mean, Sir, to doubt your being a gentleman,—but,—"’
‘"But what, Madam?—that doubt removed, why a but?"’
‘"Well, Sir,"’ ſaid Mrs. Mirvan, (with a good⯑humoured ſmile,) ‘"I will even treat you with your own plainneſs, and try what effect that will have on you: I muſt therefore tell you, once for all,—"’
‘"O pardon me, Madam!"’ interrupted he eager⯑ly, ‘"you muſt not proceed with thoſe words, once for all; no, if I have been too plain, and though a man, deſerve a rebuke, remember, dear ladies, that if you copy, you ought, in juſtice, to excuſe me."’
We both ſtared at the man's ſtrange behaviour.
‘"Be nobler than your ſex,"’ continued he, turn⯑ing to me, ‘"honour me with one dance, and give [49] up the ingrate who has merited ſo ill your pa⯑tience."’
Mrs. Mirvan looked with aſtoniſhment at us both. ‘"Who does he ſpeak of, my dear?—you never mentioned—.’
‘"O Madam!"’ exclaimed he, ‘"he was not worth mentioning—it is pity he was ever thought of; but let us forget his exiſtence. One dance is all I ſolicit; permit me, madam, the honour of this young lady's hand; it will be a favour I ſhall ever moſt gratefully acknowledge."’
‘"Sir,"’ anſwered ſhe, ‘"favours and ſtrangers have with me no connection."’
‘"If you have hitherto,"’ ſaid he, ‘"confined your benevolence to your intimate friends, ſuffer me to be the firſt for whom your charity is en⯑larged."’
‘"Well, Sir, I know not what to ſay to you,—but—"’
He ſtopt her but with ſo many urgent entreaties, that ſhe at laſt told me, I muſt either go down one dance, or avoid his importunities by returning home. I heſitated which alternative to chuſe; but this impetuous man at length prevailed, and I was obliged to conſent to dance with him.
And thus was my deviation from truth puniſhed; and thus did this man's determined boldneſs con⯑quer.
During the dance, before we were too much engaged in it for converſation, he was extremely provoking about my partner, and tried every means in his power to make me own that I had deceived him; which, though I would not ſo far humble myſelf, was indeed but too obvious.
Lord Orville, I fancy, did not dance at all; he ſeemed to have a large acquaintance, and joined [50] ſeveral different parties: but you will eaſily ſup⯑poſe I was not much pleaſed to ſee him, in a few minutes after I was gone, walk towards the place I had juſt left, and bow to, and join Mrs. Mir⯑van!
How unlucky I thought myſelf, that I had not longer withſtood this ſtranger's importunities! The moment we had gone down the dance, I was haſ⯑tening away from him, but he ſtopt me, and ſaid that I could by no means return to my party, without giving offence, before we had done our duty of walk⯑ing up the dance. As I know nothing at all of theſe rules and cuſtoms, I was obliged to ſubmit to his directions; but I fancy I looked rather uneaſy, for he took notice of my inattention, ſaying, in his free way, ‘"Whence that anxiety?—Why are thoſe lovely eyes perpetually averted?"’
‘"I wiſh you would ſay no more to me, Sir,"’ (cried I peeviſhly) ‘"you have already deſtroyed all my happineſs for this evening."’
‘"Good Heaven; what is it I have done?—How have I merited this ſcorn?"’
‘"You have tormented me to death; you have forced me from my friends, and intruded yourſelf upon me, againſt my will, for a partner."’
‘"Surely, my dear madam, we ought to be better friends, ſince there ſeems to be ſomething of a ſympathy in the frankneſs of our diſpoſitions—And yet, were you not an angel—how do you think I could brook ſuch contempt?"’
‘"If I have offended you, cried I, you have but to leave me—and O how I wiſh you would!"’
‘"My dear creature,"’ (cried he, half laugh⯑ing) ‘"why where could you be educated?"’
‘"Where I moſt ſincerely wiſh I now was!"’
[51] ‘"How conſcious you muſt be, all beautiful that you are, that thoſe charming airs ſerve only to heighten the bloom of your complexion!"’
‘"Your freedom, Sir, where you are more ac⯑quainted, may perhaps be leſs diſagreeable; but to me—"’
‘"You do me juſtice,"’ (cried he, interrupting me) ‘"yes, I do indeed improve upon acquaint⯑ance; you will hereafter be quite charmed with me."’
‘"Hereafter, Sir, I hope I ſhall never—"’
‘"O huſh!—huſh!—have you forgot the ſitu⯑ation in which I found you?—Have you forgot, that when deſerted, I purſued you,—when betrayed, I adored you?—but for me—"’
‘"But for you, Sir, I might, perhaps, have been happy."’
‘"What, then, am I to conclude that, but for me, your partner would have appeared?—poor fellow!—and did my preſence awe him?"’
‘"I wiſh his preſence, Sir, could awe you!’
‘"His preſence!—perhaps then you ſee him?"’
‘"Perhaps, Sir, I do;"’ cried I, quite wearied of his raillery.
‘"Where?—where?—for Heaven's ſake ſhew me the wretch!"’
‘"Wretch, Sir?"’
‘"O, a very ſavage!—a ſneaking, ſhame-faced, deſpicable puppy!"’
I know not what bewitched me,—but my pride was hurt, and my ſpirits were tired, and—in ſhort—I had the ſolly, looking at Lord Orville, to repeat, ‘"Deſpicable, you think?"’
His eyes inſtantly followed mine; ‘"why, is that the gentleman?"’
[52] I made no anſwer; I could not affirm, and I would not deny; for I hoped to be relieved from his teizing, by his miſtake.
The very moment we had done what he called our duty, I eagerly deſired to return to Mrs. Mir⯑van.
‘"To your partner, I preſume, Madam?"’ ſaid he, very gravely.
This quite confounded me; I dreaded leſt this miſchievous man, ignorant of his rank, ſhould ad⯑dreſs himſelf to Lord Orville, and ſay ſomething which might expoſe my artifice. Fool! to involve myſelf in ſuch difficulties! I now feared what I had before wiſhed, and, therefore, to avoid Lord Orville, I was obliged myſelf to propoſe going down another dance, though I was ready to ſink with ſhame while I ſpoke.
‘"But your partner, Ma'am?"’ (ſaid he, af⯑fecting a very ſolemn air) ‘"perhaps he may reſent my detaining you: if you will give me leave to aſk his conſent—"’
‘"Not for the univerſe."’
‘"Who is he, Madam?"’
I wiſhed myſelf a hundred miles off. He re⯑peated his queſtion. ‘"What is his name?"’
‘"Nothing—nobody—I don't know.—"’
He aſſumed a moſt important ſolemnity; ‘"How!—not know? Give me leave, my dear Madam, to recommend this caution to you; never dance in public with a ſtranger,—with one whoſe name you are unacquainted with,—who may be a mere adventurer,—a man of no character,—con⯑ſider to what impertinence you may expoſe your⯑ſelf."’
Was ever any thing ſo ridiculous? I could not help laughing, in ſpite of my vexation.
[53] At this inſtant, Mrs. Mirvan, followed by Lord Orville, walked up to us. You will eaſily believe it was not difficult for me to recover my gravity; but what was my conſternation, when this ſtrange man, deſtined to be the ſcourge of my artifice, exclaimed, ‘"Ha! my Lord Orville!—I proteſt I did not know your Lordſhip. What can I ſay for my uſurpation [...]—Yet, faith, my Lord, ſuch a prize was not to be neglected."’
My ſhame and confuſion were unſpeakable. Who could have ſuppoſed or foreſeen that this man knew Lord Orville! But falſehood is not more unjuſtifiable than unſafe.
Lord Orville—well he might,—looked all amazement.
‘"The philoſophic coldneſs of your Lordſhip,"’ continued this odious creature, ‘"every man is not endowed with. I have uſed my utmoſt endeavours to entertain this lady, though I fear without ſuc⯑ceſs; and your Lordſhip would not be a little flat⯑tered, if acquainted with the difficulty which at⯑tended my procuring the honour of only one dance."’ Then, turning to me, who was ſinking with ſhame, while Lord Orville ſtood motionleſs, and Mrs. Mirvan aſtoniſhed,—he ſuddenly ſeized my hand, ſaying, ‘"Think, my Lord, what muſt be my reluctance to reſign this fair hand to your Lordſhip!"’
In the ſame inſtant, Lord Orville took it of him; I coloured violently, and made an effort to recover it. ‘"You do me too much honour, Sir, cried he,"’ (with an air of gallantry, preſſing it to his lips ere he let it go) ‘"however, I ſhall be happy to profit by it, if this lady,"’ (turning to Mrs. Mirvan) ‘"will permit me to ſeek for her party."’
[54] To compel him thus to dance, I could not en⯑dure, and eagerly called out, ‘"By no means,—not for the world!—I muſt beg—"’
‘"Will you honour me, Madam, with your commands,"’ cried my tormentor; ‘"may I ſeek the lady's party?’
‘"No, Sir,"’ anſwered I, turning from him.
‘"What ſhall be done, my dear,"’ ſaid Mrs. Mirvan?
‘"Nothing, Ma'am;—any thing, I mean.—"’
‘"But do you dance, or not? you ſee his Lord⯑ſhip waits."’
‘"I hope not,—I beg that—I would not for the world—I am ſure I ought to—to—"’
I could not ſpeak; but that confident man, de⯑termined to diſcover whether or not I had deceived him, ſaid to Lord Orville, who ſtood ſuſpended, ‘"My Lord, this affair, which, at preſent, ſeems perplexed, I will briefly explain;—this Lady pro⯑poſed to me another dance,—nothing could have made me more happy—I only wiſhed for your Lordſhip's permiſſion, which, if now granted, will, I am perſuaded, ſet every thing right."’
I glowed with indignation. ‘"No, Sir—It is your abſence, and that alone, can ſet every thing right."’
‘"For Heaven's ſake, my dear,"’ (cried Mrs. Mirvan, who could no longer contain her ſur⯑priſe,) ‘"what does all this mean?—were you pre-engaged?—had Lord Orville?—"’
‘"No, Madam, cried I,—only,—only I did not know that gentleman,—and ſo,—and ſo I thought—I intended—I—"’
Overpowered by all that had paſſed, I had not ſtrength to make my mortifying explanation;—my ſpirits quite ſailed me, and I burſt into tears.
[55] They all ſeemed ſhocked and amazed.
‘"What is the matter, my deareſt love?"’ cried Mrs. Mirvan, with the kindeſt concern.
‘"What have I done?"’ exclaimed my evil ge⯑nius, and ran officiouſly for a glaſs of water.
However, a hint was ſufficient for Lord Orville, who comprehended all I would have explained. He immediately led me to a ſeat, and ſaid, in a low voice, ‘"Be not diſtreſſed, I beſeech you; I ſhall ever think my name honoured by your making uſe of it."’
This politeneſs relieved me. A general mur⯑mur had alarmed Miſs Mirvan, who flew inſtantly to me; while Lord Orville, the moment Mrs. Mirvan had taken the water, led my tormentor away.
‘"For Heaven's ſake, dear Madam,"’ cried I, ‘"let me go home,—indeed I cannot ſtay here any longer."’
‘"Let us all go,"’ cried my kind Maria.
‘"But the Captain—what will he ſay?—I had better go home in a chair."’
Mrs. Mirvan conſented, and I roſe to depart. Lord Orville and that man both came to me. The firſt, with an attention I had but ill merited from him, led me to a chair,, while the other followed, peſtering me with apologies. I wiſhed to have made mine to Lord Orville, but was too much aſhamed.
It was about one o'clock. Mrs. Mirvan's ſer⯑vants ſaw me home.
And now,—what again ſhall ever tempt me to an aſſembly? I dread to hear what you will think of me, my moſt dear and honoured Sir: you will need your utmoſt partiality to receive me without diſpleaſure.
[56] This morning Lord Orville has ſent to enquire after our healths: and Sir Clement Willoughby, for that, I find, is the name of my perſecutor, has called: but I would not go down ſtairs till he was gone.
And now, my dear Sir, I can ſomewhat account for the ſtrange, provoking, and ridiculous conduct of this Sir Clement laſt night; for Miſs Mirvan ſays, he is the very man with whom ſhe heard Lord Orville converſing at Mrs. Stanley's, when I was ſpoken of in ſo mortifying a manner. He was pleaſed to ſay he was glad to hear I was a fool, and therefore, I ſuppoſe, he concluded he might talk as much nonſenſe as he pleaſed to me: however, I am very indifferent as to his opinion;—but for Lord Orville,—if then he thought me an idiot, now, I am ſure, he muſt believe me both bold and preſuming. Make uſe of his name!—what impertinence!—he can never know how it hap⯑pened,—he can only imagine it was from an ex⯑ceſs of vanity:—well, however, I ſhall leave this bad city to-morrow, and never again will I enter it!
The Captain intends to take us to-night to the Fantocini. I cannot bear that Captain; I can give you no idea how groſs he is. I heartily rejoice that he was not preſent at the diſagreeable con⯑cluſion of yeſterday's adventure, for I am ſure he would have contributed to my confuſion; which might perhaps have diverted him, as he ſeldom or never ſmiles but at ſome other perſon's ex⯑pence.
And here I conclude my London letters;—and without any regret, for I am too inexperienced and ignorant to conduct myſelf with propriety in [57] this town, where every thing is new to me, and many things are unaccountable and perplexing.
Adieu, my dear Sir; Heaven reſtore me ſafely to you! I wiſh I was to go immediately to Berry Hill; yet the wiſh is ungrateful to Mrs. Mirvan, and therefore I will repreſs it. I ſhall write an account of the Fantocini from Howard Grove. We have not been to half the public places that are now open, though I dare ſay you will think we have been to all. But they are almoſt as in⯑numerable as the perſons who fill them.
LETTER XIV.
Evelina in continuation.
HOW much will you be ſurpriſed, my dear⯑eſt Sir, at receiving another letter from London of your Evelina's writing! But, believe me, it was not my fault, neither is it my happineſs, that I am ſtill here: our journey has been poſtponed by an accident equally unexpected and diſagree⯑able.
We went laſt night to ſee the Fantocini, where we had infinite entertainment from the perform⯑ance of a little comedy, in French and Italian, by puppets, ſo admirably managed, that they both aſtoniſhed and diverted us all, except the Captain, who has a fixed and moſt prejudiced hatred of whatever is not Engliſh.
When it was over, while we waited for the coach, a tall elderly woman bruſhed quickly paſt us, calling out, ‘"My God! what ſhall I do?"’
[58] ‘"Why what would you do,"’ cried the Captain.
‘"Ma foi, Monſieur,"’ anſwered ſhe, ‘"I have loſt my company, and in this place I don't know nobody."’
There was ſomething foreign in her accent, though it was difficult to diſcover whether ſhe was an Engliſh or a French woman. She was very well dreſſed, and ſeemed ſo entirely at a loſs what to do, that Mrs. Mirvan propoſed to the Captain to aſſiſt her.
‘"Aſſiſt her!"’ cried he, ‘"ay, with all my heart;—let a link-boy call her a coach."’
There was not one to be had, and it rained very faſt.
‘"Mon Dieu,"’ exclaimed the ſtranger, ‘"what ſhall become of me? Je ſuis au déſeſpoir!"’
‘"Dear Sir,"’ cried Miſs Mirvan, ‘"pray let us take the poor lady into our coach. She is quite alone, and a foreigner—."’
‘"She's never the better for that,"’ anſwered he: ‘"ſhe may be a woman of the town, for any thing you know."’
‘"She does not appear ſuch,"’ ſaid Mrs. Mirvan, ‘"and indeed ſhe ſeems ſo much diſtreſſed, that we ſhall but follow the golden rule, if we carry her to her lodgings."’
‘"You are mighty fond of new acquaintance,"’ returned he, ‘"but firſt let us know if ſhe be going our way."’
Upon enquiry, we found that ſhe lived in Ox⯑ford Road, and, after ſome diſputing, the Captain, ſurlily, and with a very bad grace, conſented to admit her into his coach; though he ſoon con⯑vinced us, that he was determined ſhe ſhould not be too much obliged to him, for he ſeemed ab⯑ſolutely bent upon quarrelling with her: for which [59] ſtrange inhoſpitality, I can aſſign no other reaſon, than that ſhe appeared to be a foreigner.
The converſation began, by her telling us, that ſhe had been in England only two days; that the gentlemen belonging to her were Pariſians, and had left her, to ſee for a hackney-coach, as her own carriage was abroad; and that ſhe had waited for them till ſhe was quite frightened, and con⯑cluded that they had loſt themſelves.
‘"And pray,"’ ſaid the Captain, ‘"why did you go to a public place without an Engliſhman?"’
‘"Ma foi, Sir,"’ anſwered ſhe, ‘"becauſe none of my acquaintance is in town."’
‘"Why then,"’ ſaid he, ‘"I'll tell you what; your beſt way is to go out of it yourſelf."’
‘"Pardie, Monſieur,"’ returned ſhe, ‘"and ſo I ſhall; for, I promiſe you, I think the Engliſh a parcel of brutes; and I'll go back to France as faſt as I can, for I would not live among none of you."’
‘"Who wants you?"’ cried the Captain; ‘"do you ſuppoſe, Madam French, we have not enough of other nations to pick our pockets already? I'll warrant you, there's no need of you for to put in your oar."’
‘"Pick your pockets, Sir! I wiſh nobody wanted to pick your pockets no more than I do; and I'll promiſe you, you'd be ſafe enough. But there's no nation under the ſun can beat the Engliſh for ill-politeneſs: for my part, I hate the very ſight of them, and ſo I ſhall only juſt viſit a perſon of quality or two, of my particular acquaintance, and then I ſhall go back again to France."’
‘"Ay, do,"’ cried he, ‘"and then go to the devil together, for that's the fitteſt voyage for the French and the quality."’
[60] ‘"We'll take care, however,"’ cried the ſtranger, with great vehemence, ‘"not to admit none of your vulgar, unmannered Engliſh among us."’
‘"O never fear,"’ (returned he coolly) ‘"we ſhan't diſpute the point with you; you and the quality may have the devil all to yourſelves."’
Deſirous of changing the ſubject of a conver⯑ſation which now became very alarming, Miſs Mirvan called out, ‘"Lord, how ſlow the man drives!"’
‘"Never mind, Moll,"’ ſaid her father, ‘"I'll warrant you he'll drive faſt enough to-morrow, when you're going to Howard Grove."’
‘"To Howard Grove!"’ exclaimed the ſtranger; ‘"why, mon Dieu, do you know Lady Howard?"’
‘"Why, what if we do?"’ anſwered he, ‘"that's nothing to you; ſhe's none of your quality, I'll promiſe you."’
‘"Who told you that?’ cried ſhe, ‘"you don't know nothing about the matter; beſides, you're the ill-bredeſt perſon ever I ſee; and as to your knowing Lady Howard, I don't believe no ſuch a thing; unleſs, indeed, you are her ſteward."’
The Captain, ſwearing terribly, ſaid, with great fury, ‘"you would much ſooner be taken for her waſh-woman."’
‘"Her waſh-woman, indeed!—Ha, ha, ha!—why you han't no eyes; did you ever ſee a waſh⯑woman in ſuch a gown as this?—beſides, I'm no ſuch mean perſon, for I'm as good as Lady Howard, and as rich too; and beſides, I'm now come to England to viſit her."’
‘"You may ſpare yourſelf that there trouble,"’ ſaid the Captain, ‘"ſhe has paupers enough about her already."’
[61] ‘"Paupers, Mr.!—no more a pauper than yourſelf, nor ſo much neither;—but you're a low, dirty fellow, and I ſhan't ſtoop to take no more notice of you."’
‘"Dirty fellow!"’ (exclaimed the Captain, ſeiz⯑ing both her wriſts) ‘"hark you, Mrs. Frog, you'd beſt hold your tongue, for I muſt make bold to tell you, if you don't, that I ſhall make no ceremony of tripping you out of the window; and there you may lie in the mud till ſome of your Monſieurs come to help you out of it."’
Their encreaſing paſſion quite terrified us; and Mrs. Mirvan was beginning to remonſtrate with the Captain, when we were all ſilenced by what follows.
‘"Let me go, villain that you are, let me go, or I'll promiſe you I'll get you put to priſon for this uſage; I'm no common perſon, I aſſure you, and, ma foi, I'll go to Juſtice Fielding about you; for I'm a perſon of faſhion, and I'll make you know it, or my name i' n't Duval."’
I heard no more: amazed, frightened, and un⯑ſpeakably ſhocked, an involuntary exclamation of Gracious Heaven! eſcaped me, and more dead than alive, I ſunk into Mrs. Mirvan's arms. But let me draw a veil over a ſcene too cruel for a heart ſo compaſſionately tender as yours; it is ſufficient that you know this ſuppoſed foreigner proved to be Madame Duval,—the grandmother of your Evelina.
O, Sir, to diſcover ſo near a relation in a woman who had thus introduced herſelf!—what would become of me, were it not for you, my protector, my friend, and my refuge?
My extreme concern, and Mrs. Mirvan's ſur⯑priſe, immediately betrayed me. But I will not [62] ſhock you with the manner of her acknowledging me, or the bitterneſs, the groſſneſs—I cannot other⯑wiſe expreſs myſelf,—with which ſhe ſpoke of thoſe unhappy paſt tranſactions you have ſo pa⯑thetically related to me. All the miſery of a much⯑injured parent, dear, though never ſeen, regretted though never known, crowded ſo forcibly upon my memory, that they rendered this interview—one only excepted—the moſt afflicting I can ever know.
When we ſtopt at her lodgings, ſhe deſired me to accompany her into the houſe, and ſaid ſhe could eaſily procure a room for me to ſleep in. Alarmed and trembling, I turned to Mrs. Mirvan. ‘"My daughter, Madam,’ ſaid that ſweet woman," ‘cannot ſo abruptly part with her young friend; you muſt allow a little time to wean them from each other."’
‘"Pardon me, Ma'am,"’ anſwered Madame Du⯑val, (who, from the time of her being known ſome⯑what ſoftened her manners) ‘"Miſs can't poſſibly be ſo nearly connected to this child as I am."’
‘"No matter for that,"’ cried the Captain, (who eſpouſed my cauſe to ſatisfy his own pique, though an awkward apology had paſſed between them) ‘"ſhe was ſent to us, and ſo, d'ye ſee, we don't chuſe for to part with her."’
I promiſed to wait upon her at what time ſhe pleaſed the next day, and, after a ſhort debate, ſhe deſired me to breakfaſt with her, and we pro⯑ceeded to Queen-Ann-Street.
What an unfortunate adventure! I could not cloſe my eyes the whole night. A thouſand times I wiſhed I had never left Berry Hill; however, my return thither ſhall be accelerated to the utmoſt of my power; and once more in that abode of tran⯑quil [63] happineſs, I will ſuffer no temptation to al⯑lure me elſewhere.
Mrs. Mirvan was ſo kind as to accompany me to Madame Duval's houſe this morning. The Captain, too, offered his ſervice, which I de⯑clined, from a fear ſhe ſhould ſuppoſe I meant to inſult her.
She frowned moſt terribly upon Mrs. Mirvan, but ſhe received me with as much tenderneſs as I believe ſhe is capable of feeling. Indeed, our meeting ſeems really to have affected her; for when, overcome by the variety of emotions which the ſight of her occaſioned, I almoſt fainted in her arms, ſhe burſt into tears, and ſaid, ‘"Let me not loſe my poor daughter a ſecond time!"’ This unexpected humanity ſoftened me extremely; but ſhe very ſoon excited my warmeſt indignation, by the ungrateful mention ſhe made of the beſt of men, my dear, and moſt generous benefactor. However, grief and anger mutually gave way to terror, upon her avowing the intention of her vi⯑ſiting England was to make me return with her to France. This, ſhe ſaid, was a plan ſhe had form⯑ed from the inſtant ſhe had heard of my birth, which, ſhe proteſted, did not reach her ears till I muſt have been twelve years of age; but Mon⯑ſieur Duval, who, ſhe declared, was the worſt huſband in the world, would not permit her to do any thing ſhe wiſhed: he had been dead but three months, which had been employed in ar⯑ranging certain affairs, that were no ſooner ſettled, than ſhe ſet off for England. She was already out of mourning, for ſhe ſaid nobody here could tell how long ſhe had been a widow.
She muſt have been married very early in life; what her age is, I do not know, but ſhe really [64] looks to be leſs than fifty. She dreſſes very gaily, paints very high, and the traces of former beauty are ſtill very viſible in her face.
I know not, when, or how, this viſit would have ended, had not the Captain called for Mrs. Mir⯑van, and abſolutely inſiſted upon my attending her. He is become, very ſuddenly, ſo warmly my friend, that I quite dread his officiouſneſs. Mrs. Mirvan, however, whoſe principal ſtudy ſeems to be healing thoſe wounds which her huſband inflicts, appeaſed Madame Duval's wrath, by a very polite invita⯑tion to drink tea and ſpend the evening here. Not without great difficulty was the Captain prevailed upon to defer his journey ſome time longer; but what could be done? it would have been indecent for me to have quitted the town the very inſtant I diſcovered that Madame Duval was in it; and to have ſtayed here ſolely under her protection—Mrs. Mirvan, thank Heaven, was too kind for ſuch a thought. That ſhe ſhould follow us to Howard Grove, I almoſt equally dreaded; it is, therefore, determined that we remain in London for ſome days, or a week: though the Captain has de⯑clared that the old French hag, as he is pleaſed to call her, ſhall fare never the better for it.
My only hope, is to get ſafe to Berry Hill; where, counſelled and ſheltered by you, I ſhall have nothing more to fear. Adieu, my ever dear and moſt honoured Sir! I ſhall have no happineſs till I am again with you!
LETTER XV.
Mr. Villars to Evelina.
[65]IN the belief and hope that my Evelina would ere now have bid adieu to London, I had intended to have deferred writing, till I heard of her return to Howard Grove; but the letter I have this moment received, with intelligence of Madame Duval's ar⯑rival in England, demands an immediate anſwer.
Her journey hither equally grieves and alarms me: how much did I pity my child, when I read of a diſcovery at once ſo unexpected and unwiſhed! I have long dreaded this meeting and its conſe⯑quence; to claim you, ſeems naturally to follow acknowledging you: I am well acquainted with her diſpoſition, and have for many years foreſeen the conteſt which now threatens us.
Cruel as are the circumſtances of this affair, you muſt not, my love, ſuffer it to depreſs your ſpirits; remember, that while life is lent me, I will devote it to your ſervice; and, for future time, I will make ſuch proviſion as ſhall ſeem to me moſt conducive to your future happineſs. Se⯑cure of my protection, and relying on my tender⯑neſs, let no apprehenſions of Madame Duval diſ⯑turb your peace; conduct yourſelf towards her with all the reſpect and deference due to ſo near a relation, remembering always, that the failure of duty on her part, can by no means juſtify any ne⯑glect on yours: indeed, the more forcibly you are ſtruck with improprieties and miſconduct in ano⯑ther, [66] the greater ſhould be your obſervance and diligence to avoid even the ſhadow of ſimilar er⯑rors. Be careful, therefore, that no remiſſneſs of attention, no indifference of obliging, make known to her the independence I aſſure you of; but when ſhe fixes the time for her leaving England, truſt to me the taſk of refuſing your attending her: diſa⯑greeable to myſelf I own it will be, yet to you, it would be improper, if not impoſſible.
In regard to her opinion of me, I am more ſorry than ſurpriſed at her determined blindneſs; the palliation, which ſhe feels the want of, for her own conduct, leads her to ſeek for failings in all who were concerned in thoſe unhappy tranſactions which ſhe has ſo much reaſon to lament. And this, as it is the cauſe, ſo we muſt, in ſome mea⯑ſure, conſider it as the excuſe of her inveteracy.
How grateful to me are your wiſhes to return to Berry Hill! your lengthened ſtay in London, and the diſſipation in which I find you are involved, fill me with uneaſineſs: I mean not, however, that I would have you ſequeſter yourſelf from the party to which you belong, ſince Mrs. Mirvan might thence infer a reproof which your youth and her kindneſs would render inexcuſable. I will not, therefore, enlarge upon this ſubject, but content myſelf with telling you, that I ſhall heartily re⯑joice when I hear of your ſafe arrival at How⯑ard Grove, for which place I hope you will be preparing at the time you receive this letter.
I cannot too much thank you, my beſt Evelina, for the minuteneſs of your communications; con⯑tinue to me this indulgence, for I ſhould be mi⯑ſerable if in ignorance of your proceedings.
How new to you is the ſcene of life in which you are now engaged,—balls—plays—operas—ri⯑dottos [67] —Ah, my child! at your return hither, how will you bear the change? My heart trembles for your future tranquillity.—Yet I will hope every thing from the unſullied whiteneſs of your ſoul, and the native livelineſs of your diſpoſition.
I am ſure I need not ſay, how much more I was pleaſed with the miſtakes of your inexperience at the private ball, than with the attempted adoption of more faſhionable manners at the ridotto. But your confuſion and mortifications were ſuch as to entirely ſilence all reproofs on my part.
I hope you will ſee no more of Sir Clement Wil⯑loughby, whoſe converſation and boldneſs are ex⯑tremely diſguſtful to me. I was gratified by the good-nature of Lord Orville, upon your making uſe of his name, but I hope you will never again put it to ſuch a trial.
Heaven bleſs thee, my dear child, and grant that neither misfortune nor vice may ever rob thee of that gaiety of heart which, reſulting from in⯑nocence, while it conſtitutes your own, contributes alſo to the felicity of all who know you!
LETTER XVI.
Evelina to the Rev. Mr. Villars.
BEFORE our dinner was over yeſterday, Ma⯑dame Duval came to tea; though it will leſſen your ſurpriſe, to hear that it was near five o'clock, for we never dine till the day is almoſt over. She was aſked into another room, while the table was [68] cleared, and then was invited to partake of the deſſert.
She was attended by a French gentleman, whom ſhe introduced by the name of Monſieur Du Bois: Mrs. Mirvan received them both with her uſual politeneſs; but the Captain looked very much diſ⯑pleaſed, and, after a ſhort ſilence, very ſternly ſaid to Madame Duval, ‘"Pray who aſked you to bring that there ſpark with you?"’
‘"O,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"I never go no-where with⯑out him."’
Another ſhort ſilence enſued, which was termi⯑nated by the Captain's turning roughly to the fo⯑reigner, and ſaying, ‘"Do you know, Monſieur, that you're the firſt Frenchman I ever let come into my houſe?"’
Monſieur Du Bois made a profound bow. He ſpeaks no Engliſh and underſtands it ſo imperfectly, that he might poſſibly imagine he had received a compliment.
Mrs. Mirvan endeavoured to divert the Cap⯑tain's ill-humour, by ſtarting new ſubjects; but he left to her all the trouble of ſupporting them, and leant back in his chair in gloomy ſilence, ex⯑cept when any opportunity offered of uttering ſome ſarcaſm upon the French. Finding her efforts to render the evening agreeable were fruitleſs, Mrs. Mirvan propoſed a party to Ranelagh. Madame Duval joyfully conſented to it, and the Captain, though he railed againſt the diſſipation of the wo⯑men, did not oppoſe it, and therefore Maria and I ran up ſtairs to dreſs ourſelves.
Before we were ready, word was brought us, that Sir Clement Willoughby was in the draw⯑ing-room. He introduced himſelf under the pre⯑tence of enquiring after all our healths, and entered [69] the room with the eaſy air of an old acquaintance; though Mrs. Mirvan confeſſes that he ſeemed em⯑barraſſed, when he found how coldly he was re⯑ceived, not only by the Captain, but by herſelf.
I was extremely diſconcerted at the thoughts of ſeeing this man again, and did not go down ſtairs till I was called to tea. He was then deeply en⯑gaged in a diſcourſe upon French manners with Madame Duval and the Captain, and the ſubject ſeemed ſo entirely to engroſs him, that he did not, at firſt, obſerve my entrance into the room. Their converſation was ſupported with great vehemence; the Captain roughly maintaining the ſuperiority of the Engliſh in every particular, and Madame Duval warmly refuſing to allow of it in any; while Sir Clement exerted all his powers of argu⯑ment and of ridicule to ſecond and ſtrengthen whatever was advanced by the Captain: for he had the ſagacity to diſcover, that he could take no method ſo effectual for making the maſter of the houſe his friend, as to make Madame Duval his enemy: and indeed, in a very ſhort time, he had reaſon to congratulate himſelf upon his ſucceſs⯑ful diſcernment.
As ſoon as he ſaw me he made a moſt reſpect⯑ful bow, and hoped I had not ſuffered from the fatigue of the ridotto: I made no other anſwer than a ſlight inclination of the head, for I was very much aſhamed of that whole affair. He then returned to the diſputants, where he mana⯑ged the argument ſo ſkilfully, at once provoking Madame Duval and delighting the Captain, that I could not forbear admiring his addreſs, though I condemned his ſubtlety. Mrs. Mirvan, dreading ſuch violent antagoniſts, attempted frequently to change the ſubject; and ſhe might have ſucceeded [70] but for the interpoſition of Sir Clement, who would not ſuffer it to be given up, and ſupported it with ſuch humour and ſatire, that he ſeems to have won the Captain's heart; though their uni⯑ted forces ſo enraged and overpowered Madame Duval, that ſhe really trembled with paſſion.
I was very glad when Mrs. Mirvan ſaid it was time to be gone. Sir Clement aroſe to take leave; but the Captain very cordially invited him to join our party: he had an engagement, he ſaid, but would give it up to have that pleaſure.
Some little confuſion enſued in regard to our manner of ſetting off: Mrs. Mirvan offered Ma⯑dame Duval a place in her coach, and propoſed that we four females ſhould go all together; how⯑ever, this ſhe rejected, declaring ſhe would by no means go ſo far without a gentleman, and won⯑dering ſo polite a lady could make ſo Engliſh a propoſal. Sir Clement Willoughby ſaid his cha⯑riot was waiting at the door, and begged to know if it could be of any uſe. It was, at laſt, deci⯑ded, that a hackney-coach ſhould be called for Monſieur Du Bois and Madame Duval, in which the Captain, and, at his requeſt, Sir Clement, went alſo; Mrs. and Miſs Mirvan and I had a peaceful and comfortable ride by ourſelves.
I don't doubt but they quarrelled all the way; for when we met at Ranelagh, every one ſeemed out of humour: and, though we joined parties, poor Madame Duval was avoided as much as poſ⯑ſible by all but me, and I did not dare quit her for an inſtant: indeed I believe ſhe was reſolved I ſhould not, for ſhe leant upon my arm almoſt all the evening.
The room was ſo very much crowded, that, but for the uncommon aſſiduity of Sir Clement [71] Willoughby, we ſhould not have been able to pro⯑cure a box (which is the name given to the arched receſſes which are appropriated for tea-parties) till half the company had retired. As we were taking poſſeſſion of our places, ſome ladies of Mrs. Mir⯑van's acquaintance ſtopped to ſpeak to her, and perſuaded her to take a round with them. When ſhe returned to us, what was my ſurprize, to ſee that Lord Orville had joined her party! The ladies walked on; Mrs. Mirvan ſeated herſelf, and made a ſlight, though reſpectful invitation to Lord Orville to drink his tea with us, which, to my no ſmall conſternation, he accepted.
I felt a confuſion unſpeakable at again ſeeing him, from the recollection of the ridotto adven⯑ture: nor did my ſituation leſſen it, for I was ſeated between Madame Duval and Sir Clement, who ſeemed as little as myſelf to deſire Lord Orville's preſence. Indeed, the continual wrangling and ill-breeding of Captain Mirvan and Madame Du⯑val, made me bluſh that I belonged to them. And poor Mrs. Mirvan and her amiable daughter had ſtill leſs reaſon to be ſatisfied.
A general ſilence enſued after he was ſeated: his appearance, from different motives, gave a univerſal reſtraint to every body. What his own reaſons were for honouring us with his company, I cannot imagine, unleſs, indeed, he had a curioſity to know whether I ſhould invent any new imperti⯑nence concerning him.
The firſt ſpeech was made by Madame Duval, who ſaid, ‘"It's quite a ſhocking thing to ſee ladies come to ſo genteel a place as Ranelagh with hats on; it has a monſtrous vulgar look: I can't think what they wear them for. There's no ſuch a thing to be ſeen in Paris."’
[72] ‘"Indeed,"’ cried Sir Clement, ‘"I muſt own myſelf no advocate for hats; I am ſorry the la⯑dies ever invented or adopted ſo tantalizing a fa⯑ſhion; for, where there is beauty, they only ſerve to ſhade it, and where there is none, to excite an unavailing curioſity. I fancy they were originally worn by ſome young and whimſical coquet."’
‘"More likely,"’ anſwered the Captain, ‘"they were invented by ſome wrinkled old hag, who'd a mind for to keep the young fellows in chace, let them be never ſo weary."’
‘"I don't know what you may do in England,"’ cried Madame Duval, ‘"but I know in Paris no woman need n't be at ſuch a trouble as that, to be taken very genteel notice of."’
‘"Why, will you pretend for to ſay,"’ returned the Captain, ‘"that they don't diſtinguiſh the old from the young there as well as here?"’
‘"They don't make no diſtinguiſhments at all,"’ ſaid ſhe; ‘"they're vaſtly too polite."’
‘"More fools they!"’ ſaid the Captain ſneer⯑ingly.
‘"Would to Heaven,"’ cried Sir Clement, ‘"that, for our own ſakes, we Engliſhmen too were bleſt with ſo accommodating a blindneſs!"’
‘"Why the devil do you make ſuch a prayer as that?"’ demanded the Captain: ‘"them are the firſt fooliſh words I've heard you ſpeak; but I ſuppoſe you're not much uſed to that ſort of work. Did you ever make a prayer before, ſince you were a ſniveler?"’
‘"Ay, now,"’ cried Madame Duval, ‘"that's another of the unpoliteneſſes of you Engliſh, to go to talking of ſuch things as that: now, in Paris, nobody never ſays nothing about religion, no more than about politics."’
[73] ‘"Why then,"’ anſwered he, ‘"it's a ſign they take no more care of their ſouls, than of their country, and ſo both one and t'other go to old Nick."’
‘"Well, if they do,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"who's the worſe, ſo long as they don't ſay nothing about it? it's the tireſomeſt thing in the world to be always talking of them ſort of things, and nobody that's ever been abroad troubles their heads about them."’
‘"Pray then,"’ cried the Captain, ‘"ſince you know ſo much of the matter, be ſo good as to tell us what they do trouble their heads about?—hay, Sir Clement! ha'n't we a right to know that much?"’
‘"A very comprehenſive queſtion,"’ ſaid Sir Clement, ‘"and I expect much inſtruction from the lady's anſwer."’
‘"Come, Madam,"’ continued the Captain, ‘"never flinch; ſpeak at once; don't ſtop for thinking."’
‘"I aſſure you I am not going,"’ anſwered ſhe; ‘"for as to what they do do, why they've enough to do, I promiſe you, what with one thing or ano⯑ther."’
‘"But what, what do they do, theſe famous Monſieurs?"’ demanded the Captain; ‘"can't you tell us? do they game?—or drink?—or fiddle?—or are they jockies?—or do they ſpend all their time in ſlummering old women?"’
‘"As to that, Sir,—but indeed I ſhan't trouble myſelf to anſwer ſuch a parcel of low queſtions, ſo don't aſk me no more about it."’ And then, to my great vexation, turning to Lord Orville, ſhe ſaid, ‘"Pray, Sir, was you ever in Paris?"’
He only bowed.
‘"And pray, Sir, how did you like it?"’
[74] This comprehenſive queſtion, as Sir Clement would have called it, though it made him ſmile, alſo made him heſitate; however, his anſwer was expreſſive of his approbation.
‘"I thought you would like it, Sir, becauſe you look ſo like a gentleman. As to the Captain, and as to that other gentleman, why they may very well not like what they don't know: for I ſuppoſe, Sir, you was never abroad?"’
‘"Only three years, Ma'am,"’ anſwered Sir Clement, drily.
‘"Well, that's very ſurpriſing! I ſhould never have thought it: however, I dare ſay you only kept company with the Engliſh."’
‘"Why pray, who ſhould he keep company with?"’ cried the Captain: ‘"what, I ſuppoſe you'd have him aſhamed of his own nation, like ſome other people, not a thouſand miles off, on purpoſe to make his own nation aſhamed of him."’
‘"I'm ſure it would be a very good thing if you'd go abroad yourſelf."’
‘"How will you make out that, hay, Madam? come, pleaſe to tell me, where would be the good of that?"’
‘"Where! why a great deal. They'd make quite another perſon of you."’
‘"What, I ſuppoſe you'd have me learn to cut capers?—and dreſs like a monkey?—and palavar in French gibberiſh?—hay, would you?—And powder, and daub, and make myſelf up, like ſome other folks?"’
‘"I would have you learn to be more politer, Sir, and not to talk to ladies in ſuch a rude, old-fa⯑ſhion way as this. You, Sir, as have been in Pa⯑ris"’ (again addreſſing herſelf to Lord Orville) ‘"can tell this Engliſh gentleman how he'd be deſpiſed, [75] if he was to talk in ſuch an ungenteel manner as this, before any foreigners. Why there is n't a hair-dreſſer, nor a ſhoe-maker, nor nobody, that would n't bluſh to be in your company."’
‘"Why look ye, Madam,"’ anſwered the Cap⯑tain, ‘"as to your hair-pinchers and ſhoe-blacks, you may puff off their manners, and welcome; and I am heartily glad you like 'em ſo well; but, as to me, ſince you muſt needs make ſo free of your advice, I muſt e'en tell you, I never kept company with any ſuch gentry."’
‘"Come, ladies and gentlemen,"’ ſaid Mrs. Mirvan, ‘"as many of you as have done tea, I invite to walk with me."’ Maria and I ſtarted up inſtantly; Lord Orville followed; and I queſtion whether we were not half round the room ere the angry diſputants knew that we had left the box.
As the huſband of Mrs. Mirvan had borne ſo large a ſhare in this diſagreeable altercation, Lord Orville forbore to make any comments upon it; ſo that the ſubject was immediately dropt, and the converſation became calmly ſociable, and po⯑litely chearful, and, to every body but me, muſt have been highly agreeable:—but, as to myſelf, I was ſo eagerly deſirous of making ſome apology to Lord Orville for the impertinence of which he muſt have thought me guilty at the ridotto, and yet ſo utterly unable to aſſume ſufficient courage to ſpeak to him concerning an affair in which I had ſo terribly expoſed myſelf, that I hardly ven⯑tured to ſay a word all the time we were walk⯑ing. Beſides, the knowledge of his contemptuous opinion, haunted and diſpirited me, and made me fear he might poſſibly miſconſtrue whatever I ſhould ſay. So that, far from enjoying a conver⯑ſation [76] that might, at any other time, have de⯑lighted me, I continued ſilent, uncomfortable, and aſhamed. O Sir, ſhall I ever again involve myſelf in ſo fooliſh an embarraſſment? I am ſure that if I do, I ſhall deſerve yet greater mortification.
We were not joined by the reſt of the party till we had taken three or four turns round the room, and then, they were ſo quarrelſome, that Mrs. Mirvan complained of being fatigued, and propo⯑ſed going home. No one diſſented. Lord Or⯑ville joined another party, having firſt made an offer of his ſervices, which the gentlemen de⯑clined, and we proceeded to an outward room, where we waited for the carriages. It was ſettled that we ſhould return to town in the ſame man⯑ner we came to Ranelagh, and, accordingly, Mon⯑ſieur Du Bois handed Madame Duval into a hack⯑ney-coach, and was juſt preparing to follow her, when ſhe ſcreamed, and jumpt haſtily out, de⯑claring ſhe was wet through all her clothes. In⯑deed, upon examination, the coach was found to be in a diſmal condition; for the weather proved very bad, and the rain had, though I know not how, made its way into the carriage.
Mrs. and Miſs Mirvan, and myſelf, were al⯑ready diſpoſed of as before; but no ſooner did the Captain hear this account, than, without any ceremony, he was ſo civil as to immediately take poſſeſſion of the vacant ſeat in his own coach, leaving Madame Duval and Monſieur Du Bois to take care of themſelves. As to Sir Clement Wil⯑loughby, his own chariot was in waiting.
I inſtantly begged permiſſion to offer Madame Duval my own place, and made a motion to get out; but Mrs. Mirvan ſtopped me, ſaying that I [77] ſhould then be obliged to return to town with only the foreigner, or Sir Clement.
‘"O never mind the old Beldame,"’ cried the Captain, ‘"ſhe's weather-proof, I'll anſwer for her; and beſides, as we are all, I hope, Engliſh, why ſhe'll meet with no worſe than ſhe expects from us."’
‘"I do not mean to defend her,"’ ſaid Mrs. Mirvan; ‘"but indeed, as ſhe belongs to our par⯑ty, we cannot, with any decency, leave the place, till ſhe is, by ſome means, accommodated."’
‘"Lord, my dear,"’ cried the Captain, whom the diſtreſs of Madame Duval had put into very good humour, ‘"why ſhe'll break her heart, if ſhe meets with any civility from a filthy Engliſhman."’
Mrs. Mirvan, however, prevailed, and we all got out of the coach, to wait till Madame Duval could meet with ſome better carriage. We found her, attended by Monſieur Du Bois, ſtanding amongſt the ſervants, and very buſy in wiping her negligee, and endeavouring to ſave it from being ſtained by the wet, as ſhe ſaid it was a new Lyons ſilk. Sir Clement Willoughby offered her the uſe of his chariot, but ſhe had been too much piqued by his raillery to accept it. We waited ſome time, but in vain, for no hackney-coach could be procured. The Captain, at laſt, was perſuaded to accompany Sir Clement himſelf, and we four females were handed into Mrs. Mirvan's carriage, though not before Madame Duval had inſiſted upon our making room for Monſieur Du Bois, to which the Captain only conſented in pre⯑ference to being incommoded by him in Sir Cle⯑ment's chariot.
Our party drove off firſt. We were ſilent and unſociable; for the difficulties attending this ar⯑rangement [78] had made every one languid and fa⯑tigued. Unſociable, I muſt own, we continued; but very ſhort was the duration of our ſilence, as we had not proceeded thirty yards, ere every voice was heard at once,—for the coach broke down! I ſuppoſe we concluded of courſe, that we were all half killed, by the violent ſhrieks that ſeemed to come from every mouth. The chariot was ſtopped, the ſervants came to our aſſiſtance, and we were all taken out of the carriage, with⯑out having been at all hurt. The night was dark and wet; but I had ſcarce touched the ground, when I was lifted ſuddenly from it, by Sir Clement Willoughby, who begged permiſſion to aſſiſt me, though he did not wait to have it granted, but car⯑ried me in his arms back to Ranelagh.
He enquired very earneſtly if I was not hurt by the accident? I aſſured him I was perfectly ſafe, and free from injury, and deſired he would leave me, and return to the reſt of the party, for I was very uneaſy to know whether they had been equally fortunate. He told me he was happy in being honoured with my commands, and would joyfully execute them; but inſiſted upon firſt con⯑ducting me to a warm room, as I had not wholly eſcaped being wet. He did not regard my objec⯑tions, but made me follow him to an apartment, where we found an excellent fire, and ſome com⯑pany waiting for carriages. I readily accepted a ſeat, and then begged he would go.
And go, indeed, he did; but he returned in a moment, telling me that the rain was more violent than ever, and that he had ſent his ſervants to offer their aſſiſtance, and acquaint the Mirvans of my ſituation. I was very mad that he would not go himſelf; but as my acquaintance with him [79] was ſo very ſlight, I did not think proper to urge him contrary to his inclination.
Well, he drew a chair cloſe to mine, and, after again enquiring how I did, ſaid, in a low voice, ‘"You will pardon me, Miſs Anville, if the eager⯑neſs I feel to vindicate myſelf, induces me to ſnatch this opportunity of making ſincere acknowledg⯑ments for the impertinence with which I torment⯑ed you at the laſt ridotto. I can aſſure you, Madam, I have been a true and ſorrowful peni⯑tent ever ſince; but—ſhall I tell you honeſtly what encouraged me to—"’
He ſtopt; but I ſaid nothing, for I thought inſtantly of the converſation Miſs Mirvan had overheard, and ſuppoſed he was going to tell me himſelf what part Lord Orville had borne in it; and really I did not wiſh to hear it repeated. In⯑deed, the reſt of his ſpeech convinces me that ſuch was his intention; with what view, I know not, except to make a merit of his defending me.
‘"And yet,’ he continued, ‘"my excuſe may only expoſe my own credulity, and want of judg⯑ment and penetration. I will, therefore, merely beſeech your pardon, and hope that ſome future time—"’
Juſt then, the door was opened by Sir Clement's ſervant, and I had the pleaſure of ſeeing the Cap⯑tain, Mrs. and Miſs Mirvan, enter the room.
‘"O ho,"’ cried the former, ‘"you have got a good warm birth here; but we ſhall beat up your quarters. Here, Lucy, Moll, come to the fire, and dry your trumpery. But, hey-day,—why where's old Madam French?"’
‘"Good God,"’ cried I, ‘"is not Madame Duval then with you?’
‘"With me! No,—thank God."’
[80] I was very uneaſy to know what might have become of her, and, if they would have ſuffered me, I ſhould have gone out in ſearch of her my⯑ſelf; but all the ſervants were diſpatched to find her, and the Captain ſaid we might be very ſure her French beau would take care of her.
We waited ſome time without any tidings, and were ſoon the only party in the room. My un⯑eaſineſs encreaſed ſo much, that Sir Clement now made a voluntary offer of ſeeking her. However, the ſame moment that he opened the door with this deſign, ſhe preſented herſelf at it, attended by Monſieur Du Bois.
‘"I was this inſtant, Madam,"’ ſaid he, ‘"coming to ſee for you."’
‘"You are mighty good, truly,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"to come when all the miſchief's over."’
She then entered,—in ſuch a condition!—en⯑tirely covered with mud, and in ſo great a rage, it was with difficulty ſhe could ſpeak. We all expreſſed our concern, and offered our aſſiſtance,—except the Captain; who no ſooner beheld her, than he burſt into a loud laugh.
We endeavoured, by our enquiries and condole⯑ments, to prevent her attending to him; and ſhe was, for ſome time, ſo wholly engroſſed by her anger and her diſtreſs, that we ſucceeded without much trouble. We begged her to inform us how this accident had happened. ‘"How!"’ repeated ſhe,—why ‘"it was all along of your all going away,—and there poor Monſieur Du Bois—but it was n't his fault,—for he's as bad off as me."’
All eyes were then turned to Monſieur Du Bois, whoſe clothes were in the ſame miſerable plight with thoſe of Madame Duval, and who, wet, ſhivering, and diſconſolate, had crept to the fire.
[81] The Captain laughed yet more heartily; while Mrs. Mirvan, aſhamed of his rudeneſs, repeated her enquiries to Madame Duval; who anſwered, ‘"Why, as we were a-coming along, all in the rain, Monſieur Du Bois was ſo obliging, though I'm ſure it was an unlucky obligingneſs for me, as to lift me up in his arms, to carry me over a place that was ancle-deep in mud; but inſtead of my being ever the better for it, juſt as we were in the worſt part,—I'm ſure I wiſh we had been fifty miles off,—for ſomehow or other, his foot ſlipt,—at leaſt, I ſuppoſe ſo,—though I can't think how it happened, for I'm no ſuch great weight,—but, however that was, down we both came toge⯑ther, all in the mud;—and the more we tried to get up, the more deeper we got covered with the naſtineſs,—and my new Lyons negligee, too, quite ſpoilt!—however, it's well we got up at all, for we might have laid there till now, for aught you all cared; for nobody never came near us."’
This recital put the Captain into an extacy; he went from the lady to the gentleman, and from the gentleman to the lady, to enjoy alter⯑nately the ſight of their diſtreſs. He really ſhout⯑ed with pleaſure; and, ſhaking Monſieur Du Bois ſtrenuouſly by the hand, wiſhed him joy of having touched Engliſh ground; and then he held a candle to Madame Duval, that he might have a more complete view of her diſaſter, declaring repeatedly, that he had never been better pleaſed in his life.
The rage of poor Madame Duval was unſpeak⯑able; ſhe daſhed the candle out of his hand, ſtamped upon the floor, and, at laſt, ſpat in his face.
[82] This action ſeemed immediately to calm them both, as the joy of the Captain was converted into reſentment, and the wrath of Madame Duval into fear; for he put his hands upon her ſhoulders, and gave her ſo violent a ſhake, that ſhe ſcreamed out for help; aſſuring her, at the ſame time, that if ſhe had been one ounce leſs old, or leſs ugly, ſhe ſhould have had it all returned on her own face.
Monſieur Du Bois, who had ſeated himſelf very quietly at the fire, approached them, and expoſtulated very warmly with the Captain; but he was neither underſtood nor regarded, and Ma⯑dame Duval was not releaſed, till ſhe quite ſobbed with paſſion.
When they were parted, I entreated her to permit the woman who has the charge of the ladies cloaks to aſſiſt her in drying her clothes; ſhe con⯑ſented, and we did what was poſſible to ſave her from catching cold. We were obliged to wait in this diſagreeable ſituation near an hour, ere a hackney-coach could be found; and then we were diſpoſed in the ſame manner as before our ac⯑cident.
I am going this morning to ſee poor Madame Duval, and to enquire after her health, which I think muſt have ſuffered by her laſt night's mis⯑fortunes; though, indeed, ſhe ſeems to be natu⯑rally ſtrong and hearty.
Adieu, my dear Sir, till to-morrow.
LETTER XVII.
Evelina in continuation.
[83]SIR Clement Willoughby called here yeſter⯑day at noon, and Captain Mirvan invited him to dinner. For my part, I ſpent the day in a manner the moſt uncomfortable imaginable.
I found Madame Duval at breakfaſt in bed, though Monſieur Du Bois was in the chamber; which ſo much aſtoniſhed me, that I was, invo⯑luntarily, retiring, without conſidering how odd an appearance my retreat would have, when Madame Duval called me back, and laughed very heartily at my ignorance of foreign cuſtoms.
The converſation, however, very ſoon took a more ſerious turn; for ſhe began, with great bit⯑terneſs, to inveigh againſt the barbarous brutality of that fellow the Captain, and the horrible ill⯑breeding of the Engliſh in general, declaring ſhe ſhould make her eſcape with all expedition from ſo beaſtly a nation.
She lamented, very mournfully, the fate of her Lyons ſilk, and proteſted ſhe had rather have parted with all the reſt of her wardrobe, becauſe it was the firſt gown ſhe had bought to wear upon leaving off her weeds. She has a very bad cold, and Monſieur Du Bois is ſo hoarſe, he can hardly ſpeak.
She inſiſted upon my ſtaying with her all day, as ſhe intended, ſhe ſaid, to introduce me to ſome of my own relations. I would very fain have [84] excuſed myſelf, but ſhe did not allow me any choice.
Till the arrival of theſe relations, one continu⯑ed ſeries of queſtions on her ſide, and of anſwers on mine, filled up all the time we paſſed together. Her curioſity was inſatiable; ſhe enquired into every action of my life, and every particular that had fallen under my obſervation, in the lives of all I knew. Again, ſhe was ſo cruel as to avow the moſt inveterate rancour againſt the ſole benefactor her deſerted child and grand-child have met with; and ſuch was the indignation her in⯑gratitude raiſed, that I would actually have quitted her preſence and houſe, had ſhe not, in a man⯑ner the moſt peremptory, abſolutely forbid me. But what, good Heaven! can induce her to ſuch ſhocking injuſtice? O my friend and father! I have no command of myſelf when this ſubject is ſtarted.
She talked very much of taking me to Paris, and ſaid I greatly wanted the poliſh of a French education. She lamented that I had been brought up in the country, which, ſhe obſerved, had given me a very bumpkiniſh air. However, ſhe bid me not deſpair, for ſhe had known many girls, much worſe than me, who had become very fine ladies after a few years reſidence abroad; and ſhe parti⯑cularly inſtanced a Miſs Polly Moore, daughter of a chandler's-ſhop woman, who, by an accident not worth relating, happened to be ſent to Paris, where, from an awkward, ill-bred girl, ſhe ſo much improved, that ſhe has ſince been taken for a woman of quality.
The relations to whom ſhe was pleaſed to in⯑troduce me, conſiſted of a Mr. Branghton, who is her nephew, and three of his children, the eldeſt [85] of which is a ſon, and the two younger are daughters.
Mr. Branghton appears about forty years of age. He does not ſeem to want a common un⯑derſtanding, though he is very contracted and pre⯑judiced: he has ſpent his whole time in the city, and I believe feels a great contempt for all who reſide elſewhere.
His ſon ſeems weaker in his underſtanding, and more gay in his temper; but his gaiety is that of a fooliſh, over-grown ſchool-boy, whoſe mirth conſiſts in noiſe and diſturbance. He diſdains his father for his cloſe attention to buſineſs, and love of money, though he ſeems himſelf to have no talents, ſpirit, or generoſity, to make him ſupe⯑rior to either. His chief delight appears to be tormenting and ridiculing his ſiſters, who, in re⯑turn, moſt heartily deſpiſe him.
Miſs Branghton, the eldeſt daughter, is by no means ugly, but looks proud, ill-tempered, and conceited. She hates the city, though without knowing why; for it is eaſy to diſcover ſhe has lived no where elſe.
Miſs Polly Branghton is rather pretty, very fooliſh, very ignorant, very giddy, and, I believe, very good-natured.
The firſt half hour was allotted to making them⯑ſelves comfortable, for they complained of having had a very dirty walk, as they came on foot from Snow Hill, where Mr. Branghton keeps a ſilver⯑ſmith's ſhop; and the young ladies had not only their coats to bruſh, and ſhoes to dry, but to ad⯑juſt their head dreſs, which their bonnets had to⯑tally diſcompoſed.
The manner in which Madame Duval was pleaſed to introduce me to this family, extremely [86] ſhocked me. ‘"Here, my dears,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"here's a relation you little thought of; but you muſt know my poor daughter Caroline had this child after ſhe run away from me,—though I never knew nothing of it, not I, for a long while after; for they took care to keep it a ſecret from me, though the poor child has never a friend in the world beſides."’
‘"Miſs ſeems very tender-hearted, aunt,"’ ſaid Miſs Polly, ‘"and to be ſure ſhe's not to blame for her mama's undutifulneſs, for ſhe could n't help it."’
‘"Lord, no,"’ anſwered ſhe, ‘"and I never took no notice of it to her; for indeed, as to that, my own poor daughter was n't ſo much to blame as you may think, for ſhe'd never have gone aſtray, if it had not been for that meddling old parſon I told you of."’
‘"If aunt pleaſes,"’ ſaid young Mr. Branghton, ‘"we'll talk o' ſomewhat elſe, for Miſs looks very uneaſy-like."’
The next ſubject that was choſen, was the age of the three young Branghtons and myſelf. The ſon is twenty; the daughters upon hearing that I was ſeventeen, ſaid that was juſt the age of Miſs Polly; but their brother, after a long diſpute, proved that ſhe was two years older, to the great anger of both ſiſters, who agreed that he was very ill-natured and ſpiteful.
When this point was ſettled, the queſtion was put, which was talleſt?—We were deſired to mea⯑ſure, as the Branghtons were all of different opi⯑nions. They, none of them, however, diſputed my being the talleſt in the company, but, in re⯑gard to one another, they were extremely quarrel⯑ſome: the brother inſiſted upon their meaſuring [87] fair, and not with heads and heels; but they would by no means conſent to loſe theſe privileges of our ſex, and therefore the young man was caſt, as ſhorteſt; though he appealed to all preſent upon the injuſtice of the decree.
This ceremony over, the young ladies, began, very freely, to examine my dreſs, and to interro⯑gate me concerning it. ‘"This apron's your own work, I ſuppoſe, Miſs? but theſe ſprigs a'n't in faſhion now. Pray, if it is not impertinent, what might you give a yard for this luteſtring?—Do you make your own caps, Miſs?—"’ and many other queſtions equally intereſting and well-bred.
They then aſked me how I liked London? and whether I ſhould not think the country a very dull place, when I returned thither? ‘"Miſs muſt try if ſhe can't get a good huſband,"’ ſaid Mr. Branghton, ‘"and then ſhe may ſtay and live here."’
The next topic was public places, or rather the theatres, for they knew of no other; and the me⯑rits and defects of all the actors and actreſſes were diſcuſſed: the young man here took the lead, and ſeemed to be very converſant on the ſubject. But, during this time, what was my concern, and ſuf⯑fer me to add, my indignation, when I found, by ſome words I occaſionally heard, that Madame Duval was entertaining Mr. Branghton with all the moſt ſecret and cruel particulars of my ſituation! The eldeſt daughter was ſoon drawn to them by the recital; the youngeſt and the ſon ſtill kept their places, intending, I believe, to divert me, though the converſation was all their own.
In a few minutes, Miſs Branghton, coming ſud⯑denly up to her ſiſter, exclaimed, ‘"Lord, Polly, only think! Miſs never ſaw her papa!"’
[88] ‘"Lord, how odd!"’ cried the other; ‘"why then, Miſs, I ſuppoſe you would n't know him?"’
This was quite too much for me; I roſe haſtily, and ran out of the room: but I ſoon regretted I had ſo little command of myſelf, for the two ſiſters both followed, and inſiſted upon comforting me, notwithſtanding my earneſt entreaties to be left alone.
As ſoon as I returned to the company, Madame Duval ſaid, ‘"Why, my dear, what was the matter with you? why did you run away ſo?"’
This queſtion almoſt made me run again, for I knew not how to anſwer it. But is it not very extraordinary, that ſhe can put me in ſituations ſo ſhocking, and then wonder to find me ſenſible of any concern?
Mr. Branghton, junior, now enquired of me, whether I had ſeen the Tower, or St. Paul's church? and, upon anſwering in the negative, they propoſed making a party to ſhew them to me. Among other queſtions, they alſo aſked if I had ever ſeen ſuch a thing as an Opera? I told them I had. ‘"Well,"’ ſaid Mr. Branghton, ‘"I never ſaw one in my life, ſo long as I've lived in London, and I never deſire to ſee one, if I live here as much longer."’
‘"Lord, Papa,"’ cried Miſs Polly, ‘"why not? you might as well for once, for the curioſity of the thing: beſides, Miſs Pomfret ſaw one, and ſhe ſays it was very pretty."’
‘"Miſs will think us very vulgar,"’ ſaid Miſs Branghton, ‘"to live in London, and never have been to an Opera; but it's no fault of mine, I aſ⯑ſure you, Miſs, only Papa don't like to go."’
The reſult was, that a party was propoſed, and agreed to, for ſome early opportunity. I did not dare oppoſe them; but I ſaid that my time, while [89] I remained in town, was at the diſpoſal of Mrs. Mirvan. However, I am ſure I will not attend them, if I can poſſibly avoid ſo doing.
When we parted, Madame Duval deſired to ſee me the next day; and the Branghtons told me, that the firſt time I went towards Snow Hill, they ſhould be very glad if I would call upon them.
I wiſh we may not meet again till that time ar⯑rives.
I am ſure I ſhall not be very ambitious of being known to any more of my relations, if they have any reſemblance to thoſe whoſe acquaintance I have been introduced to already.
LETTER XVIII.
Evelina in continuation.
I Had juſt finiſhed my letter to you this morning, when a violent rapping at the door made me run down ſtairs; and who ſhould I ſee in the draw⯑ing room, but Lord Orville!
He was quite alone, for the family had not aſ⯑ſembled to breakfaſt. He enquired, firſt of mine, then of the health of Mrs. and Miſs Mirvan, with a degree of concern that rather ſurpriſed me, till he ſaid that he had juſt been informed of the accident we had met with at Ranelagh. He expreſſed his ſorrow upon the occaſion with the utmoſt politeneſs, and lamented that he had not been ſo fortunate as to hear of it in time to offer his ſervices. ‘"But, I think,"’ he added, ‘"Sir Clement Willoughby had the honour of aſſiſting you?"’
‘"He was with Captain Mirvan, my Lord."’
‘"I had heard of his being of your party."’
[90] I hope that flighty man has not been telling Lord Orville he only aſſiſted me? however, he did not purſue the ſubject, but ſaid, ‘"This accident, though extremely unfortunate, will not, I hope, be the means of frightening you from gracing Ra⯑nelagh with your preſence in future?"’
‘"Our time, my Lord, for London is almoſt expired already."’
‘"Indeed! do you leave town ſo very ſoon?"’
‘"O yes, my Lord, our ſtay has already exceed⯑ed our intentions."’
‘"Are you, then, ſo particularly partial to the country?"’
‘"We merely came to town, my Lord, to meet Captain Mirvan."’
‘"And does Miſs Anville feel no concern at the idea of the many mourners her abſence will occa⯑ſion?"’
‘"O, my Lord,—I'm ſure you don't think—"’ I ſtopt there, for, indeed, I hardly knew what I was going to ſay. My fooliſh embarraſſment, I ſuppoſe, was the cauſe of what followed;—for he came to me, and took my hand, ſaying, ‘"I do think, that whoever has once ſeen Miſs Anville, muſt re⯑ceive an impreſſion never to be forgotten."’
This compliment,—from Lord Orville,—ſo ſur⯑priſed me, that I could not ſpeak; but felt myſelf change colour, and ſtood, for ſome moments, ſi⯑lent and looking down: however, the inſtant I re⯑collected my ſituation, I withdrew my hand, and told him that I would ſee if Mrs. Mirvan was not dreſſed. He did not oppoſe me, ſo away I went.
I met them all on the ſtairs, and returned with them to breakfaſt.
I have ſince been extremely angry with myſelf for neglecting ſo excellent an opportunity of apo⯑logizing [91] for my behaviour at the Ridotto: but, to own the truth, that affair never once occurred to me during the ſhort tête-à-tête which we had to⯑gether. But, if, ever we ſhould happen to be ſo ſituated again, I will certainly mention it; for I am inexpreſſibly concerned at the thought of his harbouring an opinion that I am bold or imperti⯑nent, and I could almoſt kill myſelf for having given him the ſhadow of a reaſon for ſo ſhocking an idea.
But was it not very odd, that he ſhould make me ſuch a compliment? I expected it not from him;—but gallantry, I believe, is common to all men, whatever other qualities they may have in particular.
Our breakfaſt was the moſt agreeable meal, if it may be called a meal, that we have had ſince we came to town. Indeed, but for Madame Du⯑val I ſhould like London extremely.
The converſation of Lord Orville is really de⯑lightful. His manners are ſo elegant, ſo gentle, ſo unaſſuming, that they at once engage eſteem, and diffuſe complacence. Far from being indolently ſatisfied with his own accompliſhments, as I have already obſerved many men here are, though with⯑out any pretenſions to his merit, he is moſt aſſi⯑duouſly attentive to pleaſe and to ſerve all who are in his company; and, though his ſucceſs is inva⯑riable, he never manifeſts the ſmalleſt degree of conſciouſneſs.
I could wiſh that you, my deareſt Sir, knew Lord Orville, becauſe I am ſure you would love him; and I have felt that wiſh for no other perſon I have ſeen ſince I came to London. I ſometimes imagine, that, when his youth is flown, his viva⯑city abated, and his life is devoted to retirement, he will, perhaps, reſemble him whom I moſt love [92] and honour. His preſent ſweetneſs, politeneſs, and diffidence, ſeem to promiſe in future the ſame be⯑nevolence, dignity, and goodneſs. But I muſt not expatiate upon this ſubject.
When Lord Orville was gone,—and he made but a very ſhort viſit,—I was preparing, moſt re⯑luctantly, to wait upon Madame Duval; but Mrs. Mirvan propoſed to the Captain, that ſhe ſhould be invited to dinner in Queen-Ann-Street, and he readily conſented, for he ſaid he wiſhed to aſk after her Lyons negligee.
The invitation is accepted, and we expect her every moment. But to me, it is very ſtrange, that a woman, who is the uncontrolled miſtreſs of her time, fortune, and actions, ſhould chuſe to ex⯑poſe herſelf voluntarily to the rudeneſs of a man who is openly determined to make her his ſport. But ſhe has very few acquaintance, and, I fancy, ſcarce knows how to employ herſelf.
How great is my obligation to Mrs. Mirvan, for beſtowing her time in a manner ſo diſagree⯑able to herſelf, merely to promote my happineſs! every diſpute in which her undeſerving huſband engages, is productive of pain, and uneaſineſ s to herſelf; of this I am ſo ſenſible, that I even be⯑ſought her not to ſend to Madame Duval, but ſhe declared ſhe could not bear to have me paſs all my time, while in town, with her only. Indeed ſhe is ſo infinitely kind to me, that one would think ſhe was your daughter.
LETTER XIX.
Evelina in continuation.
[93]MADAME Duval was accompanied by Monſieur Du Bois. I am ſurpriſed that ſhe ſhould chuſe to introduce him where he is ſo unwelcome; and, indeed, it is ſtrange that they ſhould be ſo conſtantly together: though I believe I ſhould not have taken notice of it, but that Captain Mirvan is perpetually rallying me upon my grandmama's beau.
They were both received by Mrs. Mirvan with her uſual good-breeding; but the Captain, moſt provokingly, attacked her immediately, ſaying, ‘"Now, Madam, you that have lived abroad, pleaſe to tell me this here; Which did you like beſt, the warm room at Ranelagh, or the cold bath you went into afterwards? though, I aſſure you, you look ſo well that I ſhould adviſe you to take another dip."’
‘"Ma foi, Sir,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"nobody aſked for your advice, ſo you may as well keep it to your⯑ſelf: beſides, it's no great joke to be ſplaſhed, and to catch cold, and ſpoil all one's things, whatever you may think of it."’
‘"Splaſhed, quoth-a!—why I thought you were ſouſed all over.—Come, come, don't mince the matter, never ſpoil a good ſtory; you know you had n't a dry thread about you—'Fore George, I ſhall never think on't without hallooing! ſuch a poor, forlorn, draggle-tailed—gentlewoman! and poor Monſieur French, here, like a drowned rat, by your ſide!"’
[94] ‘"Well, the worſe pickle we was in, ſo much the worſer in you not to help us, for you knowed where we was faſt enough, becauſe, while I laid in the mud, I'm pretty ſure I heard you ſnigger; ſo it's like enough you joſtled us down yourſelf, for Monſieur Du Bois ſays, that he is ſure he had a great jolt given him, or he ſhould n't have fell."’
The Captain laughed ſo immoderately, that he really gave me alſo a ſuſpicion that he was not entirely innocent of the charge: however, he diſ⯑claimed it very peremptorily.
‘"Why then,"’ continued ſhe, ‘"if you did n't do that, why did n't you come to help us?"’
‘"Who, I?—what, do you ſuppoſe I had forgot I was an Engliſhman, a filthy, beaſtly Engliſhman?"’
‘"Very well, Sir, very well; but I was a fool to expect any better, for it's all of a piece with the reſt; you know you wanted to fling me out of the coach-window, the very firſt time ever I ſee you: but I'll never go to Ranelagh with you no more, that I'm reſolved; for I dare ſay, if the horſes had runn'd over me, as I laid in that naſ⯑tineſs, you'd never have ſtirred a ſtep to ſave me?"’
‘"Lord, no, to be ſure, Ma'am, not for the world! I know your opinion of our nation too well, to affront you by ſuppoſing a Frenchman would want my aſſiſtance to protect you. Did you think that Monſieur here, and I, had changed characters, and that he ſhould pop you into the mud, and I help you out of it? Ha, ha, ha!"’
‘"O, very well, Sir, laugh on, it's like your manners; however, if poor Monſieur Du Bois had n't met with that unlucky accident himſelf, I ſhould n't have wanted nobody's help."’
‘"O, I promiſe you, Madam, you'd never have had mine; I knew my diſtance better; [95] and as to your being a little ducked, or ſo, why, to be ſure, Monſieur and you ſettled that be⯑tween yourſelves; ſo it was no buſineſs of mine."’
‘"What, then, I ſuppoſe, you want to make me believe as Monſieur Du Bois ſerved me that trick o' purpoſe?"’
‘"O' purpoſe! ay, certainly, who ever doubt⯑ed that? Do you think a Frenchman ever made a blunder? If he had been ſome clumſy-footed Engliſh fellow, indeed, it might have been acci⯑dental: but what the devil ſignifies all your hop⯑ping and capering with your dancing-maſters, if you can't balance yourſelves upright?"’
In the midſt of this dialogue, Sir Clement Willoughby made his appearance. He affects to enter the houſe with the freedom of an old ac⯑quaintance, and this very eaſineſs, which, to me, is aſtoniſhing, is what moſt particularly recom⯑mends him to the Captain. Indeed, he ſeems very ſucceſsfully to ſtudy all the humours of that gentleman.
After having heartily welcomed him, ‘"You are juſt come in time, my boy,"’ ſaid he, ‘"to ſettle a little matter of a diſpute between this here gentlewoman and I; do you know, ſhe has been trying to perſuade me, that ſhe did not above half like the ducking Monſieur gave her t'other night?"’
‘"I ſhould have hoped,"’ (ſaid Sir Clement, with the utmoſt gravity) ‘"that the friendſhip ſubſiſting between that lady and gentleman, would have guarded them againſt any actions profeſſedly diſagreeable to each other; but, probably, they might not have diſcuſſed the matter previouſly; in which caſe, the gentleman, I muſt own, ſeems to have been guilty of inattention, ſince, in my [96] humble opinion, it was his buſineſs firſt to have enquired whether the lady preferred ſoft, or hard ground, before he dropt her."’
‘"O very fine, Gentlemen, very fine,"’ cried Madame Duval, ‘"you may try to ſet us together by the ears as much as you will; but I'm not ſuch an ignorant perſon as to be made a fool of ſo eaſi⯑ly; ſo you need n't talk no more about it, for I ſees into your deſigns.’
Monſieur Du Bois, who was juſt able to diſco⯑ver the ſubject upon which the converſation turn⯑ed, made his defence, in French, with great ſo⯑lemnity; he hoped, he ſaid, that the company would at leaſt acknowledge, he did not come from a nation of brutes, and conſequently, that to wil⯑fully offend any lady, was, to him, utterly impoſſi⯑ble; but that, on the contrary, in endeavouring, as was his duty, to ſave and guard her, he had himſelf ſuffered, in a manner which he would for⯑bear to relate, but which, he greatly apprehended, he ſhould feel the ill effects of for many months; and then, with a countenance exceedingly length⯑ened, he added, that he hoped it would not be attributed to him as national prejudice, when he owned that he muſt, to the beſt of his memory, aver, that his unfortunate fall was owing to a ſud⯑den, but violent puſh, which, he was ſhocked to ſay, ſome malevolent perſon, with a deſign to his injury, muſt certainly have given him; but whe⯑ther with a view to mortify him, by making him let the lady fall, or whether merely to ſpoil his clothes, he could not pretend to determine.
This diſputation was, at laſt, concluded by Mrs. Mirvan propoſing that we ſhould all go to Cox's Muſeum. Nobody objected, and carriages were immediately ordered.
[97] In our way down ſtairs, Madame Duval in a very paſſionate manner, ſaid, ‘"Ma foi, if I would n't give fifty guineas, only to know who gave us that ſhove!"’
This Muſeum is very aſtoniſhing, and very ſuperb; yet, it afforded me but little pleaſure, for it is a mere ſhow, though a wonderful one.
Sir Clement Willoughby, in our walk round the room, aſked me what my opinion was of this brilliant ſpectacle.
‘"It is very fine and very ingenious,"’ anſwered I, ‘"and yet—I don't know how it is,—but I ſeem to miſs ſomething."’
‘"Excellently anſwered!"’ cried he, ‘"you have exactly defined my own feelings, though in a man⯑ner I ſhould never have arrived at. But I was certain your taſte was too well formed, to be pleaſed at the expence of your underſtanding."’
‘"Pardie,"’ cried Madame Duval, ‘"I hope you two is difficult enough! I'm ſure if you don't like this, you like nothing; for it's the grandeſt, prettieſt, fineſt ſight that ever I ſee, in England."’
‘"What,"’ (cried the Captain, with a ſneer) ‘"I ſuppoſe this may be in your French taſte? it's like enough, for it's all kickſhaw work. But, pry'thee, friend,"’ (turning to the perſon who ex⯑plained the devices) ‘"will you tell me the uſe of all this? for I'm not enough of a conjurer to find it out."’
‘"Uſe, indeed!"’ (repeated Madame Duval diſ⯑dainfully) ‘"Lord, if every thing's to be uſeful!—"’
‘"Why, Sir, as to that, Sir,"’ ſaid our con⯑ductor, ‘"the ingenuity of the mechaniſm,—the beauty of the workmanſhip,—the—undoubt⯑edly, Sir, any perſon of taſte may eaſily diſcern the utility of ſuch extraordinary performances."’
[98] ‘"Why then, Sir,"’ anſwered the Captain, ‘"your perſon of taſte muſt be either a coxcomb, or a Frenchman; though, for the matter of that, 'tis the ſame thing."’
Juſt then, our attention was attracted by a pine⯑apple, which, ſuddenly opening, diſcovered a neſt of birds, who immediately began to ſing. ‘"Well,"’ cried Madame Duval, ‘"this is prettier than all the reſt! I declare, in all my travels, I never ſee nothing eleganter."’
‘"Hark ye, friend,"’ ſaid the Captain, ‘"haſt never another pine-apple?"’
‘"Sir?—"’
‘"Becauſe, if thou haſt, pry'thee give it us without the birds; for, d'ye ſee, I'm no French⯑man, and ſhould reliſh ſomething more ſubſtan⯑tial."’
This entertainment concluded with a concert of mechanical muſic: I cannot explain how it was produced, but the effect was pleaſing. Ma⯑dame Duval was in extacies; and the Captain flung himſelf into ſo many ridiculous diſtortions, by way of mimicking her, that he engaged the attention of all the company; and, in the midſt of the performance of the Coronation Anthem, while Madame Duval was affecting to beat time, and uttering many expreſſions of delight, he called ſuddenly for ſalts, which a lady, apprehending ſome diſtreſs, politely handed to him, and which, inſtantly applying to the noſtrils of poor Madame Duval, ſhe involuntarily ſnuffed up ſuch a quantity, that the pain and ſurpriſe made her ſcream aloud. When ſhe recovered, ſhe reproached him, with her uſual vehemence; but he proteſted he had taken that meaſure out of pure friendſhip, as he concluded, from her raptures, that ſhe was going [99] into hyſterics. This excuſe by no means appeaſed her, and they had a violent quarrel; but the only effect her anger had on the Captain, was to encreaſe his diverſion. Indeed, he laughs and talks ſo terribly loud in public, that he frequently makes us aſhamed of belonging to him.
Madame Duval, notwithſtanding her wrath, made no ſcruple of returning to dine in Queen-Ann-ſtreet. Mrs. Mirvan had ſecured places for the play at Drury Lane Theatre, and, though ever uneaſy in her company, ſhe very politely invited Madame Duval to be of our party; however, ſhe had a bad cold, and choſe to nurſe it. I was ſorry for her indiſpoſition, but I knew not how to be ſorry ſhe did not accompany us, for ſhe is—I muſt not ſay what, but very unlike other people.
LETTER XX.
Evelina in continuation.
OUR places were in the front row of a ſide⯑box. Sir Clement Willoughby, who knew our intention, was at the door of the Theatre, and handed us from the carriage.
We had not been ſeated five minutes, ere Lord Orville, who we ſaw in the ſtage-box, came to us; and he honoured us with his company all the evening. Miſs Mirvan and I both rejoiced that Madame Duval was abſent, as we hoped for the enjoyment of ſome converſation, uninterrupted by her quarrels with the Captain: but I ſoon [100] found that her preſence would have made very little alteration, for ſo far was I from daring to ſpeak, that I knew not where even to look.
The play was Love for Love, and though it is fraught with wit and entertainment, I hope I ſhall never ſee it repreſented again; for it is ſo ex⯑tremely indelicate,—to uſe the ſofteſt word I can,—that Miſs Mirvan and I were perpetually out of countenance, and could neither make any ob⯑ſervations ourſelves, nor venture to liſten to thoſe of others. This was the more provoking, as Lord Orville was in excellent ſpirits, and exceedingly entertaining.
When the Play was over, I flattered myſelf I ſhould be able to look about me with leſs reſtraint, as we intended to ſtay the Farce; but the curtain had hardly dropped when the box-door opened, and in came Mr. Lovel, the man by whoſe fop⯑pery and impertinence I was ſo much teazed at the ball where I firſt ſaw Lord Orville.
I turned away my head, and began talking to Miſs Mirvan, for I was deſirous to avoid ſpeak⯑ing to him!—but in vain, for as ſoon as he had made his compliments to Lord Orville and Sir Clement Willoughby, who returned them very coldly, he bent his head forward, and ſaid to me, ‘"I hope, Ma'am, you have enjoyed your health ſince I had the honour—I beg ten thou⯑ſand pardons, but I proteſt I was going to ſay the honour of dancing with you—however, I mean the honour of ſeeing you dance?"’
He ſpoke with a ſelf-complacency that con⯑vinced me he had ſtudied this addreſs, by way of making repriſals for my conduct at the ball: I therefore bowed ſlightly, but made no anſwer.
[101] After a ſhort ſilence, he again called my atten⯑tion, by ſaying, in an eaſy, negligent way, ‘"I think, Ma'am, you was never in town before?"’
‘"No, Sir."’
‘"So I did preſume. Doubtleſs, Ma'am, every thing muſt be infinitely novel to you. Our cuſ⯑toms, our manners, and les etiquettes de nous autres, can have very little reſemblance to thoſe you have been uſed to. I imagine, Ma'am, your retirement is at no very ſmall diſtance from the capital?"’
I was ſo much diſconcerted at this ſneering ſpeech, that I ſaid not a word; though I have ſince thought my vexation both ſtimulated and de⯑lighted him.
‘"The air we breathe here, however, Ma'am,’ (continued he, very conceitedly) ‘"though foreign to that you have been accuſtomed to, has not, I hope, been at variance with your health?"’
‘"Mr. Lovel,"’ ſaid Lord Orville, ‘"could not your eye have ſpared that queſtion?"’
‘"O, my Lord,"’ anſwered he, ‘"if health were the only cauſe of a lady's bloom, my eye, I grant, had been infallible from the firſt glance; but—"’
‘"Come, come,"’ cried Mrs. Mirvan, ‘"I muſt beg no inſinuations of that ſort; Miſs An⯑ville's colour, as you have ſucceſsfully tried, may, you ſee, be heightened;—but I aſſure you, it would be paſt your ſkill to leſſen it."’
‘"'Pon honour, Madam,"’ returned he, ‘"you wrong me; I preſumed not to infer that rouge was the only ſuccedaneum for health; but, really, I have known ſo many different cauſes for a lady's colour, ſuch as fluſhing,—anger,—mauvaiſe honte,—and ſo forth, that I never dare decide to which it may be owing."’
[102] ‘"As to ſuch cauſes as them there,"’ cried the Captain, ‘"they muſt belong to thoſe that they keep company with."’
‘"Very true, Captain,"’ ſaid Sir Clement; ‘"the natural complexion has nothing to do with occaſional ſallies of the paſſions, or any accidental cauſes."’
‘"No, truly,"’ returned the Captain, ‘"for now here's me, why I look like any other man juſt now; and yet, if you were to put me in a paſſion, 'fore George, you'd ſoon ſee me have as fine a high colour as any painted Jezebel in all this place, be ſhe never ſo bedaubed."’
‘"But,"’ ſaid Lord Orville, ‘"the difference of natural and of artificial colour, ſeems to me very eaſily diſcerned; that of Nature, is mottled, and varying; that of art, ſet, and too ſmooth; it wants that animation, that glow, that indeſcribable ſomething which, even now that I ſee it, wholly ſurpaſſes all my powers of expreſſion."’
‘"Your Lordſhip,"’ ſaid Sir Clement, ‘"is univerſally acknowledged to be a connoiſſeur in beauty."’
‘"And you, Sir Clement,"’ returned he, ‘"an enthuſiaſt."’
‘"I am proud to own it,"’ cried Sir Clement; ‘"in ſuch a cauſe, and before ſuch objects, en⯑thuſiaſm is ſimply the conſequence of not being blind."’
‘"Pr'ythee a truce with all this palavering,"’ cried the Captain, ‘"the women are vain enough already; no need for to puff 'em up more."’
‘"We muſt all ſubmit to the commanding offi⯑cer,"’ ſaid Sir Clement, ‘"therefore let us call ano⯑ther ſubject. Pray, Ladies, how have you been entertained with the play?"’
[103] ‘"Want of entertainment,"’ ſaid Mrs. Mirvan, ‘"is its leaſt fault; but I own there are objections to it, which I ſhould be glad to ſee removed."’
‘"I could have ventured to anſwer for the Ladies,"’ ſaid Lord Orville, ‘"ſince I am ſure this is not a play that can be honoured with their approbation."’
‘"What, I ſuppoſe it is not ſentimental enough!"’ cried the Captain, ‘"or elſe it's too good for them; for I'll maintain it's one of the beſt come⯑dies in the language, and has more wit in one ſcene, than there is in all the new plays put toge⯑ther."’
‘"For my part,"’ ſaid Mr. Lovel, ‘"I confeſs I ſeldom liſten to the players: one has ſo much to do, in looking about, and finding out one's ac⯑quaintance, that, really, one has no time to mind the ſtage. Pray,—(moſt affectedly fixing his eyes upon a diamond-ring on his little finger) pray—what was the play to-night?"’
‘"Why, what the D—l,"’ cried the Captain, ‘"do you come to the play, without knowing what it is?’
‘"O yes, Sir, yes, very frequently; I have no time to read play-bills; one merely comes to meet one's friends; and ſhew that one's alive."’
‘"Ha, ha, ha!—and ſo,"’ cried the Captain, ‘"it coſts you five ſhillings a night, juſt to ſhew that you're alive! Well, faith, my friends ſhould all think me dead and under ground, before I'd be at the expence for 'em. Howſomever, this here you may take from me;—they'll find you out faſt enough, if you've any thing to give 'em. And ſo you've been here all this time, and don't know what the play was?"’
[104] ‘"Why, really, Sir, a play requires ſo much attention,—it is ſcarcely poſſible to keep awake, if one liſtens;—for, indeed, by the time it is even⯑ing, one has been ſo fatigued, with dining,—or wine,—or the houſe,—or ſtudying,—that it is—it is perfectly an impoſſibility. But, now I think of it, I believe I have a bill in my pocket; O, ay, here it is—Love for Love, ay,—true,—ha, ha,—how could I be ſo ſtupid!’
‘"O, eaſily enough as to that, I warrant you,"’ ſaid the Captain; ‘"but, by my ſoul, this is one of the beſt jokes I ever heard! Come to a play, and not know what it is!—Why, I ſuppoſe you would n't have found it out, if they had fob'd you off with a ſcraping of fidlers, or an opera?—Ha! ha! ha!—why now, I ſhould have thought you might have taken ſome notice of one Mr. Tattle that is in this play?’
This ſarcaſm, which cauſed a general ſmile, made him colour: but, turning to the Captain with a look of conceit, which implied that he had a retort ready, he ſaid, ‘"Pray, Sir, give me leave to aſk,—what do you think of one Mr. Ben, who is alſo in this play?’
The Captain, regarding him with the utmoſt contempt, anſwered in a loud voice, ‘"Think of him!—why I think he's a man!"’ And then, ſtaring full in his face, he ſtruck his cane on the ground, with a violence that made him ſtart. He did not, however, chuſe to take any notice of this; but, having bit his nails ſome time, in manifeſt confuſion, he turned very quick to me, and, in a ſneering tone of voice, ſaid, ‘"For my part, I was moſt ſtruck with the country young lady, Miſs Prue; pray what do you think of her, Ma'am?"’
[105] ‘"Indeed, Sir,"’ cried I, very much provoked, ‘"I think—that is, I do not think any thing about her."’
‘"Well, really, Ma'am, you prodigiouſly ſur⯑prize me!—mais, apparemment ce n'eſt qu'un façon à parler?—though I ſhould beg your pardon, for probably you do not underſtand French?"’
I made no anſwer, for I thought his rudeneſs intolerable; but Sir Clement, with great warmth, ſaid, ‘"I am ſurpriſed that you can ſuppoſe ſuch an object as Miſs Prue would engage the attention of Miſs Anville even for a moment."’
‘"O, Sir,"’ returned this fop, ‘'tis the firſt character in the piece!—ſo well drawn,—ſo much the thing!—ſuch true country-breeding,—ſuch rural ignorance!—ha! ha! ha!—'tis moſt ad⯑mirably hit off, 'pon honour!"’
I could almoſt have cried, that ſuch imperti⯑nence ſhould be levelled at me; and yet, chagri⯑ned as I was, I could never behold Lord Orville and this man at the ſame time, and feel any regret for the cauſe I had given of diſpleaſure.
‘"The only character in the play,"’ ſaid Lord Orville, ‘"worthy of being mentioned to theſe ladies is Angelica."’
‘"Angelica,"’ cried Sir Clement, ‘"is a noble girl; ſhe tries her lover ſeverely, but ſhe rewards him generouſly."’
‘"Yet, in a trial ſo long,"’ ſaid Mrs. Mirvan, ‘"there ſeems rather too much conſciouſneſs of her power."’
‘"Since my opinion has the ſanction of Mrs. Mirvan's,"’ added Lord Orville," ‘"I will venture to ſay, that Angelica beſtows her hand rather with the air of a benefactreſs, than with the ten⯑terneſs of a miſtreſs. Generoſity without delicacy, [106] like wit without judgment, generally gives as much pain as pleaſure. The uncertainty in which ſhe keeps Valentine, and her manner of trifling with his temper, give no very favourable idea of her own."’
‘"Well, my Lord,"’ ſaid Mr. Lovel, ‘"it muſt, however, be owned, that uncertainty is not the ton among our ladies at preſent; nay, indeed, I think they ſay, though, faith,"’ taking a pinch of ſnuff, ‘"I hope it is not true—but they ſay, that we now are moſt ſhy and backward."’
The curtain then drew up, and our converſa⯑tion ceaſed. Mr. Lovel finding we choſe to attend to the players, leſt the box. How ſtrange it is, Sir, that this man, not contented with the large ſhare of foppery and nonſenſe which he has from nature, ſhould think proper to affect yet more! for what he faid of Tattle and of Miſs Prue, con⯑vinced me that he really had liſtened to the play, though he was ſo ridiculous and fooliſh as to pre⯑tend ignorance.
But how malicicious and impertinent in this creature to talk to me in ſuch a manner! I am ſure I hope I ſhall never ſee him again. I ſhould have deſpiſed him heartily as a fop, had he never ſpoken to me at at all; but now, that he thinks proper to reſent his ſuppoſed ill uſage, I am really quite afraid of him.
The entertainment was, The Deuce is in him, which Lord Orville obſerved to be the moſt finiſh⯑ed and elegant petite piece that was ever written in Engliſh.
In our way home, Mrs. Mirvan put me into ſome conſternation, by ſaying it was evident, from the reſentment which this Mr. Lovel harbours of my conduct, that he would think it a provocation [107] ſufficiently important for a duel, if his courage equalled his wrath.
I am terrified at the very idea. Good Heaven! that a man ſo weak and frivolous ſhould be ſo re⯑vengeful! However! if bravery would have exci⯑ted him to affront Lord Orville, how much rea⯑ſon have I to rejoice, that cowardice makes him contented with venting his ſpleen upon me! But we ſhall leave town ſoon, and, I hope, ſee him no more.
It was ſome conſolation to me, to hear, from Miſs Mirvan, that, while he was ſpeaking to me ſo cavalierly, Lord Orville regarded him with great indignation.
But, really, I think there ought to be a book, of the laws and cuſtoms a-la-mode, preſented to all young people, upon their firſt introduction into public company.
To night we go to the opera, where I expect very great pleaſure. We ſhall have the ſame party as at the play; for Lord Orville ſaid he ſhould be there, and would look for us.
LETTER XXI.
Evelina in continuation.
I HAVE a volume to write, of the adventures of yeſterday.
In the afternoon,—at Berry Hill, I ſhould have ſaid the evening, for it was almoſt ſix o'clock,—while Miſs Mirvan and I were dreſſing for the ope⯑ra, and in high ſpirits, from the expectation of great entertainment and pleaſure, we heard a car⯑riage [108] ſtop at the door, and concluded that Sir Clement Willoughby, with his uſual aſſiduity, was come to attend us to the Hay-market; but, in a few moments, what was our ſurpriſe, to ſee our chamber-door flung open, and the two Miſs Brangh⯑tons enter the room! They advanced to me with great familiarity, ſaying, ‘"How do you do, cou⯑ſin?—ſo we've caught you at the glaſs!—well, I'm determined I'll tell my brother of that!"’
Miſs Mirvan, who had never before ſeen them, and could not, at firſt, imagine who they were, looked ſo much aſtoniſhed, that I was ready to laugh myſelf, till the eldeſt ſaid, ‘"We're come to take you to the opera, Miſs; papa and my brother are below, and we are to call for your grand-mama as we go along."’
‘"I am very ſorry,"’ anſwered I, ‘"that you ſhould have taken ſo much trouble, as I am enga⯑ged already."’
‘"Engaged! Lord, Miſs, never mind that,"’ cried the youngeſt, ‘"this young lady will make your excuſes, I dare ſay; it's only doing as one would be done by, you know."’
‘"Indeed, Ma'am,"’ ſaid Miſs Mirvan, ‘"I ſhall myſelf be very ſorry to be deprived of Miſs Anville's company this evening."’
‘"Well, Miſs, that is not ſo very good-natured in you,"’ ſaid Miſs Branghton, ‘"conſidering we only come to give our couſin pleaſure; it's no good to us; it's all upon her account; for we came, I don't know how much round about to take her up."’
‘"I am extremely obliged to you,"’ ſaid I, ‘"and very ſorry you have loſt ſo much time; but I cannot poſſibly help it, for I engaged myſelf with⯑out knowing you would call."’
[109] ‘"Lord, what ſignifies that?"’ ſaid Miſs Polly, ‘"you're no old maid, and ſo you need n't be ſo very formal: beſides, I dare ſay thoſe you are engaged to, a'n't half ſo near related to you as we are."’
‘"I muſt beg you not to preſs me any further, for I aſſure you it is not in my power to attend you."’
‘"Why we came all out of the city on purpoſe: beſides, your grand-mama expects you;—and, pray, what are we to ſay to her?"’
‘"Tell her, if you pleaſe, that I am much con⯑cerned,—but that I am pre-engaged."’
‘"And who to?"’ demanded the abrupt Miſs Branghton.
‘"To Mrs. Mirvan,—and a large party."’
‘"And, pray, what are you all going to do, that it would be ſuch a mighty matter for you to come along with us?"’
‘"We are going to—to the opera."’
‘"O dear, if that be all, why can't we go all together?"’
I was extremely diſconcerted at this forward and ignorant behaviour, and yet their rudeneſs very much leſſened my concern at refuſing them. Indeed, their dreſs was ſuch as would have rendered their ſcheme of accompanying our party impracticable, even if I had deſired it; and this, as they did not them⯑ſelves find out, I was obliged, in terms the leaſt mortifying I could think of, to tell them.
They were very much chagrined, and aſked where I ſhould ſit?
‘"In the pit,"’ anſwered I.
‘"In the pit!"’ repeated Miſs Branghton, ‘"well, really, I muſt own I ſhould never have ſuppoſed that my gown was not good enough for the pit: but come, Polly, let's go; if Miſs does not think [110] us fine enough for her, why to be ſure ſhe may chuſe."’
Surpriſed at this ignorance, I would have ex⯑plained to them that the pit at the opera required the ſame dreſs as the boxes; but they were ſo much affronted, they would not hear me, and, in great diſ⯑pleaſure, left the room, ſaying they would not have troubled me, only they thought I ſhould not be ſo proud with my own relations, and that they had at leaſt as good a right to my company as ſtrangers.
I endeavoured to apologize, and would have ſent a long meſſage to Madame Duval; but they haſ⯑tened away without liſtening to me; and I could not follow them down ſtairs, becauſe I was not dreſſed. The laſt words I heard them ſay, were, ‘"Well, her grand-mama will be in a fine paſſion, that's one good thing."’
Though I was extremely mad at this viſit, yet I ſo heartily rejoiced at their going, that I would not ſuffer myſelf to think gravely about it.
Soon after, Sir Clement actually came, and we all went down ſtairs. Mrs. Mirvan ordered tea; and we were engaged in a very lively converſation, when the ſervant announced Madame Duval, who in⯑ſtantly followed him into the room.
Her face was the colour of ſcarlet, and her eyes ſparkled with fury. She came up to me with a haſty ſtep, ſaying, ‘"So, Miſs, you refuſes to come to me, do you? And pray who are you, to dare to diſobey me?"’
I was quite frightened;—I made no anſwer;—I even attempted to riſe, and could not, but ſat ſtill, mute and motionleſs.
Every body, but Miſs Mirvan, ſeemed in the ut⯑moſt aſtoniſhment; and the Captain, raiſing and approaching Madame Duval, with a voice of au⯑thority, [111] ſaid, ‘"Why how now, Mrs. Turkey Cock, what's put you into this here fluſter?"’
‘"It's nothing to you,"’ anſwered ſhe, ‘"ſo you may as well hold your tongue, for I ſha'n't be called to no account by you, I aſſure you."’
‘"There you're out, Madam Fury,"’ returned he, ‘"for you muſt know I never ſuffer any body to be in a paſſion in my houſe, but myſelf."’
‘"But you ſhall,"’ cried ſhe, in a great rage, ‘"for I'll be in as great a paſſion as ever I pleaſe, without aſking your leave, ſo don't give yourſelf no more airs about it. And as for you, Miſs,"’ again advancing to me ‘"I order you to follow me this moment, or elſe I'll make you repent it all your life."’ And, with theſe words, ſhe flung out of the room.
I was in ſuch extreme terror at being addreſſed and threatened in a manner to which I am ſo wholly unuſed, that I almoſt thought I ſhould have fainted.
‘"Don't be alarmed, my love,"’ cried Mrs. Mir⯑van, ‘"but ſtay where you are, and I will follow Madame Duval, and try to bring her to reaſon."’
Miſs Mirvan took my hand, and moſt kindly endeavoured to raiſe my ſpirits: Sir Clement, too, approached me, with an air ſo intereſted in my diſ⯑treſs, that I could not but feel myſelf obliged to him; and, taking my other hand, ſaid, ‘"For Heaven's ſake, my dear Madam, compoſe your⯑ſelf; ſurely the violence of ſuch a wretch ought merely to move your contempt: ſhe can have no right, I imagine, to lay her commands upon you, and I only wiſh that you would allow me leave to ſpeak to her."’
‘"O no! not for the world! indeed, I believe,—I am afraid—I had better follow her."’
‘"Follow her! Good God, my dear Miſs An⯑ville, would you truſt yourſelf with a mad woman? [112] for what elſe can you call a creature whoſe paſ⯑ſions are ſo inſolent? No, no; ſend her word at once to leave the houſe, and tell her you deſire that ſhe will never ſee you again."’
‘"O Sir! you don't know who you talk of!—it would ill become me to ſend Madame Duval ſuch a meſſage."’
‘"But why,"’ cried he, (looking very inquiſitive,) ‘"why ſhould you ſcruple to treat her as ſhe de⯑ſerves?"’
I then found that his aim was to diſcover the nature of her connection with me; but I felt ſo much aſhamed of my near relationſhip to her, that I could not perſuade myſelf to anſwer him, and only entreated that he would leave her to Mrs. Mirvan, who juſt then entered.
Before ſhe could ſpeak to me, the Captain called out, ‘"Well, Goody, what have you done with Madame French? is ſhe cooled a little? 'cauſe, if ſhe be n't, I've juſt thought of a moſt excellent device to bring her to."’
‘"My dear Evelina,"’ ſaid Mrs. Mirvan, ‘"I have been vainly endeavouring to appeaſe her; I pleaded your engagement, and promiſed your fu⯑ture attendance: but I am ſorry to ſay, my love, that I fear her rage will end in a total breach (which I think you had better avoid) if ſhe is any further oppoſed."’
‘"Then I will go to her, Madam,"’ cried I, ‘"and, indeed, it is now no matter, for I ſhould not be able to recover my ſpirits ſufficiently to enjoy much pleaſure any where this evening."’
Sir Clement began a very warm expoſtulation, and entreaty, that I would not go; but I begged him to deſiſt, and told him, very honeſtly, that, if my compliance were not indiſpenſably neceſſary, [113] I ſhould require no perſuaſion to ſtay. He then took my hand, to lead me down ſtairs; but the Captain deſired him to be quiet, ſaying he would 'ſquire me himſelf, ‘"becauſe,"’ he added exult⯑ingly rubbing his hands,) ‘"I have a wipe ready for the old lady, which may ſerve her to chew as ſhe goes along."’
We found her in the parlour. ‘"O, you're come at laſt, Miſs, are you?—fine airs you give yourſelf, indeed!—ma foi, if you had n't come, you might have ſtayed, I aſſure you, and have been a beggar for your pains."’
‘"Heyday, Madam,"’ cried the Captain, pranc⯑ing forward, with a look of great glee,) ‘"what, a'n't you got out of that there paſſion yet? why then, I'll tell you what to do to cool yourſelf; call upon your old friend, Monſieur Slippery, who was with you at Ranelagh, and give my ſervice to him, and tell him, if he ſets any ſtore by your health, that I deſire he'll give you ſuch another ſouſe as he did before: he'll know what I mean, and I'll war⯑rant you he'll do't for my ſake."’
‘"Let him, if he dares!"’ cried Madame Duval; ‘"but I ſha'n't ſtay to anſwer you no more; you are a vulgar fellow,—and ſo, child, let us leave him to himſelf."’
‘"Hark ye, Madam,"’ cried the Captain, ‘"you'd beſt not call names, becauſe, d'ye ſee, if you do, I ſhall make bold to ſhow you the door."’
She changed colour, and, ſaying, ‘"Pardie, I can ſhew it myſelf,"’ hurried out of the room, and I followed her into a hackney-coach. But, be⯑fore we drove off, the Captain, looking out of the parlour window, called out, ‘"D'ye hear, Madam,—don't forget my meſſage to Monſieur."’
[114] You will believe, our ride was not the moſt agreeable in the world; indeed, it would be dif⯑ficult to ſay which was leaſt pleaſed, Madame Du⯑val or me, though the reaſons of our diſcontent were ſo different: however, Madame Duval ſoon got the ſtart of me; for we had hardly turned out of Queen-Anne-ſtreet, when a man, running full ſpeed, ſtopt the coach. He came up to the win⯑dow, and I ſaw he was the Captain's ſervant. He had a broad grin on his face, and panted for breath. Madame Duval demanded his buſineſs; ‘"Ma⯑dam,"’ anſwered he, ‘"my maſter deſires his com⯑pliments to you, and—and—and he ſays he wiſhes it well over with you. He! he! he!—"’
Madame Duval inſtantly darted forward, and gave him a violent blow on the face; ‘"Take that back for your anſwer, ſirrah,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"and learn to grin at your betters another time. Coach⯑man, drive on!"’
The ſervant was in a violent paſſion, and ſwore terribly; but we were ſoon out of hearing.
The rage of Madame Duval was greater than ever, and ſhe inveighed againſt the Captain with ſuch fury, that I was even apprehenſive ſhe would have returned to his houſe, purpoſely to reproach him, which ſhe repeatedly threatened to do; nor would ſhe, I believe, have heſitated a moment, but that, notwithſtanding her violence, he has really made her afraid of him.
When we came to her lodgings, we found all the Branghtons in the paſſage, impatiently waiting for us, with the door open.
‘"Only ſee, here's Miſs!"’ cried the brother.
‘"Well, I declare I thought as much!"’ ſaid the younger ſiſter.
[115] ‘"Why, Miſs,"’ ſaid Mr. Branghton, ‘"I think you might as well have come with your couſins at once; it's throwing money in the dirt, to pay two coaches for one fare."’
‘"Lord, father,"’ cried the ſon, ‘"make no words about that; for I'll pay for the coach that Miſs had."’
‘"O, I know very well,"’ anſwered Mr. Brangh⯑ton, ‘"that you're always more ready to ſpend than to earn."’
I then interfered, and begged that I might my⯑ſelf be allowed to pay the fare, as the expence was incurred upon my account; they all ſaid no, and propoſed that the ſame coach ſhould carry us on to the opera.
While this paſſed, the Miſs Branghtons were examining my dreſs, which, indeed, was very improper for my company; and, as I was ex⯑tremely unwilling to be ſo conſpicuous amongſt them, I requeſted Madame Duval to borrow a hat or bonnet for me of the people of the houſe. But ſhe never wears either herſelf, and thinks them very Engliſh and barbarous; therefore ſhe inſiſted that I ſhould go full dreſſed, as I had pre⯑pared myſelf for the pit, though I made many objections.
We were then all crowded into the ſame carri⯑age; but when we arrived at the opera-houſe, I contrived to pay the coachman. They made a great many ſpeeches; but Mr. Branghton's reflec⯑tion had determined me not to be indebted to him.
If I had not been too much chagrined to laugh, I ſhould have been extremely diverted at their ig⯑norance of whatever belongs to an opera. In the firſt place, they could not tell at what door we [116] ought to enter, and we wandered about for ſome time, without knowing which way to turn: they did not chuſe to apply to me, though I was the only perſon of the party who had ever before been at an opera; becauſe they were unwilling to ſuppoſe that their country couſin, as they were pleaſ⯑ed to call me, ſhould be better acquainted with any London public place than themſelves. I was very indifferent and careleſs upon this ſubject, but not a little uneaſy at finding my dreſs, ſo different from that of the company to which I belonged, attracted general notice and obſervation.
In a ſhort time however we arrived at one of the door-keeper's bars. Mr. Branghton demand⯑ed for what part of the houſe they took money? They anſwered the pit, and regarded us all with great earneſtneſs. The ſon then advancing, ſaid, ‘"Sir, if you pleaſe, I beg that I may treat Miſs."’
‘"We'll ſettle that another time,"’ anſwered Mr. Branghton, and put down a guinea.
Two tickets of admiſſion were given to him.
Mr. Branghton, in his turn, now ſtared at the door-keeper, and demanded what he meant by giving him only two tickets for a guinea?
‘"Only two, Sir!"’ ſaid the man, ‘"why don't you know that the tickets are half a guinea each?"’
‘"Half a guinea each!"’ repeated Mr. Brangh⯑ton, ‘"why I never heard of ſuch a thing in my life! And pray, Sir, how many will they admit?"’
‘"Juſt as uſual, Sir, one perſon each."’
‘"But one perſon for half a guinea!—why I only want to ſit in the pit, friend."’
‘"Had not the Ladies better ſit in the gallery, Sir; for they'll hardly chuſe to go into the pit with their hats on?"’
[117] ‘"O, as to that,"’ cried Miſs Branghton, ‘"if our hats are too high, we'll take them off when we get in. I ſha'n't mind it, for I did my hair on purpoſe."’
Another party then approaching, the door-keeper coul no longer attend to Mr. Branghton, who, tak⯑ing up the guinea, told him it ſhould be long enough before he'd ſee it again, and walked away.
The young ladies, in ſome confuſion, expreſſed their ſurpriſe, that their papa ſhould not know the opera prices, which for their parts they had read in the papers a thouſand times.
‘"The price of ſtocks"’ ſaid he, ‘"is enough for me to ſee after; and I took it for granted it was the ſame thing here as at the play-houſe."’
‘"I knew well enough what the price was,"’ ſaid the ſon, ‘"but I would not ſpeak, becauſe I thought perhaps they'd take leſs, as we're ſuch a large party."’
The ſiſters both laughed very contemptuouſly at this idea, and aſked him if he ever heard of people's abating any thing at a public place?
‘"I don't know whether I have or no,"’ an⯑ſwered he, ‘"but I'm ſure if they would, you'd like it ſo much the worſe."’
‘"Very true, Tom,’ cried Mr. Branghton; ‘"tell a woman that any thing is reaſonable, and ſhe'll be ſure to hate it."’
‘"Well,"’ ſaid Miſs Polly, ‘"I hope that Aunt and Miſs will be of our ſide, for Papa always takes part with Tom."’
‘"Come, come,"’ cried Madam Duval, ‘"if you ſtand talking here, we ſha'n't get no place at all."’
Mr. Branghton then enquired the way to the gal⯑lery, and, when we came to the door-keeper, de⯑manded what was to pay.
[118] ‘"The uſual price, Sir,"’ ſaid the man.
‘"Then give me change,"’ cried Mr. Branghton, again putting down his guinea.
‘"For how many, Sir?"’
‘"Why—let's ſee,—for ſix."’
‘"For ſix, Sir? why you've given me but a guinea."’
‘"But a guinea! why how much would you have? I ſuppoſe it i'n't half a guinea apiece here too?"’
‘"No, Sir, only five ſhillings."’
Mr. Branghton again took up his unfortunate guinea, and proteſted he would ſubmit to no ſuch impoſition. I then propoſed that we ſhould return home, but Madame Duval would not conſent, and we were conducted, by a woman who ſells books of the Opera, to another gallery-door, where, after ſome diſputing, Mr. Branghton at laſt paid, and we all went up ſtairs.
Madame Duval complained very much of the trouble of going ſo high, but Mr. Branghton de⯑ſired her not to hold the place too cheap, ‘"for, whatever you may think,"’ cried he, ‘"I aſſure you I paid pit price; ſo don't ſuppoſe I come here to ſave my money."’
‘"Well, to be ſure,"’ ſaid Miſs Branghton, ‘"there's no judging of a place by the outſide, elſe, I muſt needs ſay, there's nothing very extraordi⯑nary in the ſtair-caſe."’
But, when we entered the gallery, their amaze⯑ment and diſappointment became general. For a few inſtants, they looked at one another without ſpeaking, and then they all broke ſilence at once.
‘"Lord, Papa,’ exclaimed Miſs Polly, ‘"why you have brought us to the one-ſhilling gallery!"’
[119] ‘"I'll be glad to give you two ſhillings, though,"’ anſwered he, ‘"to pay. I was never ſo fooled out of my money before, ſince the hour of my birth. Either the door-keeper's a knave, or this is the greateſt impoſition that ever was put upon the public."’
‘"Ma foi,"’ cried Madame Duval, ‘"I never ſat in ſuch a mean place in all my life;—why it's as high!—we ſha'n't ſee nothing."’
‘"I thought, at the time,"’ ſaid Mr. Branghton, ‘"that three ſhillings was an exorbitant price for a place in the gallery, but as we'd been aſked ſo much more at the other doors, why I paid it with⯑out many words; but then, to be ſure, thinks I, it never can be like any other gallery,—we ſhall ſee ſome crinkum-crankum or other for our money;—but I find it's as arrant a take-in as ever I met with."’
‘"Why it's as like the twelvepenny gallery at Drury-lane,"’ cried the ſon, ‘"as two peas are one to another. I never knew father ſo bit before."’
‘"Lord,’ "ſaid Miſs Branghton, ‘"I thought it would have been quite a fine place,—all over I don't know what,—and done quite in taſte."’
In this manner they continued to expreſs their diſſatisfaction till the curtain drew up; after which, their obſervations were very curious. They made no allowance for the cuſtoms, or even for the lan⯑guage of another country, but formed all their re⯑marks upon compariſons with the Engliſh theatre.
Notwithſtanding all my vexation at having been forced into a party ſo very diſagreeabl, and that, too, from one ſo much [...]ſo very much the con⯑trary—yet, would they have ſuffered me to liſten, I ſhould have forgotten every thing unpleaſant, and ſelt nothing but delight, in hearing the ſweet voice [120] of Signor Millico, the firſt ſinger; but they tor⯑mented me with continual talking."
‘"What a jabbering they make!"’ cried Mr. Branghton; ‘"there's no knowing a word they ſay. Pray what's the reaſon they can't as well ſing in Engliſh?—but I ſuppoſe the fine folks would not like it, if they could underſtand it."’
‘"How unnatural their action is!"’ ſaid the ſon; ‘"why now who ever ſaw an Engliſhman put him⯑ſelf in ſuch out-of-the-way poſtures?"’
‘"For my part,"’ ſaid Miſs Polly, ‘"I think it's very pretty, only I don't know what it means."’
‘"Lord, what does that ſignify?"’ cried her ſiſter; ‘"mayn't one like a thing without being ſo very particular?—You may ſee that Miſs likes it, and I don't ſuppoſe ſhe knows more of the matter than we do."’
A gentleman, ſoon after, was ſo obliging as to make room in the front row for Miſs Branghton and me. We had no ſooner ſeated ourſelves, than Miſs Branghton exclaimed, ‘"Good gracious! only ſee!—why, Polly, all the people in the pit are without hats, dreſſed like any thing!"’
‘"Lord, ſo they are,’ cried Miſs Polly, ‘"well, I never ſaw the like!—it's worth coming to the Opera if one ſaw nothing elſe."’
I was then able to diſtinguiſh the happy party I had left; and I ſaw that Lord Orville had ſeated himſelf next to Mrs. Mirvan. Sir Clement had his eyes perpetually caſt towards the five ſhilling gallery, where I ſuppoſe he concluded that we were ſeated; however, before the Opera was over, I have reaſon to believe that he had diſcovered me, high and diſtant as I was from him. Pro⯑bably he diſtinguiſhed me by my head-dreſs.
[121] At the end of the firſt act, as the green curtain dropped, to prepare for the dance, they imagined that the Opera was done, and Mr. Branghton ex⯑preſſed great indignation that he had been tricked out of his money with ſo little trouble. ‘"Now if any Engliſhman was to do ſuch an impudent thing as this,"’ ſaid he, ‘"why he'd be pelted;—but here, one of theſe outlandiſh gentry may do juſt what he pleaſes, and come on, and ſqueak out a ſong or two, and then pocket your money with⯑out further ceremony."’
However, ſo determined he was to be diſſatis⯑fied, that, before the concluſion of the third act, he found ſtill more fault with the Opera for being too long, and wondered whether they thought their ſinging good enough to ſerve us for ſupper.
During the ſymphony of a ſong of Signor Mil⯑lico's, in the ſecond act, young Mr. Branghton ſaid, ‘"It's my belief that that fellow's going to ſing another ſong!—why there's nothing but ſing⯑ing!—I wonder when they'll ſpeak."’
This ſong, which was ſlow and pathetic, caught all my attention, and I leaned my head forward to avoid hearing their obſervations, that I might liſten without interruption; but, upon turning round, when the ſong was over, I found that I was the object of general diverſion to the whole party; for the Miſs Branghtons were tittering, and the two gentlemen making ſigns and faces at me, implying their contempt of my affectation.
This diſcovery determined me to appear as in⯑attentive as themſelves; but I was very much pro⯑voked at being thus prevented enjoying the only pleaſure, which, in ſuch a party, was within my power.
[122] ‘"So, Miſs,"’ ſaid Mr. Branghton, ‘"you're quite in the faſhion, I ſee;—ſo you like Operas? well, I'm not ſo polite; I can't like nonſenſe, let it be never ſo much the taſte."’
‘"But pray, Miſs,’ ſaid the ſon, ‘"what makes that fellow look ſo doleful while he's ſinging?"’
‘"Probably becauſe the character he performs is in diſtreſs."’
‘"Why then I think he might as well let alone ſinging till he's in better cue: it's out of all nature for a man to be piping when he's in diſtreſs. For my part, I never ſing but when I'm merry; yet I love a ſong as well as moſt people."’
When the curtain dropt, they all rejoiced.
‘"How do you like it?—and how do you like it?"’ paſſed from one to another with looks of the utmoſt contempt. ‘"As for me,"’ ſaid Mr. Brangh⯑ton, ‘"they've caught me once, but if ever they do again, I'll give 'em leave to ſing me to Bedlam for my pains: for ſuch a heap of ſtuff never did I hear; there is n't one ounce of ſenſe in the whole Opera, nothing but one continued ſqueaking and ſqualling from beginning to end."’
‘"If I had been in the pit,"’ ſaid Madame Du⯑val, ‘"I ſhould have liked it vaſtly, for muſic is my paſſion; but ſitting in ſuch a place as this, is quite unbearable."’
Miſs Branghton, looking at me, declared, that ſhe was not genteel enough to admire it.
Miſs Polly confeſſed, that, if they would but ſing Engliſh, ſhe ſhould like it very well.
The brother wiſhed he could raiſe a riot in the houſe, becauſe then he might get his money again.
And, finally, they all agreed, that it was mon⯑ſtrous dear.
[123] During the laſt dance, I perceived, ſtanding near the gallery-door, Sir Clement Willoughby. I was extremely vexed, and would have given the world to have avoided being ſeen by him: my chief objection was, from the apprehenſion that he wou'd hear Miſs Branghton call me couſin.—I fear you will think this London journey has made me grow very proud, but indeed this family is ſo low-bred and vulgar, that I ſhould be equally aſhamed of ſuch a connexion in the country, or any where. And really I had already been ſo much chagrined that Sir Clement had been a witneſs of Madame Duval's power over me, that I could not bear to be expoſed to any further mortification.
As the ſeats cleared, by parties going away, Sir Clement approached nearer to us; the Miſs Branghtons obſerved with ſurpriſe, what a fine gentleman was come into the gallery, and they gave me great reaſon to expect, that they would endeavour to attract his notice, by familiarity with me, whenever he ſhould join us; and ſo, I formed a ſort of plan, to prevent any converſation. I am afraid you will think it wrong; and ſo I do myſelf, now,—but, at the time, I only conſidered how I might avoid immediate humiliation.
As ſoon as he was within two ſeats of us, he ſpoke to me, ‘"I am very happy, Miſs Anville, to have ſound you, for the Ladies below have each an humble attendant, and therefore I am come to offer my ſervices here."’
‘"Why then,"’ cried I, (not without heſitating) ‘"if you pleaſe,—I will join them."’
‘"Will you allow me the honour of conducting you?"’ cried he eagerly; and, inſtantly taking my hand, he would have marched away with me: but I turned to Madame Duval, and ſaid, ‘"As our [124] party is ſo large, Madam, if you will give me leave, I will go down to Mrs. Mirvan, that I may not crowd you in the coach."’
And then, without waiting for an anſwer, I ſuffered Sir Clement to hand me out of the gal⯑lery.
Madame Duval, I doubt not, will be very an⯑gry, and ſo I am with myſelf, now, and therefore I cannot be ſurpriſed: but Mr. Branghton, I am ſure, will eaſily comfort himſelf, in having eſcaped the additional coach expence of carrying me to Queen-Ann-ſtreet; as to his daughters, they had no time to ſpeak, but I ſaw they were in utter amazement.
My intention was to join Mrs. Mirvan, and accompany her home. Sir Clement was in high ſpirits and good humour; and, all the way we went, I was fool enough to rejoice in ſecret at the ſucceſs of my plan; nor was it till I got down ſtairs, and amidſt the ſervants, that any difficulty occurred to me of meeting with my friends.
I then aſked Sir Clement how I ſhould contrive to acquaint Mrs. Mirvan that I had left Madame Duval?
‘"I fear it will be almoſt impoſſible to find her,’ anſwered he; ‘"but you can have no objec⯑tion to permitting me to ſee you ſafe home."’
He then deſired his ſervant, who was waiting, to order his chariot to draw up.
This quite ſtartled me; I turned to him haſtily, and ſaid that I could not think of going away without Mrs. Mirvan.
‘"But how can we meet with her?"’ cried he; ‘"you will not chuſe to go into the pit yourſelf; I cannot ſend a ſervant there; and it is impoſſible for me to go and leave you alone?"’
[125] The truth of this was indiſputable, and totally ſilenced me. Yet, as ſoon as I could recollect my⯑ſelf, I determined not to go in his chariot, and told him I believed I had beſt return to my party up ſtairs.
He would not hear of this; and earneſtly en⯑treated me not to withdraw the truſt I had repo⯑ſed in him.
While he was ſpeaking, I ſaw Lord Orville, with ſeveral ladies and gentlemen, coming from the pit paſſage: unfortunately, he ſaw me too, and, leaving his company, advanced inſtantly to⯑wards me, and, with an air and voice of ſurpriſe, ſaid, ‘"Good God, do I ſee Miſs Anville!"’
I now moſt ſeverely felt the folly of my plan, and the aukwardneſs of my ſituation; however, I haſtened to tell him, though in a heſitating manner, that I was waiting for Mrs. Mirvan! but what was my diſappointment, when he acquainted me that ſhe was already gone home!
I was inexpreſſibly diſtreſſed; to ſuffer Lord Orville to think me ſatisfied with the ſingle pro⯑tection of Sir Clement Willoughby, I could not bear; yet I was more than ever averſe to return⯑ing to a party which I dreaded his ſeeing: I ſtood ſome moments in ſuſpenſe, and could not help ex⯑claiming, ‘"Good Heaven, what can I do!"’
‘"Why, my dear Madam,"’ cried Sir Clement, ‘"ſhould you be thus uneaſy?—you will reach Queen-Ann ſtreet almoſt as ſoon as Mrs. Mirvan, and I am ſure you cannot doubt being as ſafe."’
I made no anſwer, and Lord Orville then ſaid, ‘"My coach is here; and my ſervants are ready to take any commands Miſs Anville will honour me with for them. I ſhall myſelf go home in a chair, and therefore—"’
[126] How grateful did I feel for a propoſal ſo conſide⯑rate, and made with ſo much delicacy! I ſhould gladly have accepted it, had I been permitted, but Sir Clement would not let him even finiſh his ſpeech; he interrupted him with evident diſplea⯑ſure, and ſaid, ‘"My Lord, my own chariot is now at the door."’
And juſt then the ſervant came, and told him the carriage was ready. He begged to have the honour of conducting me to it, and would have taken my hand, but I drew it back, ſaying, ‘"I can't—I can't indeed! pray go by yourſelf—and as to me, let me have a chair."’
‘"Impoſſible!"’ (cried he with vehemence) ‘"I cannot think of truſting you with ſtrange chairmen,—I cannot anſwer it to Mrs. Mirvan,—come, dear Madam, we ſhall be home in five minutes."’
Again I ſtood ſuſpended. With what joy would I then have compromiſed with my pride, to have been once more with Madame Duval and the Branghtons, provided I had not met with Lord Orville! However, I flatter myſelf that he not only ſaw, but pitied my embarraſſment, for he ſaid, in a tone of voice unuſually ſoftened, ‘"To offer my ſervices in the preſence of Sir Clement Willoughby would be ſuperfluous; but I hope I need not aſſure Miſs Anville, how happy it would make me to be of the leaſt uſe to her."’
I courtſied my thanks. Sir Clement with great eagerneſs preſſed me to go; and while I was thus uneaſily deliberating what to do, the dance, I ſup⯑poſe, finiſhed, for the people crowded down ſtairs. Had Lord Orville then repeated his offer, I ſhould have accepted it, notwithſtanding Sir Clement's re⯑pugnance; but I fancy he thought it would be im⯑pertinent. In a very few minutes I heard Madame [127] Duval's voice, as ſhe deſcended from the gallery; ‘"Well,"’ cried I, haſtily, ‘"if I muſt go—".’ I ſtopt, but Sir Clement immediately handed me into his chariot, called out ‘"Queen-Ann-ſtreet,"’ and then jumped in himſelf. Lord Orville, with a bow and a half ſmile, wiſhed me good night.
My concern was ſo great, at being ſeen and left by Lord Orville in ſo ſtrange a ſituation, that I ſhould have been beſt pleaſed to have remained wholly ſilent during our ride home: but Sir Cle⯑ment took care to prevent that.
He began by making many complaints of my unwillingneſs to truſt myſelf with him, and begged to know what could be the reaſon. This queſtion ſo much embarraſſed me, that I could not tell what to anſwer, but only ſaid, that I was ſorry to have taken up ſo much of his time.
‘"O Miſs Anville,"’ (cried he, taking my hand) ‘"if you knew with what tranſport I would dedicate to you not only the preſent but all the future time allotted to me, you would not injure me by making ſuch an apology."’
I could not think of a word to ſay to this, nor to a great many other equally fine ſpeeches with which he ran on, though I would fain have with⯑drawn my hand, and made almoſt continual at⯑tempts; but in vain, for he actually graſped it be⯑tween both his, without any regard to my reſiſt⯑ance.
Soon after, he ſaid that he believed the coach⯑man was going the wrong way, and he called to his ſervant, and gave him directions. Then ad⯑dreſſing himſelf to me, ‘"How often, how aſſidu⯑ouſly have I ſought an opportunity of ſpeaking to you, without the preſence of that brute Captain Mirvan! Fortune has now kindly favoured me [128] with one, and permit me,"’ (again ſeizing my hand) ‘"permit me to uſe it, in telling you that I adore you!"’
I was quite thunderſtruck at this abrupt and un⯑expected declaration. For ſome moments I was ſilent, but, when I recovered from my ſurpriſe, I ſaid, ‘"Indeed, Sir, if you were determined to make me repent leaving my own party ſo fooliſhly, you have very well ſucceeded."’
‘"My deareſt life,"’ cried he, ‘"is it poſſible you can be ſo cruel? Can your nature and your countenance be ſo totally oppoſite? Can the ſweet bloom upon thoſe charming cheeks, which appears as much the reſult of good-humour as of beau⯑ty—"’
‘"O, Sir,’ cried I, interrupting him, ‘"this is very fine; but I had hoped we had had enough of this ſort of converſation at the Ridotto, and I did not expect you would ſo ſoon reſume it."’
‘"What I then ſaid, my ſweet reproacher, was the effect of a miſtaken, a prophane idea, that your underſtanding held no competition with your beauty; but now, now that I find you equally in⯑comparable in both, all words, all powers of ſpeech, are too feeble to expreſs the admiration I feel of your excellencies."’
‘"Indeed,"’ cried I, ‘"if you did not talk in one language, and think in another, you would never ſuppoſe that I could give credit to praiſe ſo very much above my deſert."’
This ſpeech, which I made very gravely, occa⯑ſioned ſtill ſtronger proteſtations, which he conti⯑nued to pour forth, and I continued to diſclaim, till I began to wonder that we were not in Queen-Ann-Street, and begged he would deſire the coach⯑man to drive faſter.
[129] ‘"And does this little moment,"’ cried he, ‘"which is the firſt of happineſs I have ever known, does it already appear ſo very long to you?"’
‘"I am afraid the man has miſtaken the way,"’ anſwered I, ‘"or elſe we ſhould ere now have been at our journey's end. I muſt beg you will ſpeak to him."’
‘"And can you think me ſo much my own ene⯑my?—if my good genius has inſpired the man with a deſire of prolonging my happineſs, can you expect that I ſhould counteract its indul⯑gence?"’
I now began to apprehend that he had himſelf ordered the man to go a wrong way, and I was ſo much alarmed at the idea, that, the very inſtant it occurred to me, I let down the glaſs, and made a ſudden effort to open the chariot-door myſelf, with a view of jumping into the ſtreet; but he caught hold of me, exclaiming, ‘"For Heaven's ſake, what is the matter?"’
‘"I—I don't know,"’ cried I, (quite out of breath) ‘"but I am ſure the man goes wrong, and, if you will not ſpeak to him, I am determined I will get out myſelf."’
‘"You amaze me,"’ anſwered he, (ſtill holding me) ‘"I cannot imagine what you apprehend. Surely you can have no doubts of my honour?"’
He drew me towards him as he ſpoke. I was dreadfully frightened, and could hardly ſay, ‘"No, Sir, no,—none at all,—only Mrs. Mirvan,—I think ſhe will be uneaſy."’
‘"Whence this alarm, my deareſt angel?—What can you fear?—my life is at your devo⯑tion, and can you, then, doubt my protection?"’
And ſo ſaying, he paſſionately kiſſed my hand.
[130] Never, in my whole life, have I been ſo terri⯑fied. I broke forcibly from him, and, putting my head out of the window, called aloud to the man to ſtop. Where we then were I knew not, but I ſaw not a human being, or I ſhould have called for help.
Sir Clement, with great earneſtneſs, endeavour⯑ed to appeaſe and compoſe me; ‘"If you do not intend to murder me,"’ cried I, ‘"for mercy's, for pity's ſake, let me get out!"’
‘"Compoſe your ſpirits, my deareſt life,"’ cried he, ‘"and I will do every thing you would have me."’ And then he called to the man himſelf, and bid him make haſte to Queen-Ann-Street. ‘"This ſtupid fellow,"’ continued he, ‘"has certainly miſ⯑taken my orders; but I hope you are now fully ſatisfied."’
I made no anſwer, but kept my head at the window, watching which way he drove, but with⯑out any comfort to myſelf, as I was quite unac⯑quainted with either the right or the wrong.
Sir Clement now poured forth abundant proteſt⯑ations of honour, and aſſurances of reſpect, en⯑treating my pardon for having offended me, and beſeeching my good opinion: but I was quite ſilent, having too much apprehenſion to make re⯑proaches, and too much anger to ſpeak without.
In this manner we went through ſeveral ſtreets, till at laſt, to my great terror, he ſuddenly ordered the man to ſtop, and ſaid, ‘"Miſs Anville, we are now within twenty yards of your houſe; but I cannot bear to part with you, till you generouſly forgive me for the offence you have taken, and pro⯑miſe not to make it known to the Mirvans."’
I heſitated between fear and indignation.
[131] ‘"Your reluctance to ſpeak, redoubles my con⯑trition for having diſpleaſed you, ſince it ſhews the reliance I might have on a promiſe which you will not give without conſideration."’
‘"I am very, very much diſtreſſed,"’ cried I, ‘"you aſk a promiſe which you muſt be ſenſible I ought not to grant, and yet dare not refuſe."’
‘"Drive on!"’ cried he to the coachman;—‘"Miſs Anville, I will not compel you; I will ex⯑act no promiſe, but truſt wholly to your genero⯑ſity."’
This rather ſoftened me; which advantage he no ſooner perceived, than he determined to avail himſelf of, for he flung himſelf on his knees, and pleaded with ſo much ſubmiſſion, that I was really obliged to forgive him, becauſe his humili⯑ation made me quite aſhamed: and, after that, he would not let me reſt till I gave him my word that I would not complain of him to Mrs. Mir⯑van.
My own folly and pride, which had put me in his power, were pleas which I could not but at⯑tend to in his favour. However, I ſhall take very particular care never to be again alone with him.
When, at laſt, we arrived at our houſe, I was ſo overjoyed, that I ſhould certainly have pardoned him then, if I had not before. As he handed me up ſtairs, he ſcolded his ſervant aloud, and very angrily, for having gone ſo much out of the way. Miſs Mirvan ran out to meet me,—and who ſhould I ſee behind her, but—Lord Orville!
All my joy now vaniſhed, and gave place to ſhame and confuſion; for I could not endure that he ſhould know how long a time Sir Clement and [132] I had been together, ſince I was not at liberty to aſſign any reaſon for it.
They all expreſſed great ſatisfaction at ſeeing me, and ſaid they had been extremely uneaſy and ſurpriſed that I was ſo long coming home, as they had heard from Lord Orville that I was not with Madame Duval. Sir Clement, in an affected paſſion, ſaid that his booby of a ſervant had miſunderſtood his orders, and was driving us to the upper end of Piccadilly. For my part, I only coloured, for though I would not forfeit my word, I yet diſ⯑dained to confirm a tale in which I had myſelf no belief.
Lord Orville, with great politeneſs, congratu⯑lated me that the troubles of the evening had ſo happily ended, and ſaid, that he had found it im⯑poſſible to return home, before he enquired after my ſafety.
In a very ſhort time he took leave, and Sir Cle⯑ment followed him. As ſoon as they were gone, Mrs. Mirvan, though with great ſoftneſs, blamed me for having quitted Madame Duval. I aſſured her, and with truth, that for the future I would be more prudent.
The adventures of the evening ſo much diſcon⯑certed me, that I could not ſleep all night. I am under the moſt cruel apprehenſions, left Lord Or⯑ville ſhould ſuppoſe my being on the gallery-ſtairs with Sir Clement was a concerted ſcheme, and even that our continuing ſo long together in his chariot, was with my approbation, ſince I did not ſay a word on the ſubject, nor expreſs any diſſatis⯑faction at the coachman's pretended blunder.
Yet, his coming hither to wait our arrival, though it ſeems to imply ſome doubt, ſhews alſo ſome anxiety. Indeed Miſs Mirvan ſays, that he [133] appeared extremely anxious, nay uneaſy and impa⯑tient for my return. If I did not fear to flatter myſelf, I ſhould think it not impoſſible but that he had a ſuſpicion of Sir Clement's deſign, and was therefore concerned for my ſafety.
What a long letter is this! however, I ſhall not write many more from London, for the Cap⯑tain ſaid this morning, that he would leave town on Tueſday next. Madame Duval will dine here to-day, and then ſhe is to be told his intention.
I am very much amazed that ſhe accepted Mrs. Mirvan's invitation, as ſhe was in ſuch wrath yeſ⯑terday. I fear that to-day I ſhall myſelf be the principal object of her diſpleaſure; but I muſt ſubmit patiently, for I cannot defend myſelf.
Adieu, my deareſt Sir. Should this letter be productive of any uneaſineſs to you, more than ever ſhall I repent the heedleſs imprudence which it recites.
LETTER XXII.
Evelina in continuation.
MRS. Mirvan has juſt communicated to me an anecdote concerning Lord Orville, which has much ſurpriſed, half pleaſed, and half pained me.
While they were ſitting together during the Opera, he told her that he had been greatly con⯑cerned at the impertinence which the young lady under her protection had ſuffered from Mr. Lovel; but that he had the pleaſure of aſſuring her, ſhe had no future diſturbance to apprehend from him.
[134] Mrs. Mirvan, with great eagerneſs, begged he would explain himſelf, and ſaid ſhe hoped he had not thought ſo inſignificant an affair worthy his ſe⯑rious attention.
‘"There is nothing,"’ anſwered he, ‘"which re⯑quires more immediate notice than impertinence, for it ever encroaches when it is tolerated."’ He then added, that he believed he ought to apologize for the liberty he had taken of interfering, but that, as he regarded himſelf in the light of a party concerned, from having had the honour of dancing with Miſs Anville, he could not poſſibly reconcile to himſelf a patient neutrality.
He then proceeded to tell her, that he had waited upon Mr. Lovel the morning after the play; that the viſit had proved an amicable one, but the particulars were neither entertaining nor neceſſary; he only aſſured her, Miſs Anville might be perfectly eaſy, ſince Mr. Lovel had en⯑gaged his honour never more to mention, or even to hint at what had paſſed at Mrs. Stanley's aſ⯑ſembly.
Mrs. Mirvan expreſſed her ſatisfaction at this concluſion, and thanked him for his polite atten⯑tion to her young friend.
‘"It would be needleſs,"’ ſaid he, ‘"to requeſt that this affair may never tranſpire, ſince Mrs. Mir⯑van cannot but ſee the neceſſity of keeping it in⯑violably ſecret; but I thought it incumbent upon me, as the young lady is under your protection, to aſſure both you and her of Mr. Lovel's future reſpect."’
Had I known of this viſit previous to Lord Or⯑ville's making it, what dreadful uneaſineſs would it have coſt me! Yet that he ſhould ſo much in⯑tereſt himſelf in ſecuring me from offence, gives [135] me, I muſt own, an internal pleaſure greater than I can expreſs, for I feared he had too contemp⯑tuous an opinion of me, to take any trouble upon my account. Though, after all, this interference might rather be to ſatisfy his own delicacy, than from thinking well of me.
But how cool, how quiet is true courage! Who, from ſeeing Lord Orville at the play, would have imagined his reſentment would have hazarded his life? yet his diſpleaſure was evident, though his real bravery and his politeneſs equally guarded him from entering into any diſcuſſion in our preſence.
Madame Duval, as I expected, was moſt ter⯑ribly angry yeſterday; ſhe ſcolded me for I believe two hours, on account of having left her, and pro⯑teſted ſhe had been ſo much ſurpriſed at my going, without giving her time to anſwer, that ſhe hardly knew whether ſhe was awake or aſleep. But ſhe aſſured me, that if ever I did ſo again, ſhe would never more take me into public. And ſhe expreſſed an equal degree of diſpleaſure againſt Sir Clement, becauſe he had not even ſpoken to her, and becauſe he was always of the Captain's ſide in an argument. The Captain, as bound in honour, warmly de⯑fended him, and then followed a diſpute in the uſual ſtyle.
After dinner, Mrs. Mirvan introduced the ſub⯑ject of our leaving London. Madame Duval ſaid ſhe ſhould ſtay a month or two longer. The Cap⯑tain told her ſhe was welcome, but that he and his family ſhould go into the country on Tueſday morning.
A moſt diſagreeable ſcene followed; Madame Duval inſiſted upon keeping me with her; but Mrs. Mirvan ſaid, that as I was actually engaged on a viſit to Lady Howard, who had only conſented to [136] my leaving her for a few days, ſhe could not think of returning without me.
Perhaps if the Captain had not interfered, the good-breeding and mildneſs of Mrs. Mirvan might have had ſome effect upon Madame Duval; but he paſſes no opportunity of provoking her, and therefore made ſo many groſs and rude ſpeeches, all of which ſhe retorted, that, in concluſion, ſhe vowed ſhe would ſooner go to law, in right of her relationſhip, than that I ſhould be taken away from her.
I heard this account from Mrs. Mirvan, who was ſo kindly conſiderate as to give me a pretence for quitting the room, as ſoon as this diſpute begun, leſt Madame Duval ſhould refer to me, and inſiſt on my obedience.
The final reſult of the converſation, was, that, to ſoften matters for the preſent, Madame Duval ſhould make one in the party for Howard Grove, whither we are poſitively to go next Wedneſday.
Mrs. Mirvan is now writing to Lady Howard, to excuſe bringing this unexpected gueſt, and to prevent the diſagreeable ſurpriſe, which muſt, otherwiſe, attend her reception. This dear lady ſeems eternally ſtudying my happineſs and advan⯑tage.
To-night we go to the Pantheon, which is the laſt diverſion we ſhall partake of in London, for to-morrow—
This moment, my deareſt Sir, I have received your kind letter.
If you thought us too diſſipated the firſt week, I almoſt fear to know what you will think of us [137] this ſecond;—however, the Pantheon this even⯑ing will probably be the laſt public place which I ſhall ever ſee.
The aſſurance of your ſupport and protection in regard to Madame Duval, though what I never doubted, excites my utmoſt gratitude: how, in⯑deed, cheriſhed under your roof, the happy ob⯑ject of your conſtant indulgence, how could I have borne to become the ſlave of her tyrannical hu⯑mours?—pardon me that I ſpeak ſo hardly of her, but, whenever the idea of paſſing my days with her occurs to me, the compariſon which naturally fol⯑lows, takes from me all that forbearance, which, I believe, I owe her.
You are already diſpleaſed with Sir Clement: to be ſure, then, his behaviour after the opera will not make his peace with you. Indeed, the more I reflect upon it, the more angry I am. I was en⯑tirely in his power, and it was cruel in him to cauſe me ſo much terror.
O my deareſt Sir, were I but worthy the prayers and the wiſhes you offer for me, the utmoſt am⯑bition of my heart would be fully ſatisfied! but I greatly fear you will find me, now that I am out of the reach of your aſſiſting prudence, more weak and imperfect than you could have expected.
I have not now time to write another word, for I muſt immediately haſten to dreſs for the evening.
LETTER XXIII.
Evelina in continuation.
[138]THERE is ſomething to me half melancholy in writing an account of our laſt adventures in London; however, as this day is merely appro⯑priated to packing, and preparations for our journey, and as I ſhall ſhortly have no more adventures to write, I think I may as well complete my town journal at once. And, when you have it all to⯑gether, I hope, my dear Sir, you will ſend me your obſervations and thoughts upon it to Howard Grove.
About eight o'clock we went to the Pantheon. I was extremely ſtruck with the beauty of the building, which greatly ſurpaſſed whatever I could have expected or imagined. Yet, it has more the appearance of a chapel, than of a place of diver⯑ſion; and, though I was quite charmed with the magnificence of the room, I felt that I could not be as gay and thoughtleſs there as at Ranelagh, for there is ſomething in it which rather inſpires awe and ſolemnity, than mirth and pleaſure. How⯑ever, perhaps it may only have this effect upon ſuch a novice as myſelf.
I ſhould have ſaid, that our party conſiſted only of Captain, Mrs. and Miſs Mirvan, as Madame Duval ſpent the day in the city:—which I own I could not lament.
There was a great deal of company; but the firſt perſon we ſaw was Sir Clement Willoughby. He addreſſed us with his uſual eaſe, and joined us [139] for the whole evening. I felt myſelf very uneaſy in his preſence; for I could not look at him, nor hear him ſpeak, without recollecting the chariot adventure; but, to my great amazement, I ob⯑ſerved that he looked at me without the leaſt ap⯑parent diſcompoſure, though certainly he ought not to think of his behaviour without bluſhing. I really wiſh I had not forgiven him, and then he could not have ventured to ſpeak to me any more.
There was an exceeding good concert, but too much talking to hear it well. Indeed I am quite aſtoniſhed to find how little muſic is attended to in ſilence; for though every body ſeems to admire, hardly any body liſtens.
We did not ſee Lord Orville, till we went into the tea-room, which is large, low, and under ground, and ſerves merely as a foil to the apart⯑ments above; he then ſat next to us; he ſeemed to belong to a large party, chiefly of ladies; but, among the gentlemen attending them, I perceived Mr. Lovel.
I was extremely irreſolute whether or not I ought to make any acknowledgments to Lord Or⯑ville for his generous conduct in ſecuring me from the future impertinence of that man; and I thought, that as he had ſeemed to allow Mrs. Mirvan to ac⯑quaint me, though no one elſe, of the meaſures which he had taken, he might perhaps ſuppoſe me ungrateful if ſilent: however I might have ſpared myſelf the trouble of deliberating, as I never once had the ſhadow of an opportunity of ſpeaking unheard by Sir Clement. On the contrary, he was ſo exceedingly officious and forward, that I could not ſay a word to any body, but inſtantly he bent his head forward, with an air of profound at⯑tention, as if I had addreſſed myſelf wholly to [140] him: and yet, I never once looked at him, and would not have ſpoken to him on any account.
Indeed, Mrs. Mirvan herſelf, though unac⯑quainted with the behaviour of Sir Clement after the opera, ſays it is not right for a young woman to be ſeen ſo frequently in public with the ſame gentleman; and, if our ſtay in town was to be lengthened, ſhe would endeavour to repreſent to the Captain the impropriety of allowing his con⯑ſtant attendance; for Sir Clement, with all his eaſineſs, could not be ſo eternally of our parties, if the Captain was leſs fond of his company.
At the ſame table with Lord Orville, ſat a gen⯑tleman,—I call him ſo only becauſe he was at the ſame table,—who, almoſt from the moment I was ſeated, fixed his eyes ſtedfaſtly on my face, and never once removed them to any other object dur⯑ing tea-time, notwithſtanding my diſlike of his ſtar⯑ing muſt, I am ſure, have been very evident. I was quite ſurpriſed, that a man whoſe boldneſs was ſo offenſive, could have gained admiſſion into a party of which Lord Orville made one; for I na⯑turally concluded him to be ſome low-bred, and uneducated man; and I thought my idea was in⯑dubitably confirmed, when I heard him ſay to Sir Clement Willoughby, in an audible whiſper,—which is a mode of ſpeech very diſtreſſing and diſagree⯑able to by-ſtanders,—‘"For Heaven's ſake, Wil⯑loughby, who is that lovely creature?"’
But what was my amazement, when, liſten⯑ing attentively for the anſwer, though my head was turned another away, I heard Sir Clement ſay, ‘"I am ſorry I cannot inform your Lordſhip, but I am ignorant myſelf."’
Lordſhip!—how extraordinary! that a nobleman, accuſtomed, in all probability, to the firſt rank [141] of company in the kingdom, from his earlieſt in⯑fancy, can poſſibly be deficient in good manners, however faulty in morals and principles! Even Sir Clement Willoughby appeared modeſt in compa⯑riſon with this perſon.
During tea, a converſation was commenced up⯑on the times, faſhions, and public places, in which the company of both tables joined. It began by Sir Clement's enquiring of Miſs Mirvan and of me if the Pantheon had anſwered our expectations.
We both readily agreed that it had greatly ex⯑ceeded them.
‘"Ay, to be ſure,"’ ſaid the Captain, ‘"why you don't ſuppoſe they'd confeſs they did n't like it, do you? Whatever's the faſhion, they muſt like of courſe;—or elſe I'd be bound for it they'd own, that there never was ſuch a dull place as this here invented."’
‘"And has, then, this building,"’ ſaid Lord Orville, ‘"no merit that may ſerve to leſſen your cenſure? Will not your eye, Sir, ſpeak ſomething in its favour?"’
‘"Eye,"’ cried the Lord, (I don't know his name,) ‘"and is there any eye here, that can find any pleaſure in looking at dead walls or ſtatues, when ſuch heavenly living objects as I now ſee demand all their admiration?"’
‘"O, certainly,"’ ſaid Lord Orville, ‘"the life⯑leſs ſymmetry of architecture, however beautiful the deſign and proportion, no man would be ſo mad as to put in competition with the animated charms of nature: but when, as to-night, the eye may be regaled at the ſame time, and in one view, with all the excellence of art, and all the perfec⯑tion of nature, I cannot think that either ſuffer by being ſeen together."’
[142] ‘"I grant, my Lord,"’ ſaid Sir Clement, ‘"that the cool eye of unimpaſſioned philoſophy may view both with equal attention, and equal ſafety; but, where the heart is not ſo well guarded, it is apt to interfere, and render, even to the eye, all objects but one inſipid and unintereſting."’
‘"Aye, aye,"’ cried the Captain, ‘"you may talk what you will of your eye here, and your eye there, and, for the matter of that, to be ſure you have two,—but we all know they both ſquint one way."’
‘"Far be it from me,"’ ſaid Lord Orville, ‘"to diſpute the magnetic power of beauty, which ir⯑reſiſtibly draws and attracts whatever has ſoul and ſympathy: and I am happy to acknowledge, that though we have now no gods to occupy a manſion profeſſedly built for them, yet we have ſecured their better halves, for we have goddeſſes to whom we all moſt willingly bow down."’ And then, with a very droll air, he made a profound reve⯑rence to the ladies.
‘"They'd need be goddeſſes with a vengeance,"’ ſaid the Captain, ‘"for they're mortal dear to look at. Howſomever, I ſhould be glad to know what you can ſee in e'er a face among them that's worth half a guinea for a ſight."’
‘"Half a guinea,"’ exclaimed that ſame Lord, ‘"I would give half I am worth, for a ſight of only one, provided I make my own choice. And, prithee, how can money be better employed than in the ſervice of fine women?"’
‘"If the ladies of his own party can pardon the Captain's ſpeech,"’ ſaid Sir Clement, ‘"I think he has a fair claim to the forgiveneſs of all."’
‘"Then you depend very much, as I doubt not but you may,"’ ſaid Lord Orville, ‘"upon the ge⯑neral [143] ſweetneſs of the ſex;—but, as to the ladies of the Captain's party, they may eaſily pardon, for they cannot be hurt."’
‘"But they muſt have a deviliſh good conceit of themſelves, though,"’ ſaid the Captain, ‘"to believe all that. Howſomever, whether or no, I ſhould be glad to be told, by ſome of you who ſeem to be knowing in them things, what kind of diverſion can be found in ſuch a place as this here, for one who has had, long ago, his full of face-hunting?"’
Every body laughed, but nobody ſpoke.
‘"Why look you there, now,"’ continued the Captain, ‘"you're all at a dead ſtand!—not a man among you can anſwer that there queſtion. Why, then, I muſt make bold to conclude, that you all come here for no manner of purpoſe but to ſtare at one another's pretty faces;—though, for the matter of that, half of 'em are plaguy ugly,—and, as to t'other half,—I believe it's none of God's manufactory."’
‘"What the ladies may come hither for, Sir,"’ ſaid Mr. Lovel, (ſtroking his ruffles, and looking down,) ‘"it would ill become us to determine; but as to we men, doubtleſs we can have no other view, than to admire them."’
‘"If I be n't miſtaken,"’ cried the Captain, (looking earneſtly in his face,) ‘"you are that ſame perſon we ſaw at Love for Love t'other night;—be n't you?"’
Mr. Lovel bowed.
‘"Why then, Gentlemen,"’ continued he, with a loud laugh, ‘"I muſt tell you a moſt excellent good joke;—when all was over, as ſure as you're alive, he aſked what the play was! Ha, ha, ha!"’
[144] ‘"Sir,"’ ſaid Mr Lovel, colouring, ‘"if you were as much uſed to a town life as I am,—which, I preſume, is not preciſely the caſe,—I fancy you would not find ſo much diverſion from a circum⯑ſtance ſo common."’
‘"Common! what, is it common?"’ repeated the Captain; ‘"why then, 'fore George, ſuch chaps are more fit to be ſent to ſchool, and well diſciplined with a cat o' nine tails, than to poke their heads into a play-houſe. Why, a play is the only thing left, now-a-days, that has a grain of ſenſe in it; for as to all the reſt of your public places, d'ye ſee, if they were all put together, I would n't give that for 'em!"’ ſnapping his fingers. ‘"And now we're talking of them ſort of things, there's your operas,—I ſhould like to know, now, what any of you can find to ſay for them."’
Lord Orville, who was moſt able to have an⯑ſwered, ſeemed by no means to think the Captain worthy an argument, upon a ſubject concerning which he had neither knowledge nor feeling: but, turning to us, he ſaid, ‘"The ladies are ſilent, and we ſeem to have engroſſed the converſation to our⯑ſelves, in which we are much more our own ene⯑mies than theirs. But,"’ addreſſing himſelf to Miſs Mirvan and me, ‘"I am moſt deſirous to hear the opinions of theſe young ladies, to whom all public places muſt, as yet, be new."’
We both, and with eagerneſs, declared that we had received as much, if not more pleaſure, at the opera than any where: but we had better have been ſilent; for the Captain, quite diſpleaſed, ſaid, ‘what ſignifies aſking them girls? Do you think they know their own minds yet? Aſk 'em after any thing that's called diverſion, and you're ſure they'll ſay it's vaſtly fine;—they are ſet of [145] parrots, and ſpeak by rote, for they all ſay the ſame thing: but aſk 'em how they like making puddings and pies, and I'll warrant you'll poſe 'em. As to them operas, I deſire I may hear no more of their liking ſuch monſenſe; and for you, Moll,"’ to his daughter, ‘"I charge you, as you value my favour, that you'll never again be ſo impertinent as to have a taſte of your own before my face. There are fools enough in the world, without your adding to their number. I'll have no daugh⯑ter of mine affect them ſort of megrims. It is a ſhame they a'n't put down; and if I'd my will, there's not a magiſtrate in this town, but ſhould be knocked of the head for ſuffering them. If you've a mind to praiſe any thing, why you may praiſe a play, and welcome, for I like it my⯑ſelf."’
This reproof effectually ſilenced us both for the reſt of the evening. Nay, indeed, for ſome mi⯑nutes it ſeemed to ſilence every body elſe; till Mr. Lovel, not willing to loſe an opportunity of re⯑turning the Captain's ſarcaſm, ſaid, ‘"Why, really, Sir, it is but natural, to be moſt pleaſed with what is moſt familiar, and, I think, of all our diverſi⯑ons, there is not one ſo much in common between us and the country, as a play. Not a village but has its barns and comedians; and as for the ſtage⯑buſineſs, why it may be pretty equally done any where; and even in regard to us, and the canaille, confined as we all are within the ſemi-circle of a theatre, there is no place where the diſtinction is leſs obvious."’
While the Captain ſeemed conſidering for Mr. Lovel's meaning, Lord Orville, probably with a view to prevent his finding it, changed the ſubject [146] to Cox's Muſeum, and aſked what he thought of it?
‘"Think!—"’ ſaid he, ‘"why I think as how it i'n't worth thinking about. I like no ſuch jem cracks. It is only fit, in my mind, for monkeys,—though, for I aught I know, they too might turn up their noſes at it."’
‘"May we aſk your Lordſhip's own opinion?"’ ſaid Mrs. Mirvan.
‘"The mechaniſm,"’ anſwered he, ‘"is wonder⯑fully ingenious: I am ſorry it is turned to no bet⯑ter account; but its purport is ſo frivolous, ſo very remote from all aim at inſtruction or utility, that the ſight of ſo fine a ſhew, only leaves a regret on the mind, that ſo much work, and ſo much inge⯑nuity, ſhould not be better beſtowed."’
‘"The truth is,"’ ſaid the Captain, ‘"that in all this huge town, ſo full as it is of folks of all ſorts, there i'n't ſo much as one public place, be⯑ſides the play-houſe, where a man, that's to ſay a man who is a man, ought not to be aſhamed to ſhew his face. T'other day, they got me to a ridotto; but I believe it will be long enough be⯑fore they get me to another. I knew no more what to do with myſelf, than if my ſhip's company had been metamorphoſed into Frenchmen. Then, again, there's your famous Ranelagh, that you make ſuch a fuſs about,—why what a dull place is that!—its the worſt of all."’
‘"Ranelagh dull!"—"Ranelagh dull!"’ was echoed from mouth to mouth, and all the ladies, as if of one accord, regarded the Captain with looks of the moſt ironical contempt.
‘"As to Ranelagh,"’ ſaid Mr. Lovel, ‘"moſt indubitably, though the price is plebeian, it is by no means adapted to the plebeian taſte. It requires [147] a certain acquaintance with high life, and—and—and ſomething of—of—ſomething d'un vrai goût, to be really ſenſible of its merit. Thoſe whoſe—whoſe connections, and ſo forth, are not among les gens comme il faut, can feel nothing but ennui at ſuch a place as Ranelagh.’
‘"Ranelagh!"’ cried Lord —, ‘"O, 'tis the divineſt place under heaven,—or, indeed,—for aught I know —."’
‘"O you creature!"’ cried a pretty, but affect⯑ed young lady, patting him with her fan, ‘"you ſhan't talk ſo; I know what you are going to ſay; but, poſitively, I won't ſit by you, if you're ſo wicked."’
‘"And how can one ſit by you, and be good?"’ ſaid he, ‘"when only to look at you is enough to make one wicked—or wiſh to be ſo?"’
‘"Fie, my Lord!"’ returned ſhe, ‘"you are really inſufferable. I don't think I ſhall ſpeak to you again theſe ſeven years."’
‘"What a metamorphoſis,"’ cried Lord Orville, ‘"ſhould you make a patriarch of his Lord⯑ſhip!"’
‘"Seven years!"’ ſaid he: ‘"dear Madam, be contented with telling me you will not ſpeak to me after ſeven years, and I will endeavour to ſub⯑mit."’
‘"O, very well, my Lord,"’ anſwered ſhe, ‘"pray date the end of our ſpeaking to each other as early as you pleaſe, I'll promiſe to agree to your time."’
‘"You know, dear Madam,"’ ſaid he, ſip⯑ping his tea, ‘"you know I only live in your ſight."’
[148] ‘"O yes, my Lord, I have long known that. But I begin to fear we ſhall be too late for Ranelagh this evening."’
‘"O no, Madam,"’ ſaid Mr. Lovel, looking at his watch, ‘"it is but juſt paſt ten."’
‘"No more!"’ cried ſhe, ‘"O then we ſhall do very well."’
All the ladies then ſtarted up, and declared they had no time to loſe.
‘"Why what the D—l,"’ cried the Captain, (leaning forward with both his arms on the ta⯑ble,) ‘are you going to Ranelagh at this time of night?"’
The ladies looked at one another, and ſmiled.
‘"To Ranelagh?"’ cried Lord —, ‘"Yes, and I hope you are going too; for we cannot poſſi⯑bly excuſe theſe ladies."’
‘"I go to Ranelagh?—if I do, I'll be —."’
Every body now ſtood up, and the ſtranger Lord, coming round to me, ſaid, ‘"You go, I hope?"’
‘"No, my Lord, I believe not."’
‘"O you cannot, muſt not be ſo barbarous."’ And he took my hand, and ran on ſaying ſuch fine ſpeeches and compliments, that I might almoſt have ſuppoſed myſelf a goddeſs, and him a pagan, paying me adoration. As ſoon as I poſſibly could, I drew back my hand; but he frequently, in the courſe of converſation, contrived to take it again, though it was extremely diſagreeable to me; and the more ſo, as I ſaw that Lord Orville had his eyes fixed upon us, with a gravity of attention that made me uneaſy.
And, ſurely, my dear Sir, it was a great liberty in this Lord, notwithſtanding his rank, to treat me [149] ſo freely. As to Sir Clement, he ſeemed in miſe⯑ry.
They all endeavoured to prevail with the Captain to join the Ranelagh party; and this Lord told me, in a low voice, that it was tearing his heart out to go without me.
During this converſation, Mr. Lovel came for⯑ward, and aſſuming a look of ſurpriſe, made me a bow, and enquired how I did, proteſting, upon his honour, that he had not ſeen me before, or would ſooner have paid his reſpects to me.
Though his politeneſs was evidently conſtrained, yet I was very glad to be thus aſſured of having nothing more to fear from him.
The Captain, far from liſtening to their perſua⯑ſions of accompanying them to Ranelagh, was quite in a paſſion at the propoſal, and vowed he would ſooner go to the Black-hole in Calcutta.
‘"But,"’ ſaid Lord —, ‘"if the ladies will take their tea at Ranelagh, you may depend upon our ſeeing them ſafe home, for we ſhall all be proud of the honour of attending them."’
‘"May be ſo,"’ ſaid the Captain; ‘"but I'll tell you what, if one of theſe places be n't enough for them to-night, why to-morrow they ſhall go to ne'er a one."’
We inſtantly declared ourſelves very ready to go home.
‘"It is not for yourſelves that we petition,"’ ſaid Lord —, ‘"but for us; if you have any charity, you will not be ſo cruel as to deny us; we only beg you to prolong our happineſs for a few mi⯑nutes,—the favour is but a ſmall one for you to grant, though ſo great a one for us to receive."’
‘"To tell you a piece of my mind,"’ ſaid the Captain, ſurlily, ‘"I think you might as well not [150] give the girls ſo much of this palaver: they'll take it all for goſpel. As to Moll, why ſhe's well enough, but nothing extraordinary, though, per⯑haps, you may perſuade her that her pug-noſe is all the faſhion: and as to the other, why ſhe's good white and red, to be ſure; but what of that?—I'll warrant ſhe'll moulder away as faſt as her neighbours."’
‘"Is there,"’ cried Lord —, ‘"another man in this place, who, ſeeing ſuch objects, could make ſuch a ſpeech?"’
‘"As to that there,"’ returned the Captain, ‘"I don't know whether there be or no, and, to make free, I don't care; for I ſha'n't go for to model myſelf by any of theſe fair-weather chaps, who dare not ſo much as ſay their ſouls are their own,—and, for aught I know, no more they ben't. I'm almoſt as much aſhamed of my countrymen, as if I was a Frenchman, and I believe in my heart there i'n't a pin to chuſe between them; and, before long, we ſhall hear the very ſailors talking that lingo, and ſee never a ſwabber without a bag and a ſword."’
‘"He, he, he!—well, 'pon honour,"’ cried Mr. Lovel ‘"you gentlemen of the ocean have a moſt ſevere way of judging."’
‘"Severe! 'fore George, that is impoſſible; for, to cut the matter ſhort, the men, as they call themſelves, are no better than monkeys; and as to the women, why they are mere dolls. So, now you've got my opinion of this ſubject; and ſo I wiſh you good night."’
The ladies, who were very impatient to be gone, made their courtſies, and tripped away, fol⯑lowed by all the gentlemen of their party, except the Lord I have before-mentioned, and Lord [151] Orville, who ſtayed to make enquiries of Mrs. Mirvan concerning our leaving town; and then ſaying, with his uſual politeneſs, ſomething civil to each of us, with a very grave air, he quit⯑ted us.
Lord—remained ſome minutes longer, which he ſpent in making a proſuſion of com⯑pliments to me, by which he prevented my hear⯑ing diſtinctly what Lord Orville ſaid, to my great vexation, eſpecially as he looked—I thought ſo, at leaſt,—as if diſpleaſed at his particularity of be⯑haviour to me.
In going to an outward room, to wait for the carriage, I walked, and could not poſſibly avoid it, between this nobleman and Sir Clement Wil⯑loughby; and, when the ſervant ſaid the coach ſtopped the way, though the latter offered me his hand, which I ſhould much have preferred, this ſame Lord, without any ceremony, took mine himſelf; and Sir Clement, with a look ex⯑tremely provoked, conducted Mrs. Mirvan.
In all ranks and all ſtations of liſe, how ſtrange⯑ly do characters and manners differ! Lord Orville, with a politeneſs which knows no intermiſſion, and makes no diſtinction, is as unaſſuming and modeſt, as if he had never mixed with the great, and was totally ignorant of every qualification he poſſeſſes; this other Lord, though laviſh of compliments and fine ſpeeches, ſeems to be an entire ſtranger to real good breeding; whoever ſtrikes his fancy, engroſſes his whole attention. He is forward and bold, has an air of haughtineſs towards men, and a look of libertiniſm towards women, and his con⯑cious quality ſeems to have given him a freedom in his way of ſpeaking to either ſex, that is very lit⯑tle ſhort of rudeneſs.
[152] When we returned home, we were all low⯑ſpirited; the evening's entertainment had diſpleaſed the Captain, and his diſpleaſure, I believe, diſcon⯑certed us all.
And here I thought to have concluded my letter; but, to my great ſurpriſe, juſt now we had a viſit from Lord Orville. He called, he ſaid, to pay his reſpects to us before we left town, and made many enquiries concerning our return; and, when Mrs. Mirvan told him we were going into the country without any view of again quitting it, he expreſſed his concern in ſuch terms—ſo polite, ſo flattering, ſo ſerious—that I could hardly forbear being ſorry myſelf. Were I to go immediately to Berry Hill, I am ſure I ſhould feel nothing but joy;—but, now we are joined by this Captain, and by Madame Duval, I muſt own I expect very little pleaſure at Howard Grove.
Before Lord Orville went Sir Clement Wil⯑loughby called. He was more grave than I had ever ſeen him, and made ſeveral attempts to ſpeak to me in a low voice, and to aſſure me that his regret upon the occaſion of our journey, was en⯑tirely upon my account. But I was not in ſpirits, and could not bear to be teazed by him. However, he has ſo well paid his court to Captain Mirvan, that he gave him a very hearty invitation to the Grove. At this, he brightened,—and, juſt then, Lord Orville took his leave!
No doubt but he was diſguſted at this ill-timed, ill-bred partiality; for ſurely it was very wrong to make an invitation before Lord Orville, in which he was not included! I was ſo much chagrined that, as ſoon as he went, I left the room; and I ſhall not go down ſtairs till Sir Clement is gone.
[153] Lord Orville cannot but obſerve his aſſiduous endeavours to ingratiate himſelf into my favour; and does not this extravagant civility of Captain Mirvan, give him reaſon to ſuppoſe, that it meets with our general approbation? I cannot think upon this ſubject, without inexpreſſible uneaſineſs;—and yet, I can think of nothing elſe.
Adieu, my deareſt Sir. Pray write to me im⯑mediately. How many long letters has this one ſhort fortnight produced! More than I may, pro⯑bably, ever write again: I fear I ſhall have tired you with reading them, but you will now have time to reſt, for I ſhall find but little to ſay in future.
And now, moſt honoured Sir, with all the fol⯑lies and imperfections which I have thus faithfully recounted, can you, and with unabated kindneſs, ſuffer me to ſign myſelf
LETTER XXIV.
Mr. Villars to Evelina.
HOW much do I rejoice that I can again ad⯑dreſs my letters to Howard Grove! My Evelina would have grieved, had ſhe known the anxiety of my mind, during her reſidence in the great world. My apprehenſions have been inexpreſſibly alarm⯑ing; and your journal, at once exciting and [154] relieving my fears, has almoſt wholly occupied me, ſince the time of your dating it from London.
Sir Clement Willoughby muſt be an artful, de⯑ſigning man; I am extremely irritated at his con⯑duct. The paſſion he pretends for you has neither ſincerity nor honour; the manner and the oppor⯑tunities he has choſen to declare it, are bordering upon inſult.
His unworthy behaviour after the opera, convin⯑ces me, that, had not your vehemence frightened him, Queen-Ann-Street would have been the laſt place whither he would have ordered his chariot. O my child, how thankful am I for your eſcape! I need not now, I am ſure, enlarge upon your in⯑diſcretion and want of thought, in ſo haſtily truſt⯑ing yourſelf with a man ſo little known to you, and whoſe gaiety and flightineſs ſhould have put you on your guard.
The nobleman you met at the Pantheon, bold and forward as you deſcribe him to be, gives me no apprehenſion; a man who appears ſo openly li⯑centious, and who makes his attack with ſo little regard to decorum, is one who, to ſuch a mind as my Evelina's, can never be ſeen but with the diſguſt which his manners ought to excite.
But Sir Clement, though he ſeeks occaſions to give real offence, contrives to avoid all appearance of intentional evil. He is far more dangerous, be⯑cauſe more artful; but I am happy to obſerve, that he ſeems to have made no impreſſion upon your heart, and therefore a very little care and prudence may ſecure you from thoſe deſigns which I fear he has formed.
Lord Orville appears to be of a better order of beings. His ſpirited conduct to the meanly imper⯑tinent Lovel, and his anxiety for you after the [155] opera, prove him to be a man of ſenſe and of feel⯑ing. Doubtleſs he thought there was much reaſon to tremble for your ſafety, while expoſed to the power of Sir Clement; and he acted with a re⯑gard to real honour, that will always incline me to think well of him, in ſo immediately acquaint⯑ing the Mirvan family with your ſituation. Many men of this age, from a falſe and pretended deli⯑cacy to a friend, would have quietly purſued their own affairs, and thought it more honourable to leave an unſuſpecting young creature to the mercy of a libertine, than to riſk his diſpleaſure by taking meaſures for her ſecurity.
Your evident concern at leaving London, is very natural; and yet it afflicts me. I ever dread⯑ed your being too much pleaſed with a life of diſ⯑ſipation, which youth and vivacity render but too alluring; and I almoſt regret the conſent for your journey, which I had not the reſolution to with⯑hold.
Alas, my child, the artleſſneſs of your nature, and the ſimplicity of your education, alike unfit you for the thorny paths of the great and buſy world. The ſuppoſed obſcurity of your birth and ſituation, makes you liable to a thouſand diſagree⯑able adventures. Not only my views, but my hopes for your future life, have ever centered in the country. Shall I own to you, that, however I may differ from Captain Mirvan in other re⯑ſpects, yet my opinion of the town, its manners, inhabitants, and diverſions, is much upon a level with his own? Indeed it is the general harbour of fraud and of folly, of duplicity and of imperti⯑nence; and I wiſh few things more fervently, than that you may have taken a laſting leave of it.
[156] Remember, however, that I only ſpeak in re⯑gard to a public and a diſſipated life; in private families, we may doubtleſs find as much goodneſs, honeſty, and virtue, in London as in the country.
If contented with a retired ſtation, I ſtill hope I ſhall live to ſee my Evelina the ornament of her neighbourhood, and the pride and delight of her family: giving and receiving joy from ſuch ſociety as may beſt deſerve her affection, and employing herſelf in ſuch uſeful and innocent occupations as may ſecure and merit the tendereſt love of her friends, and the worthieſt ſatisfaction of her own heart.
Such are my hopes, and ſuch have been my expectations. Diſappoint them not, my beloved child, but chear me with a few lines, that may aſſure me, this one ſhort fortnight ſpent in town, has not undone the work of ſeventeen years ſpent in the country.
LETTER XXV.
Evelina to the Rev. Mr. Villars.
NO, my dear Sir, no; the work of ſeventeen years remains ſuch as it was, ever unworthy your time and your labour, but not more ſo now,—at leaſt I hope not,—than before that fortnight which has ſo much alarmed you.
And yet, I muſt confeſs, that I am not half ſo happy here at preſent, as I was ere I went to town: but the change is in the place, not in me. Captain [157] Mirvan and Madame Duval have ruined Howard Grove. The harmony that reigned here, is diſ⯑turbed, our ſchemes are broken, our way of life is altered, and our comfort is deſtroyed. But do not ſuppoſe London to be the ſource of theſe evils; for, had our excurſion been any where elſe, ſo diſagree⯑able an addition to our houſhold, muſt have cauſed the ſame change at our return.
I was ſure you would be diſpleaſed with Sir Cle⯑ment, and therefore I am by no means ſurpriſed at what you ſay of him: but for lord Orville—I muſt own I had greatly feared, that my weak and im⯑perfect account would not have procured him the good opinion which he ſo well deſerves, and which I am delighted to find you ſeem to have of him. O, Sir, could I have done juſtice to the merit of which I believe him poſſeſſed,—could I have paint⯑ed him to you ſuch as he appeared to me,—then, indeed, you would have had ſome idea of the claim which he has to your approbation!
After the laſt letter which I wrote in town, no⯑thing more paſſed previous to our journey hither, except a very violent quarrel between Captain Mir⯑van and Madame Duval. As the Captain intend⯑ed to travel on horſeback, he had ſettled that we four females ſhould make uſe of his coach. Ma⯑dame Duval did not come to Queen Ann-ſtreet, till the carriage had waited ſome time at the door, and then, attended by Monſieur Du Bois, ſhe made her appearance.
The Captain, impatient to be gone, would not ſuffer them to enter the houſe, but inſiſted that we ſhould immediately get into the coach. We obeyed; but were no ſooner ſeated than Madame Duval ſaid, ‘"Come, Monſieur Du Bois, theſe [158] girls can make very good room for you; ſit cloſer, children."’
Mrs. Mirvan looked quite confounded, and M. Du Bois, after making ſome apologies about crowd⯑ing us, actually got into the coach, on the ſide with Miſs Mirvan and me. But no ſooner was he ſeated than the Captain, who had obſerved this tranſaction very quietly, walked up to the coach⯑door, ſaying, ‘"What neither with your leave, nor by your leave?"’
M. Du Bois ſeemed rather ſhocked, and began to make abundance of excuſes; but the Captain neither underſtood nor regarded him, and, very roughly ſaid, ‘"Look'ee, Monſieur, this here may be a French faſhion, for aught I know;—but Give and Take is fair, in all nations; and ſo now, d'ye ſee, I'll make bold to ſhew you an Engliſh one."’
And then ſeizing his wriſt, he made him jump out of the coach.
M. Du Bois inſtantly put his hand upon his ſword, and threatened to reſent this indignity. The Cap⯑tain, holding up his ſtick, bid him draw at his peril. Mrs. Mirvan, greatly alarmed, got out of the coach, and ſtanding between them, entreated her huſband to re-enter the houſe.
‘"None of your clack!"’ cried he, angirly, ‘"what the D—l, do you ſuppoſe I can't ma⯑nage a Frenchman?"’
Mean time, Madame Duval called out to M. Du Bois, ‘"Eh, laiſſez-le, mon ami, ne le corriger pas; c' eſt un vilain bête qui ne vaut pas la peine."’
‘"Monſieur le Capitaine,"’ cried M. Du Bois, ‘"voulez-vous bien me demander pardon?"’
‘"O ho, you demand pardon; do you?"’ ſaid the Captain, ‘"I thought as much; I thought you'd come to;—ſo you have loſt your reliſh for [159] an Engliſh ſalutation, have you?"’ ſtrutting up to him with looks of defiance.
A crowd was now gathering, and Mrs. Mirvan again beſought her huſband to go into the houſe.
‘"Why what a plague is the woman afraid of?—did you ever know a Frenchman that could not take an affront?—I warrant Monſieur knows what he is about;—don't you, Monſieur?"’
M. Du Bois, not underſtanding him, only ſaid, ‘"plait-il, Monſieur?’
‘"No, nor diſh me, neither,"’ anſwered the Captain; ‘"but be that as it may, what ſignifies our parleying here? if you've any thing to propoſe, ſpeak at once; if not, why let us go on our journey without more ado."’
‘"Parbleu, je n'entends rien, moi!"’ cried M. Du Bois, ſhrugging his ſhoulders, and looking very diſ⯑mal.
Mrs. Mirvan then advanced to him, and faid, in French, that ſhe was ſure the Captain had not any intention to affront him, and begged he would de⯑ſiſt from a diſpute which could only be productive of mutual miſunderſtanding, as neither of them knew the language of the other.
This ſenſible remonſtrance had the deſired effect, and M. Du Bois, making a bow to every one, ex⯑cept the Captain, very wiſely gave up the point, and took leave.
We then hoped to proceed quietly on our jour⯑ney; but the turbulent Captain would not yet per⯑mit us: he approached Madame Duval with an exulting air, and ſaid, ‘"Why how's this, Madam? what, has your champion deſerted you? why I thought you told me that you old gentlewomen had it all your own way, among them French ſparks?"’
‘"As to that, Sir,"’ anſwered ſhe, ‘"it's not of no conſequence what you thought; for a perſon [160] who can behave in ſuch a low way, may think what he pleaſes for me, for I ſha'n't mind."’
‘"Why, then, Miſtreſs, ſince you muſt needs make ſo free,"’ cried he, ‘"pleaſe to tell me the reaſon why you took the liberty for to aſk any of your followers into my coach, without my leave? Anſwer me to that."’
‘"Why then, pray, Sir,"’ returned ſhe, ‘"tell me, the reaſon why you took the liberty to treat the gentleman in ſuch a impolite way, as to take and pull him neck and heels out? I'm ſure he had n't done nothing to affront you, nor nobody elſe; and I don't know what great hurt he would have done you, by juſt ſitting ſtill in the coach; he would not have eat it."’
‘"What, do you think, then, that my horſes have nothing to do, but to carry about your ſnivel⯑ling Frenchmen? If you do, Madam, I muſt make bold to tell you, you are out, for I'll ſee 'em hanged firſt."’
‘"More brute you, then! for they've never carried nobody half ſo good"’
‘Why, look'ee, Madam, if you muſt needs pro⯑voke me, I'll tell you a piece of my mind; you muſt know, I can ſee as far into a mill-ſtone as another man; and ſo, if you thought for to fob me off with one of your ſmirking French puppies for a ſon-in-law, why you'll find yourſelf in a hobble,—that's all."’
‘"Sir, you're a—but I won't ſay what;—but, I proteſt, I had n't no ſuch a thought, no more had n't Monſieur Du Bois."’
‘"My dear,"’ ſaid Mrs. Mirvan, ‘"we ſhall be very late."’
‘"Well, well,"’ anſwered he, ‘get away then; off with you, as faſt as you can, it's high time. As to Molly, ſhe's fine lady enough in all con⯑ſcience; [161] I want none of your French chaps to make her worſe."’
And ſo ſaying, he mounted his horſe, and we drove off. And I could not but think with regret of the different feelings we experienced upon leav⯑ing London, to what had belonged to our enter⯑ing it!
During the journey, Madame Duval was ſo ve⯑ry violent againſt the Captain, that ſhe obliged Mrs. Mirvan to tell her, that, when in her pre⯑ſence, ſhe muſt beg her to chuſe ſome other ſubject of diſcourſe.
We had a moſt affectionate reception from Lady Howard, whoſe kindneſs and hoſpitality cannot fail of making every body happy, who is diſpoſed ſo to be.
Adieu, my deareſt Sir. I hope, though I have hitherto neglected to mention it, that you have al⯑ways remembered me to whoever has made any enquiry concerning me.
LETTER XXVI.
Evelina to the Rev. Mr. Villars.
O MY dear Sir, I now write in the greateſt un⯑eaſineſs! Madame Duval has made a propoſal which terrifies me to death, and which was as unexpected, as it is ſhocking.
She had been employed for ſome hoursthis af⯑ternoon in reading letters from London, and, juſt about tea-time, ſhe ſent for me into her room, and ſaid, with a look of great ſatisfaction, ‘"Come [162] here, child, I've got ſome very good news to tell you: ſomething that will ſurpriſe you, I'll give you my word, for you ha'n't no notion of it."’
I begged her to explain herſelf; and then, in terms which I cannot repeat, ſhe ſaid ſhe had been conſidering what a ſhame it was, to ſee me ſuch a poor country, ſhame-faced thing, when I ought to be a fine lady; and that ſhe had long, and upon ſeveral occaſions, bluſhed for me, though ſhe muſt own the fault was none of mine: for nothing bet⯑ter could be expected from a girl who had been ſo immured. However, ſhe aſſured me ſhe had, at length, hit upon a plan, which would make quite another creature of me.
I waited, without much impatience, to hear what this preface led to; but I was ſoon awakened to more lively ſenſations, when ſhe acquainted me, that her intention was to prove my birthright, and to claim, by law, the inheritance of my real fa⯑mily!
It would be impoſſible for me to expreſs my ex⯑treme conſternation, when ſhe thus unfolded her ſcheme. My ſurpriſe and terror were equally great. I could ſay nothing; I heard her with a ſilence which I had not the power to break.
She then expatiated very warmly upon the ad⯑vantages I ſhould reap from her plan; talked in a high ſtyle of my future grandeur; aſſured me how heartily I ſhould deſpiſe almoſt every body and every thing I had hitherto ſeen; predicted my mar⯑rying into ſome family of the firſt rank in the king⯑dom; and, finally, ſaid I ſhould ſpend a few months in Paris, where my education and manners might receive their laſt poliſh.
She enlarged alſo upon the delight ſhe ſhould have, in common with myſelf, from mortifying the [163] pride of certain people, and ſhewing them, that ſhe was not to be ſlighted with impunity.
In the midſt of this diſcourſe I was relieved by a ſummons to tea. Madame Duval was in great ſpirits; but my emotion was too painful for con⯑cealment, and every body enquired into the cauſe. I would fain have waved the ſubject, but Madame Duval was determined to make it public. She told them, that ſhe had it in her head to make ſomething of me, and that they ſhould ſoon call me by an⯑other name than that of Anville, and yet that ſhe was not going to have the child married neither.
I could not endure to hear her proceed, and was going to leave the room; which, when Lady Howard perceived, ſhe begged Madame Duval would defer her intelligence to ſome other oppor⯑tunity; but ſhe was ſo eager to communicate her ſcheme, that ſhe could bear no delay, and there⯑fore they ſuffered me to go, without oppoſition. Indeed, whenever my ſituation or affairs are men⯑tioned by Madame Duval, ſhe ſpeaks of them with ſuch bluntneſs and ſeverity, that I cannot be en⯑joined a taſk more cruel than to hear her.
I was afterwards acquainted with ſome parti⯑culars of the converſation by Miſs Mirvan, who told me that Madame Duval informed them of her plan with the utmoſt complacency, and ſeemed to think herſelf very fortunate in having ſuggeſted it; but ſoon after, ſhe accidentally betrayed, that ſhe had been inſtigated to the ſcheme by her relations the Branghtons, whoſe letters, which ſhe received to-day, firſt mentioned the propoſal. She declared that ſhe would have nothing to do with any round⯑about ways, but go openly and inſtantly to law, in order to prove my birth, real name, and title to the eſtate of my anceſtors.
[164] How impertinent and officious, in theſe Brangh⯑tons, to interfere thus in my concerns! You can hardly imagine what a diſturbance this plan has made in the family. The Captain without en⯑quiring into any particulars of the affair, has pe⯑remptorily declared himſelf againſt it, merely be⯑cauſe it has been propoſed by Madame Duval, and they have battled the point together with great violence. Mrs. Mirvan ſays ſhe will not even think, till ſhe hears your opinion. But Lady Howard, to my great ſurpriſe, openly avows her approba⯑tion of Madame Duval's intention: however, ſhe will write her reaſons and ſentiments upon the ſub⯑ject to you herſelf
As to Miſs Mirvan, ſhe is my ſecond ſelf, and neither hopes nor fears but as I do. And as to me,—I know not what to ſay, nor even what to wiſh; I have often thought my fate peculiarly cruel, to have but one parent, and from that one to be baniſhed for ever;—while, on the other ſide, I have but too well known and felt the pro⯑priety of the ſeparation. And yet, you may much better imagine than I can expreſs the internal an⯑guiſh which ſometimes oppreſſes my heart, when I reflect upon the ſtrange indifferency, that muſt occaſion a father never to make the leaſt enquiry after the health, the welfare, or even the life of his child!
O Sir, to me, the loſs is nothing!—greatly, ſweetly, and moſt benevolently have you guarded me from ſeeling it;—but for him, I grieve indeed!—I muſt be diveſted, not merely of a filial piety, but of all humanity, could I ever think upon this ſubject, and not be wounded to the ſoul.
Again I muſt repeat, I know not what to wiſh: think for me, therefore, my deareſt Sir, and ſuffer [165] my doubting mind, that knows not which way to direct its hopes, to be guided by your wiſdom and unerring counſel.
LETTER XXVII.
Lady Howard to the Rev. Mr. Villars.
I Cannot give a greater proof of the high opinion I have of your candour, than by the liberty I am now going to take, of preſuming to offer you ad⯑vice, upon a ſubject concerning which you have ſo juſt a claim to act for yourſelf: but I know you have too unaffected a love of juſtice to be par⯑tially tenacious of your own judgment.
Madame Duval has been propoſing a ſcheme which has put us all in commotion, and againſt which, at firſt, in common with the reſt of my family, I exclaimed; but upon more mature con⯑ſideration, I own my objections have almoſt wholly vaniſhed.
This ſcheme is no other than to commence a law-ſuit with Sir John Belmont, to prove the va⯑lidity of his marriage with Miſs Evelyn; the ne⯑ceſſary conſequence of which proof, will be ſecur⯑ing his fortune and eſtate to his daughter.
And why, my dear Sir, ſhould not this be? I know that, upon firſt hearing, this plan conveys ideas that muſt ſhock you; but I know too, that your mind is ſuperior to being governed by preju⯑dices, [166] or to oppoſing any important cauſe on ac⯑count of a few diſagreeable attendant circum⯑ſtances.
Your lovely charge, now firſt entering into life, has merit which ought not to be buried in obſcu⯑rity. She ſeems born for an ornament to the world. Nature has been bountiful to her of whatever ſhe had to beſtow; and the peculiar attention you have given to her education, has formed her mind to a degree of excellence, that, in one ſo young, I have ſcarce ever ſeen equalled. Fortune, alone, has hitherto been ſparing of her gifts; and ſhe, too, now opens the way which leads to all that is left to wiſh for her.
What your reaſons may have been, my good Sir, for ſo carefully concealing the birth, name, and pretenſions of this amiable girl, and forbearing to make any claim upon Sir John Belmont, I am to⯑tally a ſtranger to; but without knowing, I re⯑ſpect them, from the high opinion I have of your character and judgment: but I hope they are not inſuperable; for I cannot but think, that it was never deſigned, for one who ſeems meant to grace the world, to have her life devoted to retirement.
Surely Sir John Belmont, wretch as he has ſhewn himſelf, could never ſee his accompliſhed daughter, and not be proud to own her, and eager to ſe⯑cure her the inheritance of his fortune. The ad⯑miration ſhe met with in town, though merely the effect of her external attractions, was ſuch that Mrs. Mirvan aſſures me, ſhe would have had the moſt ſplendid offers, had there not ſeemed to be ſome myſtery in regard to her birth, which, ſhe was well informed, was aſſiduouſly, though vainly, endeavoured to be diſcovered.
[167] Can it be right, my dear Sir, that this promiſ⯑ing young creature ſhould be deprived of the for⯑tune and rank of life, to which ſhe is lawfully en⯑titled, and which you have prepared her to ſup⯑port and to uſe her ſo nobly?—To deſpiſe riches, may, indeed, be philoſophic, but to diſpenſe them worthily, muſt ſurely be more beneficial to man⯑kind.
Perhaps a few years, or indeed, a much ſhorter time, may make this ſcheme impracticable: Sir John, though yet young, leads a life too diſſipated for long duration; and, when too late, we may regret that ſomething was not ſooner done; for it will be next to impoſſible, after he is gone, to ſettle or prove any thing with his heirs and exe⯑cutors.
Pardon the earneſtneſs with which I write my ſenſe of this affair; but your charming ward has made me ſo warmly her friend, that I cannot be in⯑different upon a ſubject of ſuch importance to her future life.
Adieu, my dear Sir;—ſend me ſpeedily an an⯑ſwer to this remonſtrance, and believe me to be, &c.
LETTER XXVIII.
Mr. Villars to Lady Howard.
YOUR letter, Madam, has opened a ſource of anxiety to which I look forward with dread, and which to ſee cloſed, I ſcarcely dare expect. I am [168] unwilling to oppoſe my opinion to that of your Ladyſhip, nor, indeed, can I, but by arguments which, I believe, will rather rank me as a her⯑mit, ignorant of the world, and fit only for my cell, than as a proper guardian, in an age ſuch as this, for an accompliſhed young woman. Yet, thus called upon, it behoves me to explain, and en⯑deavour to vindicate, the reaſons by which I have been hitherto guided.
The mother of this dear child,—who was led to deſtruction by her own imprudence, the hard⯑neſs of heart of Madame Duval, and the villainy of Sir John Belmont,—was once, what her daugh⯑ter is now, the beſt beloved of my heart; and her memory, ſo long as my own holds, I ſhall love, mourn, and honour! On the fatal day that her gentle foul left its manſion, and not many hours ere ſhe ceaſed to breathe, I ſolemnly plighted my faith, That her child, if it lived, ſhould know no fa⯑ther, but myſelf, or her acknowledged huſband.
You cannot, Madam, ſuppoſe that I found much difficulty in adhering to this promiſe, and forbearing to make any claim upon Sir John Bel⯑mont. Could I feel an affection the moſt paternal for this poor ſufferer, and not abominate her de⯑ſtroyer? Could I wiſh to deliver to him, who had ſo baſely betrayed the mother, the helpleſs and innocent offspring, who, born in ſo much ſorrow, ſeemed entitled to all the compaſſionate tenderneſs of pity?
For many years, the name alone of that man, accidentally ſpoken in my hearing, almoſt diveſted me of my chriſtianity, and ſcarce could I forbear to execrate him. Yet I ſought not, neither did I deſire, to deprive him of his child, had he, with any appearance of contrition, or indeed of huma⯑nity, [169] endeavoured to become leſs unworthy ſuch a bleſſing; but he is a ſtranger to all parental feel⯑ings, and has, with a ſavage inſenſibility, forborne to enquire even into the exiſtence of this ſweet orphan, though the ſituation of his injured wife was but too well known to him.
You wiſh to be acquainted with my intentions.—I muſt acknowledge, they were ſuch as I now perceive would not be honoured with your Lady⯑ſhip's approbation: for though I have ſometimes thought of preſenting Evelina to her father, and demanding the juſtice which is her due, yet, at other times, I have both diſdained and feared the application; diſdained, leſt it ſhould be refuſed, and feared, leſt it ſhould be accepted!
Lady Belmont, who was firmly perſuaded of her approaching diſſolution, frequently and ear⯑neſtly beſought me, that if her infant was a fe⯑male, I would not abandon her to the direction of a man ſo wholly unfit to take the charge of her education; but, ſhould ſhe be importunately demanded, that I would retire with her abroad, and carefully conceal her from Sir John, till ſome apparent change in his ſentiments and conduct ſhould announce him leſs improper for ſuch a truſt. And often would ſhe ſay, ‘"Should the poor babe have any feelings correſpondent with its mother's, it will have no want, while under your protection."’ Alas! ſhe had no ſooner quitted it herſelf, than ſhe was plunged into a gulph of miſery, that ſwallowed up her peace, reputation, and life.
During the childhood of Evelina, I ſuggeſted a thouſand plans for the ſecurity of her birth⯑right;—but I as oftentimes rejected them. I was in a perpetual conflict, between the deſire that ſhe ſhould have juſtice done her, and the appre⯑henſion [170] that, while I improved her fortune, I ſhould endanger her mind. However, as her character began to be formed, and her diſpoſition to be diſplayed, my perplexity abated; the road before me ſeemed leſs thorny and intricate, and I thought I could perceive the right path from the wrong: for, when I obſerved the artleſs open⯑neſs, the ingenuous ſimplicity of her nature; when I ſaw that her guileleſs and innocent ſoul fancied all the world to be pure and diſintereſted as herſelf, and that her heart was open to every impreſſion with which love, pity, or art might aſſail it;—then did I flatter myſelf, that to follow my own inclination, and to ſecure her welfare, was the ſame thing; ſince, to expoſe her to the ſnares and dangers inevitably encircling a houſe of which the maſter is diſſipated and unprincipled, without the guidance of a mother, or any pru⯑dent and ſenſible female, ſeemed to me no leſs than ſuffering her to ſtumble into ſome dreadful pit, when the ſun was in its meridian. My plan, therefore, was not merely to educate and to che⯑riſh her as my own, but to adopt her the heireſs of my ſmall fortune, and to beſtow her upon ſome worthy man, with whom ſhe might ſpend her days in tranquillity, chearfulneſs, and good humour, untainted by vice, folly, or ambition.
So much for the time paſt. Such have been the motives by which I have been governed; and I hope they will be allowed not merely to account for, but alſo to juſtify the conduct which has re⯑ſulted from them. It now remains to ſpeak of the time to come.
And here, indeed, I am ſenſible of difficulties which I almoſt deſpair of ſurmounting according to my wiſhes. I pay the higheſt deference to your [171] Ladyſhip's opinion, which it is extremely painful to me not to concur with; yet, I am ſo well acquainted with your goodneſs, that I preſume to hope it would not be abſolutely impoſſible for me to offer ſuch arguments as might lead you to think with me, that this young creature's chance of happineſs ſeems leſs doubtful in retirement, than it would be in the gay and diſſipated world: but why ſhould I perplex your Ladyſhip with reaſoning that can turn to ſo little account? for, alas! what arguments, what perſuaſions can I make uſe of, with any proſpect of ſucceſs, to ſuch a woman as Madame Duval? Her character, and the violence of her diſpoſition, intimidate me from making the attempt: ſhe is too ignorant for inſtruction, too obſtinate for entreaty, and too weak for reaſon.
I will not, therefore, enter into a conteſt from which I have nothing to expect but altercation and impertinence. As ſoon would I diſcuſs the effect of ſound with the deaf, or the nature of colours with the blind, as aim at illuminating with conviction a mind ſo warped by prejudice, ſo much the ſlave of unruly and illiberal paſſions. Unuſed as ſhe is to controul, perſuaſion would but harden, and oppoſition incenſe her. I yield therefore, to the neceſſity which compels my reluctant acqui⯑eſcence, and ſhall now turn all my thoughts upon conſidering of ſuch methods for the conducting this enterprize as may be moſt conducive to the hap⯑pineſs of my child, and leaſt liable to wound her ſenſibility.
The law-ſuit, therefore, I wholly and abſolute⯑ly diſapprove.
Will you, my dear Madam, forgive the free⯑dom of an old man, if I own myſelf greatly ſur⯑priſed, that you could, even for a moment, liſten [172] to a plan ſo violent, ſo public, ſo totally repugnant to all female delicacy? I am ſatisfied your Lady⯑ſhip has not weighed this project. There was a time, indeed, when, to aſſert the innocence of Lady Belmont, and to blazon to the world the wrongs, not guilt, by which ſhe ſuffered, I pro⯑poſed, nay attempted, a ſimilar plan: but then, all aſſiſtance and encouragement was denied. How cruel to the remembrance I bear of her woes, is this tardy reſentment of Madame Duval! She was deaf to the voice of Nature, though ſhe has hearkened to that of Ambition.
Never can I conſent to have this dear and timid girl brought forward to the notice of the world by ſuch a method; a method which will ſubject her to all the impertinence of curioſity, the ſneers of conjecture, and the ſtings of ridicule. And for what!—the attainment of wealth, which ſhe does not want, and the gratification of vanity, which ſhe does not ſeel.—A child to appear againſt a father!—no, Madam, old and infirm as I am, I would even yet ſooner convey her myſelf to ſome remote part of the world, though I were ſure of dying in the expedition.
Far different had been the motives which would have ſtimulated her unhappy mother to ſuch a proceeding; all her felicity in this world was irre⯑trievably loſt; her life was become a burthen to her, and her fair fame, which ſhe had early been taught to prize above all other things, had receiv⯑ed a mortal wound: therefore to clear her own ho⯑nour, and to ſecure from blemiſh the birth of her child, was all the good which Fortune had reſerv⯑ed herſelf the power of beſtowing. But even this laſt conſolation was with-held from her!
[173] Let milder meaſures be adopted; and—ſince it muſt be ſo,—let application be made to Sir John Belmont; but as to a law-ſuit, I hope, upon this ſubject, never more to hear it mentioned.
With Madame Duval, all pleas of delicacy would be ineffectual; her ſcheme muſt be oppoſed by arguments better ſuited to her underſtanding. I will not, therefore, talk of its impropriety, but endeavour to prove its inutility. Have the good⯑neſs, then, to tell her, that her own intentions would be fruſtrated by her plan, ſince, ſhould the law-ſuit be commenced, and even ſhould the cauſe be gained, Sir John Belmont would ſtill have it in his power, and, if irritated, no doubt in his in⯑clination, to cut off her grand-daughter with a ſhilling.
She cannot do better, herſelf, than to remain quiet and inactive in the affair: the long and mu⯑tual animoſity between her and Sir John, will make her interference merely productive of debates and ill-will. Neither would I have Evelina ap⯑pear till ſummoned. And as to myſelf, I muſt wholly decline acting, though I will, with unwea⯑ried zeal, devote all my thoughts to giving coun⯑ſel: but, in truth, I have neither inclination nor ſpirits adequate to engaging perſonally with this man.
My opinion is, that he would pay more reſpect to a letter from your Ladyſhip upon this ſubject, than from any other perſon. I therefore adviſe and hope, that you will yourſelf take the trouble of writing to him, in order to open the affair. When he ſhall be inclined to ſee Evelina, I have for him a poſthumous letter, which his much-injured lady left to be preſented to him, if ever ſuch a meeting ſhould take place.
[174] The views of the Branghtons, in ſuggeſting this ſcheme, are obviouſly intereſted; they hope, by ſecuring to Evelina the fortune of her father, to induce Madame Duval to ſettle her own upon themſelves. In this, however, they would proba⯑bly be miſtaken, for little minds have ever a pro⯑penſity to beſtow their wealth upon thoſe who are already in affluence, and therefore, the leſs her grand-child requires her aſſiſtance, the more gladly ſhe will give it.
I have but one thing more to add, from which, however, I can by no means recede: my word ſo ſolemnly given to Lady Belmont, that her child ſhould never be owned but with herſelf, muſt be inviolably adhered to.
LETTER XXIX.
Mr. Villars to Evelina.
HOW ſincerely do I ſympathiſe in the uneaſi⯑neſs and concern which my beloved Evelina has ſo much reaſon to feel! The cruel ſcheme in agita⯑tion is equally repugnant to my judgment and my inclination,—yet to oppoſe it, ſeems impracticable. To follow the dictates of my own heart, I ſhould inſtantly recal you to myſelf, and never more conſent to your being ſeparated from me; but the manners and opinion of the world demand a dif⯑ferent conduct. Hope, however, for the beſt, [175] and be ſatisfied you ſhall meet with no indignity; if you are not received into your own family as you ought to be, and with the diſtinction that is your due, you ſhall leave it for ever; and, once again reſtored to my protection, ſecure your own tranquillity, and make, as you have hitherto done, all the happineſs of my life!
LETTER XXX.
Evelina to the Rev. Mr. Villars.
THE die is thrown, and I attend the event in trembling. Lady Howard has written to Paris, and ſent her letter to town, to be forwarded in the ambaſſador's packet, and in leſs than a fortnight, therefore, ſhe expects an anſwer. O Si [...], with what anxious impatience ſhall I await its arrival! upon it ſeems to depend the fate of my future life. My ſolicitude is ſo great, and my ſuſpenſe ſo pain⯑ful, that I cannot reſt a moment in peace, or turn my thoughts into any other channel.
Deeply intereſted as I now am in the event, moſt ſincerely do I regret that the plan was ever propoſed: methinks it cannot end to my ſatisfacti⯑on; for either I muſt be torn from the arms of my more than father,—or I muſt have the miſery of being finally convinced, that I am cruelly rejected by him who has the natural claim to that dear ti⯑tle; a title, which to write, mention, or think of, fills my whole ſoul with filial tenderneſs.
The ſubject is diſcuſſed here eternally. Captain Mirvan and Madame Duval, as uſual, quarrel when⯑ever [176] it is ſtarted: but I am ſo wholly engroſſed by my own reflections, that I cannot even liſten to them. My imagination changes the ſcene perpe⯑tually: at one moment, I am embraced by a kind and relenting parent, who takes me to that heart from which I have hitherto been beniſhed, and ſupplicates, through me, peace and forgiveneſs from the aſhes of my mother!—at another, he regards me with deteſtation, conſiders me as the living image of an injured ſaint, and repulſes me with horror!—But I will not afflict you with the melancholy phantaſms of my brain. I will endea⯑vour to compoſe my mind to a more tranquil ſtate, and forbear to write again, till I have, in ſome meaſure, ſucceeded.
May Heaven bleſs you, my deareſt Sir! and long, long may it continue you on earth, to bleſs
LETTER XXXI.
Lady Howard to Sir John Belmont, Bart.
YOU will, doubtleſs, be ſurpriſed at receiving a letter from one who had for ſo ſhort a period the honour of your acquaintance, and that at ſo great a diſtance of time; but the motive which has in⯑duced me to take this liberty, is of ſo delicate a nature, that were I to commence making apologies [177] for my officiouſneſs, I fear my letter would be too long for your patience.
You have, probably, already conjectured the ſubject upon which I mean to treat. My regard for Mr. Evelyn and his amiable daughter, was well known to you: nor can I ever ceaſe to be intereſted in whatever belongs to their memory or family.
I muſt own myſelf ſomewhat diſtreſſed in what manner to introduce the purport of my writing; yet, as I think that, in affairs of this kind, frank⯑neſs is the firſt requiſite to a good underſtanding be⯑tween the parties concerned, I will neither torment you nor myſelf with punctilious ceremonies, but proceed inſtantly and openly to the buſineſs which occaſions my giving you this trouble.
I preſume, Sir, it would be ſuperfluous to tell you, that your child reſides ſtill in Dorſetſhire, and is ſtill under the protection of the Reverend Mr. Villars, in whoſe houſe ſhe was born: for, though no enquiries concerning her have reached his ears, or mine, I can never ſuppoſe it poſſible you have forborne to make them. It only remains, therefore, to tell you, that your daughter is now grown up; that ſhe has been educated with the utmoſt care, and the utmoſt ſucceſs; and that ſhe is now a moſt deſerving, accompliſhed, and amia⯑ble young woman.
Whatever may be your view for her future deſtination in life, it ſeems time to declare it. She is greatly admired, and, I doubt not, will be very much ſought after: it is proper, therefore, that her future expectations, and your pleaſure concern⯑ing her, ſhould be made known.
Believe me, Sir, ſhe merits your utmoſt atten⯑tion and regard. You could not ſee and know her, and remain unmoved by thoſe ſenſations of affec⯑tion [178] which belong to ſo near and tender a relation⯑ſhip. She is the lovely reſemblance of her lovely mother;—pardon me, Sir, that I mention that unfortunate lady, but I think it behoves me, upon this occaſion, to ſhew the eſteem I felt for her; allow me, therefore, to ſay, and be not offended at my freedom, that the memory of that excellent lady has but too long remained under the aſperſions of calumny; ſurely it is time to vindicate her fame!—and how can that be done in a manner more eligible, more grateful to her friends, or more honourable to yourſelf, than by openly re⯑ceiving as your child, the daughter of the late Lady Belmont?
The venerable man who has had the care of her education, deſerves your warmeſt acknowledgments, for the unremitting pains he has taken, and atten⯑tion he has ſhewn in the diſcharge of his truſt. Indeed ſhe has been peculiarly fortunate in meeting with ſuch a friend and guardian: a more worthy man, or one whoſe character ſeems nearer to per⯑fection, does not exiſt.
Permit me to aſſure you, Sir, ſhe will amply repay whatever regard and favour you may hereaf⯑ter ſhew her, by the comfort and happineſs you cannot fail to find in her affection and duty. To be owned properly by you, is the firſt wiſh of her heart; and I am ſure, that to merit your approba⯑tion will be the firſt ſtudy of her life.
I fear that you will think this addreſs imperti⯑nent; but I muſt reſt upon the goodneſs of my in⯑tention to plead my excuſe.
LETTER XXXII.
Evelina to the Rev. Mr. Villars.
[179]OUR houſe has been enlivened to-day, by the arrival of a London viſitor; and the neceſſity I have been under of concealing the uneaſineſs of my mind, has made me exert myſelf ſo effectu⯑ally, that I even think it is really diminiſhed; or, at leaſt, my thoughts are not ſo totally, ſo very anxiouſly occupied by one only ſubject, as they lately were.
I was ſtrolling this morning with Miſs Mirvan, down a lane about a mile from the grove, when we heard the trampling of horſes; and, fearing the narrowneſs of the paſſage, we were turning haſtily back, but ſtopped upon hearing a voice call out, ‘"Pray, Ladies, don't be frightened, for I will walk my horſe."’ We turned again, and then ſaw Sir Clement Willoughby. He diſmounted, and approaching us, with the reins in his hand, preſently recollected us. ‘"Good Heaven,"’ cried he, with his uſual quickneſs, ‘"do I ſee Miſs Anville?—and you, too, Miſs Mirvan?"’
He immediately ordered his ſervant to take charge of his horſe, and then, advancing to us, took a hand of each, which he preſſed to his lips, and ſaid a thouſand fine things concerning his good fortune, our improved looks, and the charms of the country, when inhabited by ſuch rural deities. ‘"The town, Ladies, has lan⯑guiſhed ſince your abſence,—or, at leaſt, I have ſo much languiſhed myſelf, as to be abſolutely [180] inſenſible to all it had to offer. One refreſhing breeze, ſuch as I now enjoy, awakens me to new vigour, life, and ſpirit. But I never before had the good luck to ſee the country in ſuch perfection."’
‘"Has not almoſt every body left town, Sir?"’ ſaid Miſs Mirvan.
‘"I am aſhamed to anſwer you, Madam—but indeed it is as full as ever, and will continue ſo, till after the birth-day. However, you ladies, were ſo little ſeen, that there were but few who know what it has loſt. For my own part, I felt it too ſenſibly, to be able to endure the place any lon⯑ger."’
‘"Is there any body remaining there, that we were acquainted with?"’ cried I.
‘"O yes, Ma'am."’ And then he named two or three perſons we had ſeen when with him; but he did not mention Lord Orville, and I would not aſk him, leſt he ſhould think me curious. Perhaps, if he ſtays here ſome time, he may ſpeak of him by accident.
He was proceeding in this complimentary ſtyle, when we were met by the Captain; who no ſooner perceived Sir Clement, than he haſtened up to him, gave him a hearty ſhake of the hand, a cordial ſlap on the back, and ſome other equally gentle tokens of ſatisfaction, aſſuring him of his great joy at his viſit, and declaring he was as glad to ſee him as if he had been a meſſenger who brought news that a French ſhip was ſunk. Sir Clement, on the other ſide, expreſſed himſelf with equal warmth, and proteſted he had been ſo eager to pay his re⯑ſpects to Captain Mirvan, that he had left Lon⯑don in its full luſtre, and a thouſand engage⯑ments [181] unanſwered, merely to give himſelf that pleaſure.
‘"We ſhall have rare ſport,"’ ſaid the Captain, ‘"for do you know the old French-woman is among us? 'Fore George, I have ſcarce made any uſe of her yet, by reaſon I have had no⯑body with me that could enjoy a joke: howſom⯑ever, it ſhall go hard but we'll have ſome diver⯑ſion now."’
Sir Clement very much approved of the pro⯑poſal; and we then went into the houſe, where he had a very grave reception from Mrs. Mirvan, who is by no means pleaſed with his viſit, and a look of much diſcontent from Madame Duval, who ſaid to me, in a low voice, ‘"I'd as ſoon have ſeen Old Nick as that man, for he's the moſt imper⯑tinenteſt perſon in the world, and is n't never of my ſide."’
The Captain is now actually occupied in con⯑triving ſome ſcheme which, he ſays, is to play the old Dowager off; and ſo eager and delighted is he at the idea, that he can ſcarcely conſtrain his raptures ſufficiently to conceal his deſign, even from herſelf. I wiſh, however, ſince I do not dare put Madame Duval upon her guard, that he had the delicacy not to acquaint me with his intention.
LETTER XXXIII.
Evelina in continuation.
[182]THE Captain's operations are begun,—and, I hope, ended; for indeed poor Madame Duval has already but too much reaſon to regret Sir Cle⯑ment's viſit to Howard Grove.
Yeſterday morning, during breakfaſt, as the Captain was reading the news-paper, Sir Clement ſuddenly begged to look at it, ſaying he wanted to know if there was any account of a tranſaction, at which he had been preſent the evening before his journey thither, concerning a poor Frenchman, who had got into a ſcrape which might coſt him his life.
The Captain demanded particulars; and then Sir Clement told him a long ſtory, of being with a party of country friends, at the Tower, and hearing a man call out for mercy in French; and that, when he enquired into the occaſion of his diſ⯑treſs, he was informed, that he had been taken up upon ſuſpicion of treaſonable practices againſt the government. ‘"The poor fellow,"’ continued he, ‘"no ſooner found that I ſpoke French, than he beſought me to hear him, proteſting that he had no evil deſigns; that he had been but a ſhort time in England, and only waited the return of a Lady from the country, to quit it for ever."’
Madame Duval changed colour, and liſtened with the utmoſt attention.
‘"Now, though I by no means approve of ſo many foreigners continually flocking into our coun⯑try,"’ [183] added he, addreſſing himſelf to the Captain, ‘"yet I could not help pitying the poor wretch, becauſe he did not know enough of Engliſh to make his defence: however, I found it impoſſible to aſſiſt him, for the mob would not ſuffer me to interfere. In truth I am afraid he was but roughly handled."’
‘"Why, did they duck him?"’ ſaid the Captain.
‘"Something of that ſort,"’ anſwered he.
‘"So much the better! ſo much the better!"’ cried the Captain, ‘"an impudent French puppy!—I'll bet you what you will he was a raſcal. I only wiſh all his countrymen were ſerved the ſame."’
‘"I wiſh you had been in his place, with all my ſoul!"’ cried Madame Duval, warmly;—‘"but pray, Sir, did n't nobody know who this poor gentleman was?"’
‘"Why I did hear his name ſpoke,"’ anſwered Sir Clement, ‘"but I cannot recollect it."’
‘"It was n't,—it was n't—Du Bois?"’ ſtam⯑mered out Madame Duval.
‘"The very name!"’ anſwered he, ‘"yes, Du Bois, I remember it now."’
Madame Duval's cup fell from her hand, as ſhe repeated ‘"Du Bois! Monſieur Du Bois, did you ſay?"’
‘"Du Bois! why that's my friend,’ cried the Captain, ‘"that's Monſieur Slippery, i'n't it?—Why he's plaguy fond of ſouſing work; howſom⯑ever, I'll be ſworn they gave him his fill of it."’
‘"And I'll be ſworn,"’ cried Madame Duval, ‘"that you're a—but I don't believe nothing about it, ſo you need n't be ſo overjoyed, for I dare ſay it was no more Monſieur Du Bois than I am."’
[184] ‘"I thought at the time,"’ ſaid Sir Clement, very gravely, ‘"that I had ſeen the gentleman be⯑fore, and now I recollect, I think it was in com⯑pany with you, Madam."’
‘"With me, Sir!"’ cried Madame Duval.
‘"Say you ſo!"’ ſaid the Captain, ‘"why then, it muſt be he, as ſure as you're alive!—Well but, my good friend, what will they do with poor Mon⯑ſieur?"’
‘"It is difficult to ſay,"’ anſwered Sir Clement, very thoughtfully, ‘"but, I ſhould ſuppoſe, that if he has not good friends to appear for him, he will be in a very unpleaſant ſituation; for theſe are ſerious ſort of affairs.'’
‘"Why, do you think they'll hang him?"’ de⯑manded the Captain.
Sir Clement ſhook his head, but made no an⯑ſwer.
Madame Duval could no longer contain her agitation; ſhe ſtarted from her chair, repeating, with a voice half choaked, ‘"Hang him!—they can't,—they ſha'n't—let them at their peril!—however, 'tis all falſe, and I won't believe a word of it;—but I'll go to town this very moment, and ſee M. Du Bois myſelf;—I won't wait for no⯑thing."’
Mrs. Mirvan begged her not to be alarmed; but ſhe flew out of the room, and up ſtairs into her own apartment. Lady Howard blamed both the gentle⯑men for having been ſo abrupt, and followed her. I would have accompanied her, but the Captain ſtopped me; and, having firſt laughed very hear⯑tily, ſaid he was going to read his commiſſion to his ſhip's company.
‘"Now, do you ſee,"’ ſaid he, ‘"as to Lady Howard, I ſha'n't pretend for to enliſt her into [185] my ſervice, and ſo I ſhall e'en leave her to make it out as well as ſhe can; but as to all you, I ex⯑pect obedience and ſubmiſſion to orders; I am now upon a hazardous expedition, having undertaken to convoy a crazy veſſel to the ſhore of Mortifi⯑cation; ſo, d'ye ſee, if any of you have any thing to propoſe, that will forward the enterprize,—why ſpeak and welcome; but if any of you, that are of my choſen crew, capitulate, or enter into any treaty with the enemy,—I ſhall look upon you as mutinying, and turn you adrift."’
Having finiſhed this harangue, which was inter⯑larded with many expreſſions, and ſea-phraſes, that I cannot recollect, he gave Sir Clement a wink of intelligence, and left us to ourſelves.
Indeed, notwithſtanding the attempts I ſo fre⯑quently make of writing ſome of the Captain's converſation, I can only give you a faint idea of his language; for almoſt every other word he ut⯑ters is accompanied by an oath, which, I am ſure, would be as unpleaſant for you to read, as for me to write. And, beſides, he makes uſe of a thou⯑ſand ſea-terms, which are to me quite unintel⯑ligible.
Poor Madame Duval ſent to enquire at all pro⯑bable places, whether ſhe could be conveyed to town in any ſtage-coach; but the Captain's ſer⯑vant brought her for anſwer, that no London ſtage would paſs near Howard Grove till to-day. She then ſent to order a chaiſe; but was ſoon aſ⯑ſured that no horſes could be procured. She was ſo much inflamed by theſe diſappointments, that ſhe threatened to ſet out for town on foot, and it was with difficulty that Lady Howard diſſuaded her from this mad ſcheme.
[186] The whole morning was filled up with theſe en⯑quiries. But, when we were all aſſembled to din⯑ner, ſhe endeavoured to appear perfectly uncon⯑cerned, and repeatedly proteſted that ſhe gave not any credit to the report, as far as it regarded M. Du Bois, being very certain that he was not the perſon in queſtion.
The Captain uſed the moſt provoking efforts to convince her that ſhe deceived herſelf; while Sir Clement, with more art, though not leſs malice, affected to be of her opinion; but, at the ſame time that he pretended to relieve her uneaſineſs, by ſaying that he doubted not having miſtaken the name, he took care to enlarge upon the dan⯑ger to which the unknown gentleman was ex⯑poſed, and expreſſed great concern at his perilous ſituation.
Dinner was hardly removed, when a letter was delivered to Madame Duval. The moment ſhe had read it, ſhe haſtily demanded from whom it came? ‘"A country boy brought it,"’ anſwered the ſervant, ‘"but he would not wait."’
‘"Run after him this inſtant!"’ cried ſhe, ‘"and be ſure you bring him back. Mon Dieu! quel avanture! que ferai-je?"’
‘"What's the matter? what's the matter?"’ ſaid the Captain.
‘"Why nothing,—nothing's the matter. O mon Dieu!"’
And ſhe roſe, and walked about the room.
‘"Why, what—has Monſieur ſent to you?"’ continued the Captain: ‘"is that there letter from him?’
‘"No,—it i'n't;—beſides, if it is, it's nothing to you."’
[187] ‘"O then, I'm ſure it is! Pray now, Madame, don't be ſo cloſe; come, tell us all about it,—what does he ſay? how did he reliſh the horſe⯑pond?—which did he find beſt, ſouſing ſingle or double?—'Fore George, 'twas plaguy unlucky you was not with him!"’
‘"It's no ſuch a thing, Sir,"’ cried ſhe, very angrily, ‘"and if you're ſo very fond of a horſe⯑pond, I wiſh you'd put yourſelf into one, and not be always a thinking about other people's being ſerved ſo."’
The man then came in, to acquaint her they could not overtake the boy. She ſcolded violently, and was in ſuch perturbation, that Lady Howard interfered, and begged to know the cauſe of her uneaſineſs, and whether ſhe could aſſiſt her?
Madame Duval caſt her eyes upon the Captain, and Sir Clement, and ſaid ſhe ſhould be glad to ſpeak to her Ladyſhip, without ſo many witneſſes.
‘"Well, then, Miſs Anville,"’ ſaid the Cap⯑tain, turning to me, ‘"do you and Molly go into another room, and ſtay there till Mrs. Duval has opened her mind to us."’
‘"So you may think, Sir,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"but who's fool then? no, no, you need n't trouble yourſelf to make a ninny of me, neither, for I'm not ſo eaſily taken in I'll aſſure you."’
Lady Howard then invited her into the dreſſing⯑room, and I was deſired to attend her.
As ſoon as we had ſhut the door, ‘"O my Lady,"’ exclaimed Madame Duval, ‘"here's the moſt cruelleſt thing in the world has happened!—but that Captain is ſuch a beaſt, I can't ſay no⯑thing before him,—but it's all true! poor M. Du Bois is tooked up!"’
[188] Lady Howard begged her to be comforted, ſay⯑ing that as M. Du Bois was certainly innocent, there could be no doubt of his ability to clear him⯑ſelf.
‘"To be ſure, my Lady,"’ anſwered ſhe, ‘"I know he is innocent; and to be ſure they'll never be ſo wicked as to hang him for nothing?"’
‘"Certainly not;"’ replied Lady Howa:d, ‘"you have no reaſon to be uneaſy. This is not a coun⯑try where puniſhment is inflicted without proof."’
‘"Very true, my Lady; but the worſt thing is this; I cannot bear that that fellow, the Cap⯑tain, ſhould know about it; for if he does, I ſha'n't never hear the laſt of it;—no more won't poor M. Du Bois."’
‘"Well, well,"’ ſaid Lady Howard, ‘"ſhew me the letter, and I will endeavour to adviſe you."’
The letter was then produced. It was ſigned by the clerk of a country juſtice; who acquainted her, that a priſoner, then upon trial for ſuſpicion of treaſonable practices againſt the government, was juſt upon the point of being committed to jail, but having declared that he was known to her, this clerk had been prevailed upon to write, in order to enquire if ſhe really could ſpeak to the character and family of a Frenchman who called himſelf Pierre Du Bois.
When I heard the letter, I was quite amazed at its ſucceſs. So improbable did it ſeem, that a fo⯑reigner ſhould be taken before a country juſtice of peace, for a crime of ſo dangerous a nature, that I cannot imagine how Madame Duval could be alarmed, even for a moment. But, with all her violence of temper, I ſee that ſhe is eaſily fright⯑ened, and, in fact, more cowardly than many who [189] have not half her ſpirit; and ſo little does ſhe re⯑flect upon circumſtances, or probability, that ſhe is continually the dupe of her own—I ought not to ſay ignorance, but yet, I can think of no other word.
I believe that Lady Howard, from the begin⯑ning of the tranſaction, ſuſpected ſome contrivance of the Captain, and this letter, I am ſure, muſt confirm her ſuſpicion: however, though ſhe is not at all pleaſed with his frolick, yet ſhe would not hazard the conſequence of diſcovering his deſigns: her looks, her manner, and her character, made me draw this concluſion from her apparent perplex⯑ity; for not a word did ſhe ſay, that implied any doubt of the authenticity of the letter. Indeed there ſeems to be a ſort of tacit agreement between her and the Captain, that ſhe ſhould not appear to be acquainted with his ſchemes; by which means ſhe at once avoids quarrels, and ſupports her dig⯑nity.
While ſhe was conſidering what to propoſe, Madame Duval begged to have the uſe of her Ladyſhip's chariot, that ſhe might go immediate⯑ly to the aſſiſtance of her friend. Lady Howard politely aſſured her that it would be extremely at her ſervice; and then Madame Duval beſought her not to own to the Captain what had happened, proteſting that ſhe could not endure he ſhould know that poor M. Du Bois had met with ſo un⯑fortunate an accident. Lady Howard could not help ſmiling, though ſhe readily promiſed not to inform the Captain of the affair. As to me, ſhe deſired my attendance; which I was by no means rejoiced at, as I was certain ſhe was going upon a fruitleſs errand.
[190] I was then commiſſioned to order the chariot.
At the foot of the ſtairs I met the captain, who was moſt impatiently waiting the reſult of the conference. In an inſtant we were joined by Sir Clement. A thouſand enquiries were then made concerning Madame Duval's opinion of the letter, and her intentions upon it: and when I would have left them, Sir Clement, pretending equal eagerneſs with the Captain, caught my hand, and repeatedly detained me, to aſk ſome frivolous queſtion, to the anſwer of which he muſt be to⯑tally indifferent. At length, however, I broke from them; they retired into the parlour, and I executed my commiſſion.
The carriage was ſoon ready, and Madame Duval, having begged Lady Howard to ſay ſhe was not well, ſtole ſoftly down ſtairs, deſiring me to follow her. The chariot was ordered at the garden door; and when we were ſeated, ſhe told the man, according to the clerk's directions, to drive to Mr. Juſtice Tyrell's, aſking, at the ſame time, how many miles off he lived?
I expected he would have anſwered that he knew of no ſuch perſon; but, to my great ſurprize, he ſaid, ‘"Why 'Squire Tyrell lives about nine miles beyond the park."’
‘"Drive faſt, then,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"and you ſha'n't be no worſe for it."’
During our ride, which was extremely tedious, ſhe tormented herſelf with a thouſand fears for M. Du Bois' ſafety; and piqued herſelf very much upon having eſcaped unſeen by the Captain, not only that ſhe avoided his triumph, but becauſe ſhe knew him to be ſo much M. Du Bois' enemy, that ſhe was ſure he would prejudice the Juſtice againſt him, and endeavour to take away his life. For [191] my part, I was quite aſhamed of being engaged in ſo ridiculous an affair, and could only think of the abſurd appearance we ſhould make upon our arrival at Mr. Tyrell's.
When we had been out near two hours, and expected every moment to ſtop at the place of our deſtination, I obſerved that Lady Howard's ſer⯑vant, who attended us on horſeback, rode on for⯑ward till he was out of ſight, and ſoon after re⯑turning, came up to the chariot-window, and de⯑livering a note to Madame Duval, ſaid he had met a boy, who was juſt coming with it to How⯑ard Grove, from the clerk of Mr. Tyrell.
While ſhe was reading it, he rode round to the other window, and, making a ſign for ſecrecy, put into my hand a ſlip of paper, on which was written, ‘"Whatever happens, be not alarmed,—for you are ſafe,—though you endanger all man⯑kind!"’
I readily imagined that Sir Clement muſt be the author of this note, which prepared me to expect ſome diſagreeable adventure: but I had no time to ponder upon it, for Madame Duval had no ſooner read her own letter, than, in an angry tone of voice, ſhe exclaimed, ‘"Why now what a thing is this! here we're come all this way for nothing!"’
She then gave me the note, which informed her, that ſhe need not trouble herſelf to go to Mr. Tyrell's, as the priſoner had had the addreſs to eſcape. I congratulated her upon this fortunate incident; but ſhe was ſo much concerned at having rode ſo far in vain, that ſhe ſeemed leſs pleaſed than provoked. However, ſhe ordered the man to make what haſte he could home, as ſhe hoped, [192] at leaſt to return before the Captain ſhould ſuſpect what had paſſed.
The carriage turned about, and we journeyed ſo quietly for near an hour, that I began to flatter myſelf we ſhould be ſuffered to proceed to How⯑ard Grove without further moleſtation, when, ſuddenly, the footman called out, ‘"John, are we going right?"’
‘"Why I a'n't ſure,"’ ſaid the coachman, ‘"but I'm afraid we turned wrong."’
‘"What do you mean by that, Sirrah?"’ ſaid Madame Duval, ‘"why if you loſe your way we ſhall be all in the dark."’
‘"I think we ſhould turn to the left,"’ ſaid the footman.
‘"To the left!"’ anſwered the other, ‘"No, no, I'm partly ſure we ſhould turn to the right."’
‘"You had better make ſome enquiry,"’ ſaid I.
‘"Ma foi,"’ cried Madame Duval, ‘"we're in a fine hole, here!—they neither of them know more than the poſt. However, I'll tell my Lady, as ſure as you're born, ſo you'd better find the way."’
‘"Let's try this lane,"’ ſaid the footman.
‘"No,"’ ſaid the coachman, ‘"that's the road to Canterbury; we had beſt go ſtraight on."’
‘"Why that's the direct London road,"’ return⯑ed the footman, ‘"and will lead us twenty miles about."’
‘"Pardie,"’ cried Madame Duval, ‘"why they won't go one way nor t'other! and, now we're come all this jaunt for nothing, I ſuppoſe we ſha'n't get home to-night!"’
‘"Let's go back to the public-houſe,"’ ſaid the footman, ‘"and aſk for a guide."’
[193] ‘"No, no,"’ ſaid the other, ‘"if we ſtay here a few minutes, ſomebody or other will paſs by; and the horſes are almoſt knocked up already."’
‘"Well, I proteſt,"’ cried Madame Duval, ‘"I'd give a guinea to ſee them ſots both horſe-whipped! As ſure as I'm alive, they're drunk! Ten to one but they'll overturn us next!"’
After much debating, they, at length, agreed to go on, till we came to ſome inn, or met with a paſſenger who could direct us. We ſoon arrived at a ſmall farm-houſe, and the footman alighted, and went into it.
In a few minutes he returned, and told us we might proceed, for that he had procured a directi⯑on; ‘"But,"’ added he, ‘"it ſeems there are ſome thieves hereabouts; and ſo the beſt way will be for you to leave your watches and purſes with the farmer, who I know very well, and who is an ho⯑neſt man, and a tenant of my Lady's."’
‘"Thieves!"’ cried Madame Duval, looking aghaſt, ‘"the Lord help us!—I've no doubt but we ſhall be all murdered!"’
The farmer came to us, and we gave him all we were worth, and the ſervants followed our ex⯑ample. We then proceeded, and Madame Duval's anger ſo entirely ſubſided, that, in the mildeſt manner imaginable, ſhe intreated them to make haſte, and promiſed to tell their Lady how diligent and obliging they had been. She perpetually ſtop⯑ped them, to aſk if they apprehended any danger; and was, at length, ſo much overpowered by her fears, that ſhe made the footman faſten his horſe to the back of the carriage, and then come and ſeat himſelf within it. My endeavours to encou⯑rage her were fruitleſs; ſhe ſat in the middle, held the man by the arm, and proteſted that if he did [194] but ſave her life, ſhe would make his fortune. Her uneaſineſs gave me much concern, and it was with the utmoſt difficulty I forbore to acquaint her that ſhe was impoſed upon; but the mutual fear of the Captain's reſentment to me, and of her own to him, neither of which would have any moderation, deterred me. As to the footman, he was evidently in torture from reſtraining his laughter, and I ob⯑ſerved that he was frequently obliged to make hor⯑rid grimaces, from pretended fear, in order to con⯑ceal his riſibility.
Very ſoon after, ‘"The robbers are coming!"’ cried the coachman.
The footman opened the door, and jumped out of the chariot.
Madame Duval gave a loud ſcream.
I could no longer preſerve my ſilence, ‘"For Heaven's ſake, my dear Madam,"’ ſaid I, ‘don't be alarmed,—you are in no danger—you are quite ſafe, there is nothing but—"’
Here the chariot was ſtopped, by two men in maſks, who, at each ſide, put in their hands, as if for our purſes. Madame Duval ſunk to the bot⯑tom of the chariot, and implored their mercy. I ſhrieked involuntarily, although prepared for the attack: one of them held me faſt, while the other tore poor Madame Duval out of the carriage, in ſpite of her cries, threats, and reſiſtance.
I was really frightened, and trembled exceed⯑ingly. ‘"My angel!"’ cried the man who held me, ‘"you cannot ſurely be alarmed,—do you not know me?—I ſhall hold myſelf in eternal abhor⯑rence, if I have really terrified you."’
‘"Indeed, Sir Clement, you have,"’ cried I,—‘"but, for Heaven's ſake, where is Madame Du⯑val?—why is ſhe forced away?"’
[195] ‘"She is perfectly ſafe; the Captain has her in charge: but ſuffer me now, my adored Miſs An⯑ville, to take the only opportunity that is allowed me, to ſpeak upon another, a much dearer, much ſweeter ſubject."’
And then he haſtily came into the chariot, and ſeated himſelf next to me. I would fain have diſen⯑gaged myſelf from him, but he would not let me; ‘"Deny me not, moſt charming of women,"’ cried he, ‘"deny me not this only moment that is lent me, to pour forth my ſoul into your gentle ears,—to tell you how much I ſuffer from your abſence,—how much I dread your diſpleaſure,—and how cru⯑elly I am affected by your coldneſs!"’
‘"O Sir, this is no time for ſuch language,—pray leave me, pray go to the relief of Madame Duval,—I cannot bear that ſhe ſhould be treated with ſuch indignity."’
‘"And will you,—can you command my ab⯑ſence?—When may I ſpeak to you, if not now?—does the Captain ſuffer me to breathe a moment out of his ſight?—and are not a thouſand imperti⯑nent people for ever at your elbow?"’
‘"Indeed, Sir Clement, you muſt change your ſtyle, or I will not hear you. The impertinent peo⯑ple you mean, are among my beſt friends, and you would not, if you really wiſhed me well, ſpeak of them ſo diſreſpectfully."’
‘"Wiſh you well!—O, Miſs Anville, point but out to me how, in what manner, I may convince you of the fervour of my paſſion,—tell me but what ſervices you will accept from me, and you ſhall find my life, my fortune, my whole ſoul at your devotion."’
‘"I want nothing, Sir, that you can offer;—I beg you not to talk to me ſo—ſo ſtrangely. Pray leave me, and pray aſſure yourſelf, you cannot take any [196] method ſo ſucceſsleſs to ſhew any regard for me, as entering into ſchemes ſo frightful to Madame Duval, and ſo diſagreeable to myſelf."’
‘"The ſcheme was the Captain's; I even oppo⯑ſed it: though, I own, I could not refuſe myſelf the ſo-long-wiſhed-for happineſs, of ſpeaking to you once more, without ſo many of—your friends to watch me. And I had flattered myſelf that the note I had charged the footman to give you would have prevented the alarm you have received."’
‘"Well, Sir, you have now, I hope, ſaid enough; and, if you will not go yourſelf to ſee for Madame Duval, at leaſt ſuffer me to enquire what is become of her."’
‘"And when may I ſpeak to you again?"’
‘"No matter when,—I don't know,—perhaps—"’
‘"Perhaps what, my angel?"’
‘"Perhaps never, Sir,—if you torment me thus."’
‘"Never! O Miſs Anville, how cruel, how pier⯑cing to my ſoul is that icy word!—Indeed, I cannot endure ſuch diſpleaſure."’
‘Then, Sir, you muſt not provoke it. Pray leave me directly."’
‘"I will, Madam: but let me, at leaſt, make a merit of my obedience,—allow me to hope, that you will, in future, be leſs averſe to truſting your⯑ſelf for a few moments alone with me."’
I was ſurprized at the freedom of this requeſt; but while I heſitated how to anſwer it, the other maſk came up to the chariot door, and in a voice almoſt ſtifled with laughter, ſaid, ‘"I've done for her! the old buck is ſafe;—but we muſt ſheer off directly, or we ſhall be all a-ground."’
[197] Sir Clement inſtantly left me, mounted his horſe, and rode off. The Captain, having given ſome directions to the ſervants, followed him.
I was both uneaſy and impatient to know the fate of Madame Duval, and immediately got out of the chariot to ſeek her. I deſired the footman to ſhew me which was ſhe was gone; he pointed with his finger, by way of anſwer, and I ſaw that he dared not truſt his voice to make any other. I walked on, a very quick pace, and ſoon, to my great conſternation, perceived the poor lady, ſeated upright in a ditch. I flew to her, with unfeigned concern at her ſituation. She was ſobbing, nay, almoſt roaring, and in the utmoſt agony of rage and terror. As ſoon as ſhe ſaw me ſhe redoubled her cries, but her voice was ſo broken, I could not un⯑derſtand a word ſhe ſaid. I was ſo much ſhocked, that it was with difficulty I forbore exclaiming againſt the cruelty of the Captain, for thus wan⯑tonly ill-treating her; and I could not forgive my⯑ſelf for having paſſively ſuffered the deception. I uſed my utmoſt endeavours to comfort her, aſſuring her of our preſent ſafety, and begging her to riſe, and return to the chariot.
Almoſt burſting with paſſion, ſhe pointed to her feet, and with frightful violence, ſhe actually beat the ground with her hands.
I then ſaw, that her feet were tied together with a ſtrong rope, which was faſtened to the upper branch of a tree, even with an hedge which ran along the ditch where ſhe ſat. I endeavoured to untie the knot, but ſoon ſound it was infinitely be⯑yond my ſtrength. I was, therefore, obliged to apply to the footman; but being very unwilling to add to his mirth, by the ſight of Madame Duval's ſituation, I deſired him to lend me a knife; I [198] returned with it, and cut the rope. Her feet were ſoon diſentangled, and then, though with great dif⯑ficulty, I aſſiſted her to riſe. But what was my aſtoniſhment, when, the moment ſhe was up, ſhe hit me a violent ſlap on the face! I retreated from her with precipitation and dread, and ſhe then loaded me with reproaches, which, though almoſt unintelligible, convinced me that ſhe imagined I had voluntarily deſerted her; but ſhe ſeemed not to have the ſlighteſt ſuſpicion that ſhe had not been attacked by real robbers.
I was ſo much ſurprized and confounded at the blow, that, for ſome time, I ſuffered her to rave, without making any anſwer; but her extreme agi⯑tation, and real ſuffering, ſoon diſpelled my an⯑ger, which all turned into compaſſion. I then told her, that I had been forcibly detained from following her, and aſſured her of my real ſorrow at her ill uſage.
She began to be ſomewhat appeaſed; and I again entreated her to return to the carriage, or give me leave to order that it ſhould draw up to the place where we ſtood. She made no anſwer, till I told her, that the longer we remained ſtill, the greater would be the danger of our ride home. Struck with this hint, ſhe ſuddenly, and with haſty ſteps, moved forward.
Her dreſs was in ſuch diſorder, that I was quite ſorry to have her figure expoſed to the ſervants, who all of them, in imitation of their maſter, hold her in deriſion: however, the diſgrace was unavoidable.
The ditch, happily, was almoſt quite dry, or ſhe muſt have ſuffered ſtill more ſeverely; yet, ſo forlorn, ſo miſerable a figure, I never before ſaw. Her head-dreſs had fallen off; her linen was torn; [199] her negligee had not a pin left in it; her petticoats ſhe was obliged to hold on; and her ſhoes were perpetually ſlipping off. She was covered with dirt, weeds, and filth, and her face was really horrible, for the pomatum and powder from her head, and the duſt from the road, were quite paſted on her ſkin by her tears, which, with her rouge, made ſo frightful a mixture, that ſhe hardly looked hu⯑man.
The ſervants were ready to die with laughter, the moment they ſaw her; but not all my remon⯑ſtrances could prevail upon her to get into the car⯑riage, till ſhe had moſt vehemently reproached them both, for not reſcuing her. The footman, fixing his eyes on the ground, as if fearful of again truſting himſelf to look at her, proteſted that the robbers had vowed they would ſhoot him, if he moved an inch, and that one of them had ſtay⯑ed to watch the chariot, while the other carried her off; adding, that the reaſon of their behaving ſo barbarouſly, was to revenge our having ſecured our purſes. Notwithſtanding her anger, ſhe gave immediate credit to what he ſaid, and really ima⯑gined that her want of money had irritated the pretended robbers to treat her with ſuch cruelty. I determined, therefore, to be carefully upon my guard, not to betray the impoſition, which could now anſwer no other purpoſe, than occaſioning an irreparable breach between her and the Captain.
Juſt as we were ſeated in the chariot, ſhe diſ⯑covered the loſs which her head had ſuſtained, and called out, ‘"My God! what is become of my hair?—why the villain has ſtole all my curls!"’
She then ordered the man to run and ſee if he could find any of them in the ditch. He went, and preſently returning, produced a great quantity [200] of hair, in ſuch a naſty condition, that I was amazed ſhe would take it; and the man as he de⯑livered it to her, found it impoſſible to keep his countenance; which ſhe had no ſooner obſerved, than all her ſtormy paſſions were again raiſed. She flung the battered curls in his face, ſaying, ‘"Sirrah, what do you grin for? I wiſh you'd been ſerved ſo yourſelf, and you would n't have found it no ſuch joke: you are the impudenteſt fellow ever I ſee, and if I find you dare grin at me any more, I ſhall make no ceremony of boxing your ears."’
Satisfied with the threat, the man haſtily retired, and we drove on.
Her anger now ſubſiding into grief, ſhe began moſt ſorrowfully to lament her caſe. ‘"I believe,’ ſhe cried, ‘"never nobody was ſo unlucky as I am! and ſo here, becauſe I ha'n't had misfortunes enough already, that puppy has made me loſe my curls!—Why, I can't ſee nobody without them:—only look at me,—I was never ſo bad off in my life before. Pardie, if I'd know'd as much, I'd have brought two or three ſets with me: but I'd never a thought of ſuch a thing as this."’
Finding her now ſomewhat pacified, I ventured to aſk an account of her adventure, which I will endeavour to write in her own words.
‘"Why, child, all this misfortune comes of that puppy making us leave our money behind us; for as ſoon as the robber ſee I did not put nothing in his hands, he lugged me out of the chariot, by main force, and I verily thought he'd have mur⯑dered me. He was as ſtrong as a lion; I was no more in his hands than a child. But I believe never nobody was ſo abuſed before, for he dragged me down the road, pulling and hawling me all the way, as if I'd no more feeling than a horſe. I'm ſure I [201] wiſh I could ſee that man cut up and quartered alive! however, he'll come to the gallows, that's one good thing. So, as ſoon as we'd got out of ſight of the chariot,—though he need n't have been afraid, for if he'd beat me to a mummy, thoſe cowardly fellows would n't have ſaid nothing to it.—So, when I was got there, what does he do, but, all of a ſudden, he takes me by both the ſhoulders, and he gives me ſuch a ſhake!—Mon Dieu! I ſhall never forget it, if I live to be an hundred. I'm ſure I dare ſay I'm out of joint all over. And, though I made as much noiſe as ever I could, he took no more notice of it than nothing at all, but there he ſtood, ſhaking me in that man⯑ner, as if he was doing it for a wager. I'm de⯑termined, if it coſts me all my fortune, I'll ſee that villain hanged. He ſhall be found out, if there's e're a juſtice in England. So when he had ſhooked me till he was tired, and I felt all over like a jelly, without ſaying never a word, he takes and pops me into the ditch! I'm ſure I thought he'd have murdered me, as ſure as I ever thought any thing in my life, for he kept bumping me about, as if he thought nothing too bad for me. However, I'm reſolved I'll never leave my purſe behind me again, the longeſt day I have to live. So when he could n't ſtand over me no longer, he holds out his hands again for my money; but he was as cunning as he could be, for he would n't ſpeak a word, becauſe I ſhould n't ſwear to his voice; however, that ſha'nt ſave him, for I'll ſwear to him any day in the year, if I can but catch him. So, when I told him I had no money, he fell to jerking me again, juſt as if he had but that moment begun! And, after that he got me cloſe by a tree, and out of his pocket he pulls a [202] great cord!—It's a wonder I did not ſwoon away, for as ſure as you're alive, he was going to hang me to that tree. I ſcreamed like any thing mad, and told him if he would but ſpare my life, I'd never proſecute him, nor tell nobody what he'd done to me: ſo he ſtood ſome time quite in a brown ſtudy, a thinking what he ſhould do. And ſo, after that, he forced me to ſit down in the ditch, and he tied my feet together, juſt as you ſee them, and then, as if he had not done enough, he twitched off my cap, and, without ſaying no⯑thing, got on his horſe, and left me in that con⯑dition, thinking, I ſuppoſe, that I might lie there and periſh."’
Though this narrative almoſt compelled me to laugh, yet I was really irritated with the Captain, for carrying his love of tormenting,—ſport, he calls it,—to ſuch barbarous and unjuſtifiable ex⯑tremes. I conſoled and ſoothed her as well as I was able, and told her that, ſince M. Du Bois had eſcaped, I hoped, when ſhe recovered from her fright, all would end well.
‘"Fright, child!"’ repeated ſhe, ‘"why, that's not half;—I promiſe you, I wiſh it was; but here I'm bruiſed from top to toe, and it's well if ever I have the right uſe of my limbs again. How⯑ever, I'm glad the villain got nothing but his trouble for his pains. But here the worſt is to come, for I can't go out, becauſe I have got no curls, and ſo he'll be eſcaped, before I can get to the Juſtice to ſtop him. I'm reſolved I'll tell Lady Howard how her man ſerved me, for if he had'nt made me fling 'em away, I dare ſay I could have pinned them up well enough for the country."’
‘"Perhaps Lady Howard may be able to lend you a cap that will wear without them."’
[203] ‘"Lady Howard, indeed! why, do you think I'd wear one of her dowdies? No, I'll promiſe you, I ſha'nt put on no ſuch diſguiſement. It's the unluckieſt thing in the world that I did not make the man pick up the curls again; but he put me in ſuch a paſſion, I could not think of nothing. I know I can't get none at Howard Grove for love nor money, for of all the ſtupid places ever I ſee, that Howard Grove is the worſt! there's never no getting nothing one wants."’
This ſort of converſation laſted till we arrived at our journey's end; and then, a new diſtreſs occurred; Madame Duval was eager to ſpeak to Lady Howard and Mrs. Mirvan, and to relate her misfortunes, but ſhe could not endure that Sir Clement or the Captain ſhould ſee her in ſuch diſor⯑der, for ſhe ſaid they were ſo ill-natured, that in⯑ſtead of pitying her, they would only make a jeſt of her diſaſters. She therefore ſent me firſt into the houſe, to wait for an opportunity of their being out of the way, that ſhe might ſteal up ſtairs un⯑obſerved. In this I ſucceeded, as the gentlemen thought it moſt prudent not to ſeem watching for her; though they both contrived to divert them⯑ſelves with peeping at her as ſhe paſſed.
She went immediately to bed, where ſhe had her ſupper. Lady Howard and Mrs. Mirvan both of them very kindly ſat with her, and liſtened to her tale with compaſſionate attention; while Miſs Mirvan and I retired to our own room, where I was very glad to end the troubles of the day in a comfortable converſation.
The Captain's raptures, during ſupper, at the ſucceſs of his plan, were boundleſs. I ſpoke, afterwards, to Mrs. Mirvan, with the openneſs which her kindneſs encourages, and begged her to [204] remonſtrate with him upon the cruelty of torment⯑ing Madame Duval ſo cauſeleſsly. She promiſed to take the firſt opportunity of ſtarting the ſubject, but ſaid he was at preſent, ſo much elated that he would not liſten to her with any patience. How⯑ever ſhould he make any new efforts to moleſt her, I can by no means conſent to be paſſive. Had I imagined he would have been ſo violent, I would have riſked his anger in her defence much ſooner.
She has kept her bed all day, and declares ſhe is almoſt bruiſed to death.
Adieu, dear Sir. What a long letter have I written! I could almoſt fancy I ſent it you from London!
LETTER XXXIV
Evelina in continuation.
THIS inſatiable Captain, if left to himſelf, would not, I believe, reſt, till he had tormented Madame Duval into a fever. He ſeems to have no de⯑light but in terrifying or provoking her, and all his thoughts apparently turn upon inventing ſuch me⯑thods as may do it moſt effectually.
She had her breakfaſt again in bed yeſterday morning; but during ours, the Captain with a very ſignificant look at Sir Clement, gave us to underſtand, that he thought ſhe had now reſted long enough to bear the hardſhips of a freſh cam⯑paign.
[205] His meaning was obvious, and, therefore, I re⯑ſolved to endeavour immediately to put a ſtop to his intended exploits. When breakfaſt was over, I followed Mrs. Mirvan out of the parlour, and begged her to loſe no time in pleading the cauſe of Madame Duval with the Captain. ‘"My love,"’ anſwered ſhe, ‘I have already expoſtulated with him; but all I can ſay is fruitleſs, while his fa⯑vourite Sir Clement contrives to urge him on."’
‘"Then I will go and ſpeak to Sir Clement,"’ ſaid I, ‘"for I know he will deſiſt, if I requeſt him."’
‘"Have a care, my dear,"’ ſaid ſhe, ſmiling, ‘"it is ſometimes dangerous to make requeſts to men, who are too deſirous of receiving them."’
‘"Well then, my dear Madam, will you give me leave to ſpeak myſelf to the Captain?’
‘"Willingly; nay, I will accompany you to him."’
I thanked her, and we went to ſeek him. He was walking in the garden with Sir Clement. Mrs. Mirvan moſt obligingly made anopening for my pur⯑poſe, by ſaying, ‘"Mr. Mirvan, I have brought a petitioner with me."’
‘"Why, what's the matter now?"’ cried he.
I was fearful of making him angry, and ſtam⯑mered very much, when I told him, I hoped he had no new plan for alarming Madame Duval.
‘"New plan!"’ cried he, ‘"why, you don't ſup⯑poſe the old one would do again, do you? Not but what it was a very good one, only I doubt ſhe would n't bite."’
‘"Indeed, Sir,’ ſaid I, ‘"ſhe has already ſuf⯑fered too much, and I hope you will pardon me, if I take the liberty of telling you, that I think it [206] my duty to do all in my power to prevent her being again ſo much terrified."’
A ſullen gloomineſs inſtantly clouded his face, and, turning ſhort from me, he ſaid, I might do as I pleaſed, but that I ſhould much ſooner repent than repair my officiouſneſs.
I was too much diſconcerted at this rebuff, to attempt making any anſwer, and, finding that Sir Clement warmly eſpouſed my cauſe, I walked away, and left them to diſcuſs the point together.
Mrs. Mirvan, who never ſpeaks to the Captain when he is out of humour, was glad to follow me, and, with her uſual ſweetneſs, made a thouſand apologies for her huſband's ill-manners.
When I left her, I went to Madame Duval, who was juſt riſen, and employed in examining the cloaths ſhe had on the day of her ill uſage.
‘"Here's a ſight! cried ſhe. Come here, child,—only look—Pardie, ſo long as I've lived, I never ſee ſo much before! Why all my things are ſpoilt, and, what's worſe, my ſacque was as good as new. Here's the ſecond negligee I've uſed in this man⯑ner!—I am ſure I was a fool to put it on, in ſuch a loneſome place as this; however, if I ſtay here theſe ten years, I'll never put on another good gown, that I'm reſolved."’
‘"Will you let the maid try if ſhe can iron it out, or clean it, Ma'am?’
‘"No, ſhe'll only make bad worſe.—But look here, now, here's a cloak! Mon Dieu! why it looks like a diſh-clout! Of all the unluckineſſes that ever I met, this is the worſt! for, do you know, I bought it but the day before I left Paris?—Beſides, into the bargain, my cap's quite gone; where the villain twitched it, I don't know, but I ſee no more of it from that time to this Now you [207] muſt know this was the becomingeſt cap I had in the world, for I've never another with pink ribbon in it; and, to tell you the truth, if I had n't thought to have ſeen M. Du Bois, I'd no more have put it on than I'd have flown; for as to what one wears in ſuch a ſtupid place as this, it ſignifies no more than nothing at all."’
She then told me, that ſhe had been thinking all night of a contrivance to hinder the Captain's finding out her loſs of curls; which was, having a large gauze handkerchief pinned on her head as a hood, and ſaying ſhe had the tooth-ach.
‘"To tell you the truth,"’ added ſhe, ‘"I be⯑lieve that Captain is one of the worſt men in the world; he's always making a joke of me; and as to his being a gentleman, he has no more manners than a bear, for he's always upon the grin when one's in diſtreſs, and, I declare, I'd rather be done any thing to than laughed at, for, to my mind, it's one or other the diſagreeableſt thing in the world."’
Mrs. Mirvan, I found, had been endeavouring to diſſuade her from the deſign ſhe had formed, of having recourſe to the law, in order to find out the ſuppoſed robbers; for ſhe dreads a diſcovery of the Captain, during Madame Duval's ſtay at Howard Grove, as it could not fail being productive of in⯑finite commotion. She has, therefore, taken great pains to ſhew the inutility of applying to juſtice, unleſs ſhe were more able to deſcribe the offen⯑ders againſt whom ſhe would appear, and has aſ⯑ſured her, that as ſhe neither heard their voices, nor ſaw their faces, ſhe cannot poſſibly ſwear to their perſons, or obtain any redreſs.
Madame Duval, in telling me this, extremely lamented her hard fate, that ſhe was thus pre⯑vented [208] from revenging her injuries; which, how⯑ever, ſhe vowed ſhe would not be perſuaded to pocket tamely, ‘"becauſe,"’ added ſhe, ‘"if ſuch vil⯑lains as theſe are let to have their own way, and nobody takes no notice of their impudence, they'll make no more ado than nothing at all of tying people in ditches, and ſuch things as that: however, I ſhall conſult with M. Du Bois, as ſoon I can ferret out where he's hid himſelf. I'm ſure I've a right to his advice, for it's all along of his gaping about at the Tower that I've met with theſe misfor⯑tunes."’
‘"M. Du Bois, ſaid I, will, I am ſure, be very ſorry when he hears what has happened."’
‘"And what good will that do now?—that won't unſpoil all my cloaths; I can tell him, I a'n't much obliged to him, though it's no fault of his;—yet it i'n't the leſs provokinger for that. I'm ſure, if he had been there, to have ſeen me ſerved in that manner, and put neck and heels into a ditch, he'd no more have thought it was me, than the Pope of Rome. I'll promiſe you, what⯑ever you may think of it, I ſha'n't have no reſt, night nor day, till I find out that rogue."’
‘"I have no doubt, Madam, but you will ſoon diſcover him."’
‘"Pardie, if I do, I'll hang him, as ſure as fate!—but what's the oddeſt, is that he ſhould take ſuch a 'ſpecial ſpite againſt me, above all the reſt! it was as much for nothing, as could be, for I don't know what I have done, ſo particular bad, to be uſed in that manner: I'm ſure, I had n't given him no of⯑fence, as I know of, for I never ſee his face all the time; and as to ſcreaming a little, I think it's very hard if one muſt n't do ſuch a thing as that, when one's put in fear of one's life."’
[209] During this converſation, ſhe endeavoured to ad⯑juſt her head-dreſs, but could not at all pleaſe her⯑ſelf. Indeed, had I not been preſent, I ſhould have thought it impoſſible for a woman at her time of life to be ſo very difficult in regard to dreſs. What ſhe may have in view, I cannot imagine, but the labour of the toilette ſeems the chief buſineſs of her life.
When I left her, in my way down ſtairs, I met with Sir Clement, who, with great earneſtneſs, ſaid he muſt not be denied the honour of a mo⯑ment's converſation with me; and then, without waiting for an anſwer, he led me to the garden, at the door of which, however, I abſolutely inſiſted upon ſtopping.
He ſeemed very ſerious, and ſaid, in a very grave tone of voice, ‘"At length, Miſs Anville, I flat⯑ter myſelf that I have hit upon an expedient that will oblige you, and therefore, though it is death to myſelf, I will put it in practice."’
I begged him to explain himſelf.
‘"I ſaw your deſire of ſaving Madame Duval, and ſcarce could I refrain giving the brutal Captain my real opinion of his ſavage conduct; but I am unwilling to quarrel with him, leſt I ſhould be de⯑nied entrance into a houſe which you inhabit: I have been endeavouring to prevail with him to give up his abſurd new ſcheme, but I find him im⯑penetrable;—I have therefore determined to make a pretence for ſuddenly leaving this place, dear as it is to me, and containing all I moſt admire and adore;—and I will ſtay in town till the violence of this boobyiſh humour is abated."’
He ſſopped; but I was ſilent, for I knew not what I ought to ſay. He took my hand, which he preſſed to his lips, ſaying, ‘"And muſt I, then, [210] Miſs Anville, muſt I quit you—ſacrifice voluntarily my greateſt felicity,—and yet not be honoured with one word, one look of approbation?"—’
I withdrew my hand, and ſaid, with a half laugh, ‘"You know ſo well, Sir Clement, the value of the favours you confer, that it would be ſuperflu⯑ous for me to point it out."’
‘"Charming, charming girl! how does your wit, your underſtanding riſe upon me daily! and muſt I, can I part with you?—will no other me⯑thod—"’
‘"O Sir, do you ſo ſoon repent the good office you had planned for Madame Duval?"’
‘"For Madame Duval!—cruel creature, and will you not even ſuffer me to place to your account the ſacrifice I am about to make?"’
‘"You muſt place it, Sir, to what account you pleaſe; but I am too much in haſte now to ſtay here any longer."’
And then I would have left him, but he held me, and, rather impatiently, ſaid, ‘"If, then, I cannot be ſo happy as to oblige you, Miſs Anville, you muſt not be ſurpriſed, ſhould I ſeek to oblige myſelf. If my ſcheme is not honoured with your approbation, for which alone it was formed, why ſhould I, to my own infinite diſſatisfaction, pur⯑ſue it?"’
We were then, for a few minutes, both ſilent; I was really unwilling he ſhould give up a plan, which would ſo effectually break into the Captain's deſigns, and, at the ſame time, ſave me the pain of diſobliging him; and I ſhould inſtantly and thankfully have accepted his offered civility, had not Mrs. Mirvan's caution made me fearful. How⯑ever, when he preſſed me to ſpeak, I ſaid, in an ironical voice, ‘"I had thought, Sir, that the very [211] ſtrong ſenſe you have yourſelf of the favour you propoſe to me, would ſufficiently have repaid you, but, as I was miſtaken, I muſt thank you myſelf. And now,"’ making a low courteſy, ‘"I hope, Sir, you are ſatisfied."’
‘"Lovelieſt of thy ſex—"’ he began, but I for⯑ced myſelf from him, and ran up ſtairs.
Soon after, Miſs Mirvan told me that Sir Cle⯑ment had juſt received a letter, which obliged him inſtantly to leave the Grove, and that he had actually ordered a chaiſe. I then acquainted her with the real ſtate of the affair. Indeed, I con⯑ceal nothing from her, ſhe is ſo gentle and ſweet⯑tempered, that it gives me great pleaſure to place an entire confidence in her.
At dinner, I muſt own, we all miſſed him; for though the flightineſs of his behaviour to me, when we are by ourſelves, is very diſtreſſing, yet, in large companies, and general converſation, he is ex⯑tremely entertaining and agreeable. As to the Captain, he has been ſo much chagrined at his de⯑parture, that he has ſcarce ſpoken a word ſince he went: but Madame Duval, who made her firſt pub⯑lic appearance ſince her accident, was quite in rap⯑tures that ſhe eſcaped ſeeing him.
The money which we left at the farm-houſe, has been returned to us. What pains the Captain muſt have taken to arrange and manage the adven⯑tures which he choſe we ſhould meet with! Yet he muſt certainly be diſcovered, for Madame Du⯑val is already very much perplexed, at having re⯑ceived a letter this morning from M. Du Bois, in which he makes no mention of his impriſonment. However, ſhe has ſo little ſuſpicion, that ſhe im⯑putes his ſilence upon the ſubject, to his fears that the letter might be intercepted.
[212] Not one opportunity could I meet with, while Sir Clement was here, to enquire after his friend Lord Orville: but I think it was ſtrange he ſhould never mention him unaſked. Indeed, I rather won⯑der that Mrs. Mirvan herſelf did not introduce the ſubject, for ſhe always ſeemed particularly atten⯑tive to him.
And now, once more, all my thoughts involun⯑tarily turn upon the letter I ſo ſoon expect from Pa⯑ris. This viſit of Sir Clement has, however, ſomewhat diverted my fears, and therefore I am ve⯑ry glad he made it at this time. Adieu, my dear Sir.
LETTER XXXV.
Sir John Belmont to Lady Howard.
I Have this moment the honour of your Lady⯑ſhip's letter, and I will not wait another, before I return an anſwer.
It ſeldom happens that a man, though extolled as a ſaint, is really without blemiſh; or that another, though reviled as a devil, is really with⯑out humanity. Perhaps the time is not very diſ⯑tant, when I may have the honour to convince your Ladyſhip of this truth, in regard to Mr. Villars and myſelf.
As to the young Lady, whom Mr. Villars ſo obligingly propoſes preſenting to me, I wiſh her all the happineſs to which, by your Ladyſhip's account, ſhe ſeems entitled; and if ſhe has a third [213] part of the merit of her to whom you compare her, I doubt not but Mr. Villars will be more ſucceſs⯑ful in every other application he may make for her advantage, than he can ever be in any with which he may be pleaſed to favour me.
LETTER XXXVI.
Evelina to the Rev. Mr. Villars.
WELL, my dear Sir, all is now over! the letter ſo anxiouſly expected, is at length arrived, and my doom is fixed. The various feelings which oppreſs me, I have not language to deſcribe; nor need I,—you know my heart, you have yourſelf formed it,—and its ſenſations upon this occaſion, you may but too readily imagine
Outcaſt as I am; and rejected for ever by him to whom I of right belong,—ſhall I now implore your continual protection?—no, no,—I will not offend your generous heart (which, open to diſtreſs, has no wiſh but to relieve it) with an application that would ſeem to imply a doubt. I am more ſecure than ever of your kindneſs, ſince you now know upon that is my ſole dependance.
I endeavour to bear this ſtroke with compoſure, and in ſuch a manner as if I had already received your counſel and conſolation. Yet, at times, my [214] emotions are almoſt too much for me. O Sir, what a letter for a parent to write! muſt I not myſelf be deaf to the voice of Nature, if I could endure to be thus abſolutely abandoned, without regret? I dare not, even to you, nor would I, could I help it, to myſelf, acknowledge all that I think; for, indeed, I have, ſometimes, ſentiments upon this rejection, which my ſtrongeſt ſenſe of duty can ſcarcely correct. Yet, ſuffer me to aſk,—might not this anſwer have been ſoftened?—was it not enough to diſclaim me for ever, without treating me with contempt, and wounding me with de⯑riſion?
But, while I am thus thinking of myſelf, I for⯑get how much more he is the object of ſorrow, than I am! Alas, what amends can he make him⯑ſelf, for the anguiſh he is hoarding up for time to come! My heart bleeds for him, whenever this re⯑flection occurs to me.
What is ſaid of you, my protector, my friend, my benefactor!—I dare not truſt myſelf to com⯑ment upon. Gracious Heaven! what a return for goodneſs ſo unparalleled!
I would fain endeavour to divert my thoughts from this ſubject, but even that is not in my pow⯑er; for, afflicting as this letter is to me, I find that it will not be allowed to conclude the affair, though it does all my expectations: for Madame Duval has determined not to let it reſt here. She heard the letter in great wrath, and proteſted ſhe would not be ſo eaſily anſwered; ſhe regretted her faci⯑lity, in having been prevailed upon to yield the di⯑rection of this affair to thoſe who knew not how to manage it, and vowed ſhe would herſelf undertake and conduct it in future.
[215] It is in vain that I have pleaded againſt her reſo⯑lution, and beſought her to forbear an attack, where ſhe has nothing to expect but reſentment; eſpeci⯑ally as there ſeems to be a hint, that Lady Howard will one day be more openly dealt with: ſhe will not hear me; ſhe is furiouſly bent upon a project which is terrible to think of,—for ſhe means to go go herſelf to Paris, take me with her, and there, face to face, demand juſtice!
How to appeaſe or to perſuade her, I know not; but for the univerſe would I not be dragged, in ſuch a manner, to an interview ſo awful, with a parent I have never yet beheld!
Lady Howard and Mrs. Mirvan are both of them infinitely ſhocked at the preſent ſituation of affairs, and they ſeem to be even more kind to me than ever; and my dear Maria, who is the friend of my heart, uſes her utmoſt efforts to conſole me, and, when ſhe fails in her deſign, with ſtill greater kind⯑neſs, ſhe ſympathiſes in my ſorrow.
I very much rejoice, however, that Sir Clement Willoughby had left us before this letter arrived. I am ſure the general confuſion of the houſe would, otherwiſe, have betrayed to him the whole of a tale which I now, more than ever, wiſh to have buried in oblivion.
Lady Howard thinks I ought not to diſoblige Madame Duval, yet ſhe acknowledges the impropri⯑ety of my accompanying her abroad upon ſuch an enterprize. Indeed I would rather die, than force myſelf into his preſence. But ſo vehement is Ma⯑dame Duval, that ſhe would inſtantly have com⯑pelled me to attend her to town, in her way to Paris, had not Lady Howard ſo far exerted herſelf, as to declare ſhe could by no means conſent to my [216] quitting her houſe, till ſhe gave me up to you, by whoſe permiſſion I had entered it.
She was extremely angry at this denial; and the Captain, by his ſneers and raillery, ſo much en⯑creaſed her rage, that ſhe has poſitively declared, ſhould your next letter diſpute her authority to guide me by her own pleaſure, ſhe will, without heſitation, make a journey to Berry Hill, and teach you to know who ſhe is.
Should ſhe put this threat in execution, nothing could give me greater uneaſineſs, for her violence and volubility would almoſt diſtract you.
Unable as I am to act for myſelf, or to judge what conduct I ought to purſue, how grateful do I feel myſelf, that I have ſuch a guide and direc⯑tor to counſel and inſtruct me as yourſelf!
Adieu, my deareſt Sir! Heaven, I truſt, will never never let me live to be repulſed and derided by you, to whom I may now ſign myſelf
LETTER XXXVII.
Mr. Villars to Evelina.
LET not my Evelina be depreſſed by a ſtroke of fortune for which ſhe is not reſponſible. No breach of duty on your part, has incurred the unkind⯑neſs which has been ſhewn you, nor have you, by any act of imprudence, provoked either cenſure or reproach. Let me entreat you, therefore, my deareſt child, to ſupport yourſelf with that cou⯑rage [217] which your innocency ought to inſpire; and let all the affliction you allow yourſelf, be for him only, who not having that ſupport, muſt one day be but too ſeverely ſenſible how much he wants it.
The hint thrown out concerning myſelf, is wholly unintelligible to me: my heart, I dare own, fully acquits me of vice, but without blemiſh, I have never ventured to pronounce myſelf. How⯑ever, it ſeems his intention to be hereafter more explicit, and then,—ſhould any thing appear, that has, on my part, contributed to thoſe misfortunes we lament, let me, at leaſt, ſay, that the moſt partial of my friends cannot be ſo much aſtoniſhed as I ſhall myſelf be, at ſuch a diſcovery.
The mention, alſo, of any future applications I may make, is equally beyond my comprehenſion. But I will not dwell upon a ſubject which almoſt compels from me reflections that cannot but be wounding to a heart ſo formed for filial tenderneſs as my Evelina's. There is an air of myſtery throughout the letter, the explanation of which I will await in ſilence.
The ſcheme of Madame Duval is ſuch as might be reaſonably expected from a woman ſo little inured to diſappointment, and ſo totally incapable of conſidering the delicacy of your ſituation. Your averſeneſs to her plan gives me pleaſure, for it exactly correſponds with my own. Why will ſhe not make the journey ſhe projects by herſelf? She would not have even the wiſh of an oppoſition to encounter. And then, once more, might my child and myſelf be left to the quiet enjoyment of that peaceful happineſs, which ſhe alone has inter⯑rupted. As to her coming hither, I could, indeed, diſpenſe with ſuch a viſit; but, if ſhe will not be [218] ſatisfied with my refuſal by letter, I muſt ſubmit to the taſk of giving it her in perſon.
My impatience for your return is encreaſed by your account of Sir Clement Willoughby's viſit to Howard Grove. I am but little ſurprized at the perſeverance of his aſſiduities to intereſt you in his favour; but I am very much hurt that you ſhould be expoſed to addreſſes, which, by their privacy, have an air that ſhocks me. You cannot, my love, be too circumſpect; the ſlighteſt careleſſneſs on your part, will be taken advantage of, by a man of his diſpoſition. It is not ſufficient for you to be reſerved; his conduct even calls for your reſent⯑ment: and ſhould he again, as will doubtleſs be his endeavour, contrive to ſolicit your favour in private, let your diſdain and diſpleaſure be ſo marked, as to conſtrain a change in his behaviour. Though, indeed, ſhould his viſit be repeated while you remain at the Grove, Lady Howard muſt pardon me if I ſhorten your's.
Adieu, my child. You will always make my reſpects to the hoſpitable family to which we are ſo much obliged.
LETTER XXXVII.
Mr. Villars to Lady Howard.
I BELIEVE your Ladyſhip will not be ſurprized at hearing I have had a viſit from Madame Duval, as I doubt not her having made known her inten⯑tion before ſhe left Howard Grove. I would gladly [219] have excuſed myſelf this meeting, could I have avoided it decently; but, after ſo long a journey, it was not poſſible to refuſe her admittance.
She told me, that ſhe came to Berry Hill, in conſequence of a letter I had ſent to her grand⯑daughter, in which I had forbid her going to Pa⯑ris. Very roughly, ſhe then called me to account for the authority which I aſſumed! and, had I been diſpoſed to have argued with her, ſhe would very angrily have diſputed the right by which I uſed it. But I declined all debating. I therefore liſtened very quietly, till ſhe had ſo much fatigued herſelf with talking, that ſhe was glad, in her turn, to be ſilent. And then I begged to know the pur⯑port of her viſit.
She anſwered, that ſhe came to make me re⯑linquiſh the power I had uſurped over her grand⯑daughter, and aſſured me ſhe would not quit the place till ſhe ſucceeded.
But I will not trouble your Ladyſhip with the particulars of this diſagreeable converſation; nor ſhould I, but on account of the reſult, have cho⯑ſen ſo unpleaſant a ſubject for your peruſal. How⯑ever, I will be as conciſe as I poſſibly can, that the better occupations of your ladyſhip's time may be the leſs impeded.
When ſhe found me inexorable in refuſing Eve⯑lina's attending her to Paris, ſhe peremptorily in⯑ſiſted, that ſhe ſhould, at leaſt, live with her in London, till Sir John Belmont's return. I re⯑monſtrated againſt this ſcheme with all the energy in my power; but the conteſt was vain; ſhe loſt her patience, and I my time. She declared that if I was reſolute in oppoſing her, ſhe would inſtantly make a will, in which ſhe would leave all her [220] fortune to ſtrangers, though, otherwiſe, ſhe in⯑tended her grand-daughter for her ſole heireſs.
To me, I own, this threat ſeemed of little conſequence; I have long accuſtomed myſelf to think, that, with a competency, of which ſhe is ſure, my child might be as happy as in the poſſeſ⯑ſion of millions: but the incertitude of her future fate, deters me from following implicitly the dic⯑tates of my preſent judgment. The connections ſhe may hereafter form, the ſtyle of life for which ſhe may be deſtined, and the future family to which ſhe may belong, are conſiderations which give but too much weight to the menaces of Ma⯑dame Duval. In ſhort, Madam, after a diſcourſe infinitely tedious, I was obliged, though very re⯑luctantly, to compromiſe with this ungovernable woman, by conſenting that Evelina ſhould paſs one month with her.
I never made a conceſſion with ſo bad a grace, or ſo much regret. The violence and vulgarity of this woman, her total ignorance of propriety, the family to which ſhe is related, and the compa⯑ny ſhe is likely to keep, are objections ſo forcible to her having the charge of this dear child, that nothing leſs than my diffidence of the right I have of depriving her of ſo large a fortune, would have induced me to liſten to her propoſal. Indeed we parted, at laſt, equally diſcontented, ſhe, at what I had refuſed, I, at what I had granted.
It now only remains for me to return your Lady⯑ſhip my humble acknowledgments for the kind⯑neſs which you have ſo liberally ſhewn to my ward, and to beg you would have the goodneſs to part with her, when Madame Duval thinks proper [221] to claim the promiſe which ſhe has extorted from me. I am,
LETTER XXXIX.
Mr. Villars to Evelina.
WITH a reluctance which occaſions me inex⯑preſſible uneaſineſs, I have been almoſt compelled to conſent that my Evelina ſhould quit the protection of the hoſpitable and reſpectable Lady Howard, and accompany Madame Duval to a city to which I had hoped ſhe had bid an eternal adieu. But alas, my dear child, we are the ſlaves of cuſtom, the dupes of prejudice, and dare not ſtem the torrent of an oppoſing world, even though our judgments con⯑demn our compliance! however, ſince the die is caſt, we muſt endeavour to make the beſt of it.
You will have occaſion, in the courſe of the month you are to paſs with Madame Duval, for all the circumſpection and prudence you can call to your aid: ſhe will not, I know, propoſe any thing to you which ſhe thinks wrong herſelf; but you muſt learn not only to judge but to act for your⯑ſelf; if any ſchemes are ſtarted, any engagements made, which your underſtanding repreſents to you as improper, exert yourſelf reſolutely in avoiding them, and do not, by a too paſſive facility, riſk the cenſure of the world, or your own future regret.
You cannot too aſſiduouſly attend to Madame Duval herſelf; but I would wiſh you to mix as lit⯑tle [222] as poſſible with her aſſociates, who are not like⯑ly to be among thoſe whoſe acquaintance would re⯑flect credit upon you. Remember, my dear Eve⯑lina, nothing is ſo delicate as the reputation of a woman: it is, at once, the moſt beautiful and moſt brittle of all human things.
Adieu, my beloved child; I ſhall be but ill at eaſe till this month is elapſed.
LETTER XL.
Evelina to the Rev. Mr. Villars.
ONCE more, my deareſt Sir, I write to you from this great city. Yeſterday morning, with the trueſt concern, I quitted the dear inhabitants of Howard Grove, and moſt impatiently ſhall I count the days till I ſee them again. Lady Howard and Mrs. Mirvan took leave of me with the moſt flatter⯑ing kindneſs; but indeed I knew not how to part with Maria, whoſe own apparent ſorrow redoubled mine. She made me promiſe to ſend her a letter every poſt. And I ſhall write to her with the ſame fre [...]om, and almoſt the ſame confidence, you allow me to make uſe of to yourſelf.
The Captain was very civil to me, but he wrangled with poor Madame Duval to the laſt mo⯑ment; and, taking me aſide, juſt before we got into the chaiſe, he ſaid, ‘"Hark'ee, Miſs Anville, I've a favour for to aſk of you, which is this; that you will write us word how the old gentlewoman finds herſelf, when ſhe ſees it was all a trick; and [223] what the French lubber ſays to it, and all about it."’
I anſwered that I would obey him, though I was very little pleaſed with the commiſſion, which, to me, was highly improper: but he will either treat me as an informer, or make me a party in his frolic.
As ſoon as we drove away, Madame Duval, with much ſatisfaction, exclaimed ‘"Dieu merci, we've got off at laſt! I'm ſure I never deſire to ſee that place again. It's a wonder I've got away alive; for I believe I've had the worſt luck ever was known, from the time I ſet my foot upon the threſhold. I know I wiſh I'd never a gone. Beſides, into the bargain, it's the moſt dulleſt place in all Chriſten⯑dom: there's never no diverſions, nor nothing at all."’
Then ſhe bewailed M. Du Bois, concerning whoſe adventures ſhe continued to make various conjectures during the reſt of our journey.
When I aſked her what part of London ſhe ſhould reſide in, ſhe told me that Mr. Branghton was to meet us at an inn, and would conduct us to a lodging. Accordingly, we proceeded to a houſe in Biſhopſgate-ſtreet, and were led by a waiter in⯑to a room where we found Mr. Branghton.
He received us very civilly, but ſeemed rather ſurpriſed at ſeeing me, ſaying ‘"Why I did n't think of your bringing Miſs; however ſhe's very welcome."’
‘"I'll tell you how it was,"’ ſaid Madame Duval; ‘"you muſt know I've a mind to take the girl to Paris, that ſhe may ſee ſomething of the world, and improve herſelf a little; beſides, I've another rea⯑ſon, that you and I will talk more about; but do you know, that meddling old parſon as I told you of, [...]ould not let her go: however, I'm reſolved I'll [224] be even with him, for I ſhall take her on with me, without ſaying never a word more to nobody."’
I ſtarted at this intimation, which very much ſurpriſed me. But I am very glad ſhe has diſcover⯑ed her intention, as I ſhall be carefully upon my guard not to venture from town with her.
Mr. Branghton then hoped we had paſſed our time agreeably in the country.
‘"O Lord, Couſin,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"I've been the miſerableſt creature in the world! I'm ſure all the horſes in London ſhan't drag me into the country again of one while: why how do you think I've been ſerved?—only gueſs."’
‘"Indeed, Couſin, I can't pretend to do that."’
‘"Why then I'll tell you. Do you know, I've been robbed!—that is, the villain would have robbed me if he could, only I'd ſecured all my money."’
‘"Why then, Couſin, I think your loſs can't have been very great."’
‘"O Lord, you don't know what you're a ſay⯑ing; you're talking in the unthinkingeſt manner in the world: why it was all along of not having no money, that I met with that misfortune."’
‘"How's that, Couſin? I don't ſee what great misfortune you can have met with, if you'd ſe⯑cured all your money."’
‘"That's becauſe you don't know nothing of the matter; for there the villain came to the chaiſe, and becauſe we had n't got nothing to give him, though he'd no more right to our money than the man in the moon, yet, do you know, he fell into the greateſt paſſion ever you ſee, and abuſed me in ſuch a manner, and put me in a ditch, and got a rope, o' purpoſe to hang me,—and I'm ſure, if that was n't misfortune enough, why I don't know what is."’
[225] ‘"This is a hard caſe, indeed, Couſin. But why don't you go to juſtice Fielding?"’
‘"O, as to that, I'm a going to him directly; but only I want firſt to ſee poor M. Du Bois, for the oddeſt thing of all is, that he has wrote to me, and never ſaid nothing of where he is, nor what's become of him, nor nothing elſe."’
‘"M. Du Bois! why he's at my houſe at this very time."’
‘"M. Du Bois at your houſe! well, I declare this is the ſurpriſingeſt part of all! however, I aſ⯑ſure you, I think he might have comed for me, as well as you, conſidering what I have gone through on his account; for, to tell you the truth, it was all along of him that I met with that accident; ſo I don't take it very kind of him, I promiſe you."’
‘"Well but, Couſin, tell me ſome of the par⯑ticulars of this affair."’
‘"As to the particulars, I'm ſure they'd make your hair ſtand an end to hear them; however, the beginning of it all was thro' the fault of M. Du Bois: but, I'll aſſure you, he may take care of himſelf in future, ſince he don't ſo much as come to ſee if I'm dead or alive;—but there I went for him to a juſtice of peace, and rode all out of the way, and did every thing in the world, and was uſed worſer than a dog, and all for the ſake of ſerv⯑ing him, and now, you ſee, he don't ſo much—well, I was a fool for my pains,—however, he may get ſomebody elſe to be treated ſo another time, for if he's taken up every day in the week, I'll never go after him no more."’
This occaſioned an explanation, in the courſe of which, Madame Duval, to her utter amazement, heard that M. Du Bois had never left London dur⯑ing her abſence! nor did Mr. Branghton believe [226] that he had ever been to the Tower, or met with any kind of accident.
Almoſt inſtantly, the whole truth of the tran⯑ſaction ſeemed to ruſh upon her mind, and her wrath was inconceivably violent. She aſked me a thou⯑ſand queſtions in a breath, but, fortunately, was too vehement to attend to my embarraſſment, which muſt, otherwiſe, have betrayed my know⯑ledge of the deceit. Revenge was her firſt wiſh, and ſhe vowed ſhe would go the next morning to Juſtice Fielding, and enquire what puniſhment ſhe might lawfully inflict upon the Captain for his aſſault.
I believe we were an hour in Biſhopſgate-ſtreet, ere poor Madame Duval could allow any thing to be mentioned but her own ſtory; at length, how⯑ever, Mr. Branghton told her, that M. Du Bois, and all his own family, were waiting for her at his houſe. A hackney-coach was then called, and we proceeded to Snow-hill.
Mr. Branghton's houſe is ſmall and inconveni⯑ent, though his ſhop, which takes in all the ground floor, is large and commodious. I believe I told you before that he is a ſilver-ſmith.
We were conducted up two pair of ſtairs, for the dining-room, Mr. Branghton told us, was let. His two daughters, their brother, M. Du Bois, and a young man, were at tea. They had waited ſome time for Madame Duval, but I found they had not any expectation that I ſhould accompany her; and the young ladies, I believe, were rather more ſurpriſed than pleaſed when I made my ap⯑pearance; for they ſeemed hurt that I ſhould ſee their apartment. Indeed I would willingly have ſaved them that pain, had it been in my power.
The firſt perſon who ſaw me was M. Du Bois: [227] ‘"Ah, mon Dieu!"’ exclaimed he, ‘voilà Mademoi⯑ſelle!"’
‘"Goodneſs,"’ cried young Branghton, ‘if there is n't Miſs!"’
‘"Lord, ſo there is,"’ ſaid Miſs Polly; ‘"well, I'm ſure I ſhould never have dreamed of Miſs's coming."’
‘"Nor I neither, I'm ſure,"’ cried Miſs Brangh⯑ton, ‘"or elſe I would not have been in this room to ſee her; I'm quite aſhamed about it,—only not thinking of ſeeing any body but my aunt—how⯑ever, Tom, it's all your fault, for you know very well I wanted to borrow Mr. Smith's room, only you were ſo grumty, you would not let me."’
‘"Lord, what ſignifies;"’ ſaid the brother, ‘"I dare be ſworn Miſs has been up two pair of ſtairs before now;—Ha'n't you, Miſs?"’
I begged that I might not give them the leaſt diſturbance, and aſſured them that I had not any choice in regard to what room we ſat in.
‘"Well,"’ ſaid Miſs Polly, ‘"when you come next, Miſs, we'll have Mr. Smith's room; and it's a very pretty one, and only up one pair of ſtairs, and nicely furniſhed, and every thing."’
‘"To ſay the truth,"’ ſaid Miſs Branghton, ‘"I thought that my couſin would not, upon any ac⯑count, have come to town in the ſummer time; for it's not at all the faſhion,—ſo, to be ſure, thinks I, ſhe'll ſtay till September, when the play-houſes open."’
This was my reception, which I believe you will not call a very cordial one. Madame Duval, who, after having ſeverely reprimanded M. Du Bois for his negligence, was juſt entering upon the ſtory of her misfortunes, now wholly engaged the company.
[228] M. Du Bois liſtened to her with a look of the utmoſt horror, repeatedly lifting up his eyes and hands, and exclaiming, ‘"O ciel! quel barbare!"’ The young ladies gave her the moſt earneſt atten⯑tion; but their brother, and the young man, kept a broad grin upon their faces during the whole reci⯑tal. She was, however, too much engaged to obſerve them: but, when ſhe mentioned having been tied in a ditch, young Branghton, no longer able to conſtrain himſelf, burſt into a loud laugh, declaring that he had never heard any thing ſo fun⯑ny in his life! His laugh was heartily re-echoed by his friend; the Miſs Branghtons could not reſiſt the example; and poor Madame Duval, to her extreme amazement, was abſolutely overpowered and ſtopped by the violence of their mirth.
For ſome minutes the room ſeemed quite in an uproar; the rage of Madame Duval, the aſtoniſh⯑ment of M. Du Bois, and the angry interrogato⯑ries of Mr. Branghton, on one ſide; the convul⯑ſive tittering of the ſiſters, and the loud laughs of the young men, on the other, occaſioned ſuch noiſe, paſſion, and confuſion, that had any one ſtopped an inſtant on the ſtairs, he muſt have concluded himſelf in Bedlam. At length, however, the fa⯑ther brought them to order; and, half laughing, half frightened, they made Madame Duval ſome very awkward apologies. But ſhe would not be prevailed upon to continue her narrative, till they had proteſted they were laughing at the Captain, and not at her. Appeaſed by this, ſhe reſumed her ſtory; which, by the help of ſtuffing hand⯑kerchiefs into their mouths, the young people heard with tolerable decency.
Every body agreed, that the ill uſage the Cap⯑tain had given her was actionable, and Mr. Brangh⯑ton [229] ſaid he was ſure ſhe might recover what da⯑mages ſhe pleaſed, ſince ſhe had been put in fear of her life.
She then, with great delight, declared, that ſhe would loſe no time in ſatisfying her revenge, and vowed ſhe would not be contented with leſs than half his fortune: ‘"For though,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"I don't put no value upon the money, becauſe, Dieu merci, I ha'n't no want of it, yet I don't wiſh for nothing ſo much as to puniſh that fellow; for, I'm ſure, whatever's the cauſe of it, he owes me a great grudge, and I know no more what it's for than you do, but he's always been doing me one ſpite or other, ever ſince I knew him."’
Soon after tea, Miſs Branghton took an oppor⯑tunity to tell me, in a whiſper, that the young man I ſaw was a lover of her ſiſter's, that his name was Brown, and that he was a haberdaſher, with many other particulars of his circumſtances and family; and then ſhe declared her utter averſion to the thoughts of ſuch a match; but added, that her ſiſter had no manner of ſpirit or ambition, though for her part, ſhe would ten times rather die an old maid, than marry any perſon but a gen⯑tleman. ‘And, for that matter,"’ added ſhe, ‘"I believe Polly herſelf don't care much for him, only ſhe's in ſuch a hurry, becauſe, I ſuppoſe, ſhe's a mind to be married before me; however, ſhe's very welcome, for I'm ſure, I don't care a pin's point whether I ever marry at all;—it's all one to me."’
Some time after this, Miſs Polly contrived to tell her ſtory. She aſſured me, with much titter⯑ing, that her ſiſter was in a great fright, leſt ſhe ſhould be married firſt, ‘"So I make her believe that I will,"’ continued ſhe, ‘"for I love dearly to plague her a little; though, I declare, I don't [230] intend to have Mr. Brown in reality; I'm ſure I don't like him half well enough,—do you, Miſs?"’
‘"It is not poſſible for me to judge of his me⯑rits, ſaid I, as I am entirely a ſtranger to him."’
‘"But what do you think of him, Miſs?"’
‘"Why, really, I—I don't know—"’
‘"But do you think him handſome? Some peo⯑ple reckon him to have a good pretty perſon,—but, I'm ſure, for my part, I think he's monſtrous ugly:—don't you, Miſs?"’
‘"I am no judge,—but I think his perſon is very—very well—."’
‘"Very well!—Why, pray, Miſs,"’ in a tone of vexation, ‘"what fault can you find with it?"’
‘"O, none at all!"’
‘"I'm ſure you muſt be very ill-natured if you could. Now there's Biddy ſays ſhe thinks no⯑thing of him,—but I know it's all out of ſpite. You muſt know, Miſs, it makes her as mad as can be, that I ſhould have a lover before her, but ſhe's ſo proud, that nobody will court her, and I often tell her ſhe'll die an old maid. But, the thing is, ſhe has taken it into her head, to have a liking for Mr. Smith, as lodges on the firſt floor; but, Lord, he'll never have her, for he's quite a fine gentleman; and beſides, Mr. Brown heard him ſay, one day, that he'd never marry as long as he lived, for he'd no opinion of matrimony."’
‘"And did you tell your ſiſter this?"’
‘"O, to be ſure I told her directly; but ſhe did not mind me; however, if ſhe will be a fool, ſhe muſt."’
This extreme want of affection, and good-na⯑ture, increaſed the diſtaſte I already felt for theſe unamiable ſiſters; and a confidence ſo entirely un⯑ſolicited [231] and unneceſſary, manifeſted equally their folly and their want of decency.
I was very glad when the time for our departing arrived. Mr. Branghton ſaid our lodgings were in Holborn, that we might be near his houſe, and neighbourly. He accompanied us to them himſelf.
Our rooms are large and not inconvenient; our landlord is an hoſier. I am ſure I have a thouſand reaſons to rejoice that I am ſo little known; for my preſent ſituation is, in every reſpect, very un⯑enviable, and I would not, for the world, be ſeen by any acquaintance of Mrs. Mirvan.
This morning Madame Duval, attended by all the Branghtons, actually went to a Juſtice in the neighbourhood, to report the Captain's ill uſage of her. I had great difficulty in excuſing myſelf from being of the party, which would have given me very ſerious concern. Indeed, I was extremely anxious, though at home, till I heard the reſult of the application; for I dread to think of the unea⯑ſineſs which ſuch an affair would occaſion the amiable Mrs. Mirvan. But, fortunately, Madame Duval has received very little encouragement to proceed in her deſign, for ſhe has been informed that, as ſhe neither heard the voice, nor ſaw the face of the perſon ſuſpected, ſhe will find it diffi⯑cult to caſt him upon conjecture, and will have but little probability of gaining her cauſe, unleſs ſhe can procure witneſſes of the tranſaction. Mr. Branghton, therefore, who has conſidered all the circumſtances of the affair, is of opinion, that the law-ſuit will not only be expenſive, but tedious and hazardous, and has adviſed againſt it. Ma⯑dame Duval, though very unwillingly, has ac⯑quieſced in his deciſion; but vows that if ever ſhe is ſo affronted again, ſhe will be revenged, even if [232] ſhe ruins herſelf. I am extremeiy glad that this ridiculous adventure ſeems now likely to end with⯑out more ſerious conſequences.
Adieu, my deareſt Sir. My direction is at Mr. Dawkins's, a hoſier, in High Holborn.
LETTER XLI.
Evelina to Miſs Mirvan.
I HAVE no words, my ſweet friend, to expreſs the thankfulneſs I feel for the unbounded kindneſs which you, your dear mother, and the much-ho⯑noured Lady Howard, have ſhewn me; and ſtill leſs can I find language to tell you with what re⯑luctance I parted from ſuch dear and generous friends, whoſe goodneſs reflects, at once, ſo much honour on their own hearts, and on her to whom it has been ſo liberally beſtowed. But I will not repeat what I have already written to the kind Mrs. Mirvan; I will remember your admonitions, and confine to my own breaſt that gratitude with which you have filled it, and teach my pen to dwell upon ſubjects leſs painful to my generous correſpondent.
O Maria, London now ſeems no longer the ſame place where I lately enjoyed ſo much happi⯑neſs; every thing is new and ſtrange to me; even the town itſelf has not the ſame aſpect:—my ſitu⯑ation ſo altered! my home ſo different!—my com⯑panions ſo changed!—But you well know my averſeneſs to this journey.
Indeed, to me, London now ſeems a deſart; that gay and buſy appearance it ſo lately wore, is now ſucceeded by a look of gloom, fatigue, and laſſi⯑tude; the air ſeems ſtagnant, the heat is intenſe, [233] the duſt intolerable, and the inhabitants illiterate and under-bred. At leaſt, ſuch is the face of things in the part of the town where I at preſent reſide.
Tell me, my dear Maria, do you never re⯑trace in your memory the time we paſt here when together? to mine, it recurs for ever! And yet, I think I rather recollect a dream, or ſome viſionary fancy, than a reality.—That I ſhould ever have been known to Lord Orville,—that I ſhould have ſpoken to—have danced with him,—ſeems now a romantic illuſion: and that elegant politeneſs, that flattering attention, that high-bred delicacy, which ſo much diſtinguiſhed him above all other men, and which ſtruck us with ſuch admiration, I now re⯑trace the remembrance of, rather as belonging to an object of ideal perfection, formed by my own imagination, than to a being of the ſame race and nature as thoſe with whom I at preſent converſe.
I have no news for you, my dear Miſs Mirvan, for all that I could venture to ſay of Madame Du⯑val, I have already written to your ſweet mother; and as to adventures, I have none to record. Si⯑tuated as I now am, I heartily hope I ſhall not meet with any; my wiſh is to remain quiet and unnoticed.
Adieu! excuſe the gravity of this letter, and believe me,
LETTER XLII.
Evelina to the Rev. Mr. Villars.
YESTERDAY morning, we received an invitation to dine and ſpend the day at Mr. Brangh⯑ton's; [234] and M. Du Bois, who was alſo invited, called to conduct us to Snow-hill.
Young Branghton received us at the door, and the firſt words he ſpoke were, ‘"Do you know, "Siſters a'n't dreſſed yet?"’
Then, hurrying us into the houſe, he ſaid to me, ‘"Come, Miſs, you ſhall go up ſtairs and catch 'em,—I dare ſay they're at the glaſs."’
He would have taken my hand, but I declined his civility, and begged to follow Madame Duval. Mr. Branghton then appeared, and led the way himſelf. We went, as before, up two pair of ſtairs; but the moment the father opened the door, the daughters both gave a loud ſcream. We all ſtopped, and then Miſs Branghton called out, ‘"Lord, Papa, what do you bring the company up here for? why, Polly and I a'n't half dreſſed."’
‘"More ſhame for you,"’ anſwered he, ‘here's your aunt, and couſin, and M. Du Bois, all wait⯑ing, and ne'er a room to take them to."’
‘"Who'd have thought of their coming ſo ſoon?"’ cried ſhe: ‘"I'm ſure for my part I thought Miſs was uſed to nothing but quality hours."’
‘"Why, I ſhan't be ready this half-hour yet,"’ ſaid Miſs Polly; ‘"can't they ſtay in the ſhop till we're dreſſed?"’
Mr. Branghton was very angry, and ſcolded them violently; however, we were obliged to de⯑ſcend, and ſtools were procured for us in the ſhop, where we found the brother, who was highly de⯑lighted, he ſaid, that his ſiſters had been catched; and he thought proper to entertain me with a long account of their tediouſneſs, and the many quar⯑rels they all had together.
When, at length, theſe ladies were equipped to their ſatisfaction, they made their appearance; but [235] before any converſation was ſuffered to paſs between them and us, they had a long and moſt diſagreeable dialogue with their father, to whoſe reprimands, though ſo juſtly incurred, they replied with the utmoſt pertneſs and rudeneſs, while their brother, all the time, laughed aloud.
The moment they perceived this, they were ſo much provoked, that, inſtead of making any apologies to Madame Duval, they next began a quarrel with him. ‘"Tom, what do you laugh for? I wonder what buſineſs you have to be al⯑ways a laughing when Papa ſcolds us."’
‘"Then what buſineſs have you to be ſuch a while getting on your cloaths? You're never ready, you know well enough."’
‘"Lord, Sir, I wonder what that's to you! I wiſh you'd mind your own affairs, and not trou⯑ble yourſelf about ours. How ſhould a boy like you know any thing?"’
‘"A boy, indeed! not ſuch a boy, neither; I'll warrant you'll be glad to be as young, when you come to be old maids."’
This ſort of dialogue we were amuſed with till dinner was ready, when we again mounted up two pair of ſtairs.
In our way, Miſs Polly told me that her ſiſter had aſked Mr. Smith for his room to dine in, but he had refuſed to lend it; ‘"becauſe,"’ ſhe ſaid, ‘"one day it happened to be a little greaſed: how⯑ever, we ſhall have it to drink tea in, and then, perhaps, you may ſee him, and I aſſure you he's quite like one of the quality, and dreſſes as fine, and goes to balls and dances, and every thing quite in taſte;—and beſides, Miſs, he keeps a foot-boy of his own, too."’
[236] The dinner was ill-ſerved, ill-cooked, and ill⯑managed. The maid who waited had ſo often to go down ſtairs for ſomething that was forgotten, that the Branghtons were perpetually obliged to riſe from table themſelves, to get plates, knives and forks, bread, or beer. Had they been with⯑out pretenſions, all this would have ſeemed of no conſequence; but they aimed at appearing to ad⯑vantage, and even fancied they ſucceeded. How⯑ever, the moſt diſagreeable part of our fare was, that the whole family continually diſputed whoſe turn it was to riſe, and whoſe to be allowed to ſit ſtill.
When this meal was over, Madame Duval, Mr. Branghton, and, in broken Engliſh. M. Du Bois, entered into an argument concerning the French nation; and Miſs Polly, then addreſſing herſelf to me, ſaid, ‘"Don't you think, Miſs, it's very dull ſitting up ſtairs here? we'd better go down to ſhop, and then we ſhall ſee the people go by."’
‘"Lord, Poll,"’ ſaid the brother, ‘"you're al⯑ways wanting to be ſtaring and gaping; and I'm ſure you need n't be ſo fond of ſhewing yourſelf, for you're ugly enough to frighten a horſe."’
‘"Ugly, indeed! I wonder which is beſt, you or me. But, I tell you what, Tom, you've no need to give yourſelf ſuch airs, for if you do, I'll tell Miſs of you know what—."’
‘"Who cares if you do? You may tell what you will; I don't mind—"’
‘"Indeed,"’ cried I, ‘"I do not deſire to hear any ſecrets."’
‘"O, but I'm reſolved I'll tell you, becauſe Tom's ſo very ſpiteful. You muſt know, Miſs, t'other night—"’
[237] ‘"Poll,"’ cried the brother, ‘"if you tell of that, Miſs ſhall know all about your meeting young Brown,—you know when!—So I'll be quits with you, one way or another."’
Miſs Polly coloured, and again propoſed our go⯑ing down ſtairs till Mr. Smith's room was ready for our reception.
‘"Aye, ſo we will,"’ ſaid Miſs Branghton; ‘"I'll aſſure you, Couſin, we have ſome very gen⯑teel people paſs by our ſhop ſometimes. Polly and I always go and ſit there, when we've cleaned ourſelves."’
‘"Yes, Miſs,"’ cried the brother, ‘"they do nothing elſe all day long, when father don't ſcold them. But the beſt fun is, when they've got all their dirty things on, and all their hair about their ears, ſometimes I ſend young Brown up ſtairs to them; and then, there's ſuch a fuſs!—there they hide themſelves, and run away, and ſqueal and ſquall like any thing mad: and ſo then I puts the two cats into the room, and I gives 'em a good whip⯑ping, and ſo that ſets them a ſqualling too; ſo there's ſuch a noiſe, and ſuch an uproar!—Lord, you can't think, Miſs, what fun it is!"’
This occaſioned a freſh quarrel with the ſiſters; at the end of which, it was, at length, decided that we ſhould go to the ſhop.
In our way down ſtairs, Miſs Branghton ſaid aloud, ‘"I wonder when Mr. Smith's room will be ready."’
‘"So do I,"’ anſwered Polly; ‘"I'm ſure we ſhould not do any harm to it now."’
This hint had not the deſired effect; for we were ſuffered to proceed very quietly.
As we entered the ſhop, I obſerved a young man, in deep mourning, leaning againſt the wall, with [238] his arms folded, and his eyes fixed on the ground, apparently in profound and melancholy meditation: but the moment he perceived us, he ſtarted, and, making a paſſing bow, very abruptly retired. As I found he was permitted to go quite unnoticed, I could not forbear enquiring who he was.
‘"Lord!"’ anſwered Miſs Branghton, ‘"he's no⯑thing but a poor Scotch poet."’
‘"For my part,"’ ſaid Miſs Polly, ‘"I believe he's juſt ſtarved, for I don't find he has any thing to live upon."’
‘"Live upon!"’ cried the brother, ‘"why he's a poet, you know, ſo he may live upon learning."’
‘"Aye, and good enough for him too,"’ ſaid Miſs Branghton, ‘"for he's as proud as he's poor."’
‘"Like enough,"’ replied the brother, ‘"but, for all that, you won't find he will live without meat and drink: no, no, catch a Scotchman at that if you can! why, they only come here for what they can get."’
‘"I'm ſure,"’ ſaid Miſs Branghton, ‘"I wonder Papa 'll be ſuch a fool as to let him ſtay in the houſe, for I dare ſay he'll never pay for his lodging."’
‘"Why, no more he would, if he could get another Lodger: you know the bill's been put up this fortnight. Miſs, if you ſhould hear of a per⯑ſon that wants a room, I aſſure you it is a very good one, for all it's up three pair of ſtairs."’
I anſwered, that as I had no acquaintance in London, I had not any chance of aſſiſting them: but both my compaſſion and my curioſity were ex⯑cited for this poor young man: and I aſked them ſome further particulars concerning him.
They then acquainted me, that they had only known him three months. When he firſt lodged [239] with them, he agreed to board alſo; but had late⯑ly told them, he would eat by himſelf, though they all believed he had hardly ever taſted a morſel of meat ſince he left their table. They ſaid, that he had always appeared very low-ſpirited, but, for the laſt month, he had been duller than ever, and, all of a ſudden, had put himſelf into mourning, though they knew not for whom, nor for what, but they ſuppoſed it was only for convenience, as no perſon had ever been to ſee or enquire for him ſince his reſidence amongſt them: and they were ſure he was very poor, as he had not paid for his lodgings the laſt three weeks: and finally, they concluded he was a poet, or elſe half-crazy, be⯑cauſe they had, at different times, found ſcraps of poetry in his room.
They then produced ſome unfiniſhed verſes, written on ſmall pieces of paper, unconnected, and of a moſt melancholy caſt. Among them was the fragment of an ode, which, at my re⯑queſt, they lent me to copy; and, as you may perhaps like to ſee it, I will write it now.
Theſe lines are harſh, but they indicate an in⯑ternal wretchedneſs which, I own, affects me. Surely this young man muſt be involved in misfor⯑tunes of no common nature: but I cannot imagine what can induce him to remain with this unfeel⯑ing family, where he is, moſt unworthily, de⯑ſpiſed for being poor, and, moſt illiberally, de⯑teſted for being a Scotchman. He may, indeed, have motives which he cannot ſurmount, for ſub⯑mitting to ſuch a ſituation. Whatever they are, I moſt heartily pity him, and cannot but wiſh it were in my power to afford him ſome relief.
During this converſation, Mr. Smith's foot boy came to Miſs Branghton, and informed her, that his maſter ſaid ſhe might have the room now when ſhe liked it, for that he was preſently going out.
This very genteel meſſage, though it perfectly ſatisfied the Miſs Branghtons, by no means added to my deſire of being introduced to this gentle⯑man: and upon their riſing, with intention to ac⯑cept his offer, I begged they would excuſe my at⯑tending them, and ſaid I would ſit with Madame Duval till the tea was ready.
I therefore once more went up two pair of ſtairs, with young Branghton, who inſiſted upon accom⯑panying me; and there we remained, till Mr. [241] Smith's foot-boy ſummoned us to tea, when I fol⯑lowed Madame Duval into the dining-room.
The Miſs Branghtons were ſeated at one win⯑dow, and Mr. Smith was lolling indolently out of the other. They all approached us at our en⯑trance, and Mr. Smith, probably, to ſhew he was maſter of the apartment, moſt officiouſly hand⯑ed me to a great chair, at the upper end of the room, without taking any notice of Madame Du⯑val, till I roſe, and offered her my own ſeat.
Leaving the reſt of the company to entertain themſelves, he, very abruptly, began to addreſs himſelf to me, in a ſtyle of gallantry, equally new and diſagreeable to me. It is true, no man can poſſibly pay me greater compliments, or make more fine ſpeeches, than Sir Clement Willoughby, yet his language, though too flowery, is always that of a gentleman, and his addreſs and manners are ſo very ſuperior to thoſe of the inhabitants of this houſe, that to make any compariſon between him and Mr. Smith would be extremely unjuſt. This latter ſeems very deſirous of appearing a man of gaiety and ſpirit; but his vivacity is ſo low bred, and his whole behaviour ſo forward and diſ⯑agreeable, that I ſhould prefer the company of dullneſs itſelf, even as that goddeſs is deſcribed by Pope, to that of this ſprightly young man.
He made many apologies, that he had not lent his room for our dinner, which, he ſaid, he ſhould certainly have done, had he ſeen me firſt; and he aſſured me, that when I came again, he ſhould be very glad to oblige me.
I told him, with ſincerity, that every part of the houſe was equally indifferent to me.
‘"Why, Ma'am, the truth is, Miſs Biddy and Polly take no care of any thing elſe. I'm ſure, [242] they ſhould be always welcome to my room; for I'm never ſo happy as in obliging the ladies,—that's my character, Ma'am;—but, really, the laſt time they had it, every thing was made ſo greaſy and ſo naſty, that, upon my word, to a man who wiſhes to have things a little genteel, it was quite cruel. Now, as to you, Ma'am, its quite another thing; for I ſhould not mind if every thing I had was ſpoilt, for the ſake of having the pleaſure to oblige you; and, I aſſure you, Ma'am, it makes me quite happy, that I have a room good enough to receive you."’
This elegant ſpeech was followed by many others, ſo much in the ſame ſtyle, that to write them would be ſuperfluous; and, as he did not allow me a moment to ſpeak to any other perſon, the reſt of the evening was conſumed in a painful attention to this irkſome young man, who ſeemed to intend appearing before me to the utmoſt advan⯑tage.
Adieu, my dear Sir. I fear you will be ſick of reading about this family; yet I muſt write of them, or not of any, ſince I mix with no other. Happy ſhall I be, when I quit them all, and again return to Berry Hill!
LETTER XLIII.
Evelina in continuation.
THIS morning, Mr. Smith called, on purpoſe, he ſaid, to offer me a ticket for the next Hamp⯑ſtead aſſembly. I thanked him, but deſired to be [243] excuſed accepting it; he would not, however, be denied, nor anſwered, and in a manner both ve⯑hement and free, preſſed and urged his offer till I was wearied to death: but, when he found me reſolute, he ſeemed thunderſtruck with amazement, and thought proper to deſire I would tell him my reaſons.
Obvious as they muſt, ſurely, have been to any other perſon, they were ſuch as I knew not how to repeat to him; and, when he found I he⯑ſitated, he ſaid, ‘"Indeed, Ma'am, you are too modeſt; I aſſure you the ticket is quite at your ſervice, and I ſhall be very happy to dance with you; ſo pray don't be ſo coy."’
‘"Indeed, Sir,"’ returned I, ‘"you are miſtaken; I never ſuppoſed you would offer a ticket, with⯑out wiſhing it ſhould be accepted; but it would anſwer no purpoſe to mention the reaſons which make me decline it, ſince they cannot poſſibly be removed."’
This ſpeech ſeemed very much to mortify him, which I could not be concerned at, as I did not chuſe to be treated by him with ſo much freedom. When he was, at laſt, convinced that his appli⯑cation to me was ineffectual, he addreſſed himſelf to Madame Duval, and begged ſhe would interfere in his favour, offering, at the ſame time, to pro⯑cure another ticket for herſelf.
‘"Ma foi, Sir,"’ anſwered ſhe, angrily, ‘"you might as well have had the complaiſance to aſk me before, for, I aſſure you, I don't approve of no ſuch rudeneſs: however, you may keep your tick⯑ets to yourſelf, for we don't want none of 'em.’
This rebuke almoſt over ſet him; he made many apologies, and ſaid that he ſhould certainly have firſt applied to her, but that he had no notion the [244] young lady would have refuſed him, and, on the contrary, had concluded that ſhe would have aſſiſt⯑ed him to perſuade Madame Duval herſelf.
This excuſe appeaſed her; and he pleaded his cauſe ſo ſucceſsfully, that, to my great chagrin, he gained it; and Madame Duval promiſed that ſhe would go herſelf, and take me to the Hamp⯑ſtead aſſembly whenever he pleaſed.
Mr. Smith then, approaching me with an air of triumph, ſaid, ‘"Well, Ma'am, now, I think, you can't poſſibly keep to your denial."’
I made no anſwer, and he ſoon took leave, though not till he had ſo wonderfully gained the favour of Madame Duval, that ſhe declared, when he was gone, he was the prettieſt young man ſhe had ſeen ſince ſhe came to England.
As ſoon as I could find an opportunity, I ven⯑tured, in the moſt humble manner, to entreat Ma⯑dame Duval would not inſiſt upon my attending her to this ball; and repreſented to her, as well as I was able, the impropriety of my accepting any preſent from a young man ſo entirely unknown to me: but ſhe laughed at my ſcruples, called me a fooliſh, ignorant, country girl, and ſaid ſhe ſhould make it her buſineſs to teach me ſomething of the world.
This ball is to be next week. I am ſure it is not more improper for, than unpleaſant to me, and I will uſe every poſſible endeavour to avoid it. Perhaps I may apply to Miſs Branghton for advice, as I believe ſhe will be willing to aſſiſt me, from diſliking, equally with myſelf, that I ſhould dance with Mr. Smith.
[245] July 11th.
O, my dear Sir! I have been ſhocked to death,—and yet, at the ſame time, delighted beyond ex⯑preſſion, in the hope that I have happily been the inſtrument of ſaving a human creature from deſtruc⯑tion!
This morning, Madame Duval ſaid ſhe would invite the Branghton family to return our viſit to⯑morrow; and, not chuſing to riſe herſelf,—for ſhe generally ſpends the morning in bed,—ſhe deſi⯑red me to wait upon them with her meſſage. M. Du Bois, who juſt then called, inſiſted upon attend⯑ing me.
Mr. Branghton was in the ſhop, and told us that his ſon and daughters were out; but deſired me to ſtep up ſtairs, as he very ſoon expected them home. This I did, leaving M. Du Bois below. I went into the room where they had dined the day before, and, by a wonderful chance, I happended ſo to ſeat myſelf, that I had a view of the ſtairs, and yet could not be ſeen from them.
In about ten minutes time, I ſaw, paſſing by the door, with a look perturbed and affrighted, the ſame young man I mentioned in my laſt letter. Not heeding, as I ſuppoſe, how he went, in turn⯑ing the corner of the ſtairs, which are narrow and winding, his foot ſlipped, and he fell, but, almoſt inſtantly riſing, I plainly perceived the end of a piſtol, which ſtarted from his pocket, by hitting againſt the ſtairs.
I was inexpreſſibly ſhocked. All that I had heard of his miſery occurring to my memory, made me conclude, that he was, at that very moment, meditating ſuicide! Struck with the dreadful idea, all my ſtrength ſeemed to fail me;—I ſat motion⯑leſs;[246] —I loſt all power of action,—and grew almoſt ſtiff with horror.
He moved on ſlowly,—yet I ſoon loſt ſight of him. I then trembled ſo violently, that my chair actually ſhook under me; till, recollecting that it was yet poſſible to prevent the fatal deed, all my faculties ſeemed to return, with the hope of ſaving him.
My firſt thought was to fly to Mr. Branghton, but I feared that an inſtant of time loſt, might for ever be rued; and therefore, guided by the im⯑pulſe of my apprehenſions, as well as I was able, I followed him up ſtairs, ſtepping very ſoftly, and obliged to ſupport myſelf by the baniſters.
When I came within a few ſtairs of the landing⯑place, I ſtopped, for I could then ſee into his room, as he had not yet ſhut the door.
He had put the piſtol upon a table, and had his hand in his pocket, whence, in a few moments, he took out another: He then emptied ſomething on the table from a ſmall leather bag; after which, taking up both the piſtols, one in each hand, he dropt haſtily upon his knees, and called out ‘"O God!—Forgive me!"’
In a moment, ſtrength and courage ſeemed lent me as by inſpiration: I ſtarted, and ruſhing pre⯑cipitately into the room, juſt caught his arm, and then, overcome by my own fears, I fell down at his ſide, breathleſs and ſenſeleſs. My recovery, however, was, I believe, almoſt inſtantaneous; and then the ſight of this unhappy man, regarding me with a look of unutterable aſtoniſhment, mixed with concern, preſently reſtored to me my recollecti⯑on. I aroſe, though with difficulty; he did the ſame; the piſtols, as I ſoon ſaw, were both on the floor.
Unwilling to leave them, and, indeed, too weak [247] to move, I leant one hand on the table, and then ſtood perfectly ſtill: while he, his eyes caſt wildly towards me, ſeemed too infinitely amazed to be ca⯑pable of either ſpeech or action.
I believe we were ſome minutes in this extraor⯑dinary ſituation; but, as my ſtrength returned, I felt myſelf both aſhamed and awkward, and ma⯑king a ſlight courteſie, I moved towards the door. Pale, and motionleſs, he ſuffered me to paſs, with⯑out changing his poſture, or uttering a ſyllable; and, indeed,
When I reached the door, I turned round; I looked fearfully at the piſtols, and, impelled by an emotion I could not repreſs, I haſtily ſtepped back, with an intention of carrying them away: but their wretched owner, perceiving my deſign, and reco⯑vering from his aſtoniſhment, darting ſuddenly down, ſeized them both himſelf.
Wild with fright, and ſcarce knowing what I did, I caught, almoſt involuntarily, hold of both his arms, and exclaimed ‘"O Sir! have mercy on yourſelf!"’
The guilty piſtols fell from his hands, which, diſengaging from me, he fervently claſped, and cried, ‘"Sweet Heaven! is this thy angel?"’
Encouraged by ſuch gentleneſs, I again attempted to take the piſtols, but, with a look half frantic, he again prevented me, ſaying, ‘"What would you do?"’
‘"Awaken you,"’ I cried, with a courage I now wonder at, ‘"to worthier thoughts, and reſcue you from perdition."’
[248] I then ſeized the piſtols; he ſaid not a word,—he made no effort to ſtop me;—I glided quick by him, and tottered down ſtairs, ere he had recovered from the extremeſt amazement.
The moment I reached again the room I had ſo fearfully left, I threw away the piſtols, and flinging myſelf on the firſt chair, gave free vent to the feelings I had moſt painfully ſtifled, in a violent burſt of tears, which, indeed, proved a happy re⯑lief to me.
In this ſituation I remained ſome time; but when, at length, I lifted up my head, the firſt object I ſaw, was the poor man who had occaſioned my terror, ſtanding, as if petrified, at the door, and gazing at me with eyes of wild wonder.
I ſtarted from the chair, but trembled ſo exceſ⯑ſively, that I almoſt inſtantly ſunk again into it. He then, though without advancing, and in a fal⯑tering voice, ſaid, ‘"Whoever or whatever you are, relieve me, I pray you, from the ſuſpenſe un⯑der which my ſoul labours—and tell me if indeed I do not dream?"’
To this addreſs, ſo ſingular and ſo ſolemn, I had not then the preſence of mind to frame any an⯑ſwer; but, as I preſently perceived that his eyes turned from me to the piſtols, and that he ſeemed to intend regaining them, I exerted all my ſtrength, and ſaying ‘"O for Heaven's ſake, forbear!"’ I roſe and took them myſelf.
‘"Do my ſenſes deceive me!"’ cried he, ‘"do I live—? and do you—?"’
As he ſpoke, he advanced towards me, and I, ſtill guarding the piſtols, retreated, ſaying ‘"No, no,—you muſt not—muſt not have them!"—’
‘"Why—for what purpoſe, tell me!—do you withhold them?"’
[249] ‘"To give you time to think, to ſave you from eternal miſery,—and, I hope, to reſerve you for mercy and forgiveneſs."’
‘"Wonderful!"’ cried he, with uplifted hands and eyes, ‘"moſt wonderful!"’
For ſome time, he ſeemed wrapped in deep thought, till a ſudden noiſe of tongues below, an⯑nouncing the approach of the Branghtons, made him ſtart from his reverie: he ſprung haſtily for⯑ward,—dropt on one knee,—caught hold of my gown, which he preſſed to his lips, and then, quick as lightning, he roſe, and flew up ſtairs to his own room.
There was ſomething in the whole of this ex⯑traordinary and ſhocking adventure, really too af⯑fecting to be borne; and ſo entirely had I ſpent my ſpirits and exhauſted my courage, that, before the Branghtons reached me, I had ſunk on the ground, without ſenſe or motion.
I believe I muſt have been a very horrid ſight to them, on their entrance into the room; for, to all appearance, I ſeemed to have ſuffered a violent death, either by my own raſhneſs, or the cruelty of ſome murderer; as the piſtols were fallen cloſe by my ſide.
How ſoon I recovered, I know not, but, pro⯑bably, I was more indebted to the loudneſs of their cries, than to their aſſiſtance; for they all con⯑cluded that I was dead, and, for ſome time, did not make any effort to revive me.
Scarcely could I recollect where or, indeed, what I was, ere they poured upon me ſuch a tor⯑rent of queſtions and enquiries, that I was almoſt ſtunned with their vociferation. However, as ſoon and as well as I was able, I endeavoured [250] to ſatisfy their curioſity, by recounting what had happened as clearly as was in my power. They all looked aghaſt at the recital, but, not being well enough to enter into any diſcuſſions, I beg⯑ged to have a chair called, and to return inſtantly home.
Before I left them, I recommended, with great earneſtneſs, a vigilant obſervance of their unhappy lodger, and that they would take eſpecial care to keep from him, if poſſible, all means of ſelf-de⯑ſtruction.
M. Du Bois, who ſeemed extremely concerned at my indiſpoſition, walked by the ſide of the chair, and ſaw me ſafe to my own apartment.
The raſhneſs and the miſery of this ill-fated young man, engroſs all my thoughts. If, indeed, he is bent upon deſtroying himſelf, all efforts to ſave him will be fruitleſs. How much do I wiſh it were in my power to diſcover the nature of the malady which thus maddens him, and to offer or to procure alleviation to his ſufferings! I am ſure, my deareſt Sir, you will be much concerned for this poor man, and were you here, I doubt not but you would find ſome method of awakening him from the error which blinds him, and of pour⯑ing the balm of peace and comfort into his afflicted ſoul!
LETTER XLIV.
Evelina in continuation.
[251]YESTERDAY all the Branghtons dined here. Our converſation was almoſt wholly concerning the adventure of the day before. Mr. Branghton ſaid, that his firſt thought was inſtantly to turn his lodger out of doors, ‘"Leſt,"’ continued he, ‘"his killing himſelf in my houſe, ſhould bring me into any trouble; but then, I was afraid I ſhould never get the money he owes me, whereas, if he dies in my houſe, I have a right to all he leaves be⯑hind him, if he goes off in my debt. Indeed, I would put him in priſon—but what ſhould I get by that? he could not earn any thing there to pay me. So I conſidered about it ſome time, and then I determined to aſk him, point-blank, for my money out of hand. And ſo I did, but he told me he'd pay me next week: however, I gave him to underſtand, that though I was no Scotch⯑man, yet I did not like to be over-reached any more than he; ſo then, he gave me a ring, which, to my certain knowledge, muſt be worth ten gui⯑neas, and told me he would not part with it for his life, and a good deal more ſuch ſort of ſtuff, but that I might keep it till he could pay me."’
‘"It is ten to one, Father, ſaid young Branghton, if he came fairly by it."’
‘"Very likely not,"’ anſwered he, ‘"but that will make no great difference; for I ſhall be able to prove my right to it all one."’
What principles! I could hardly ſtay in the room.
[252] ‘"I'm determined,"’ ſaid the ſon, ‘"I'll take ſome opportunity to affront him ſoon, now I know how poor he is, becauſe of the airs he gave him⯑ſelf to me when he firſt came."’
‘"And pray how was that, child?"’ ſaid Madame Duval.
‘"Why you never knew ſuch a fuſs in your life as he made, becauſe, one day at dinner, I only happened to ſay, that I ſuppoſed he had never got ſuch a good meal in his life, before he came to England: there he fell in ſuch a paſſion as you can't think; but, for my part, I took notice of it, for to be ſure, thinks I, he muſt needs be a gentle⯑man, or he'd never go to be ſo angry about it. However, he won't put his tricks upon me again, in a hurry."’
‘"Well, ſaid Miſs Polly, he's grown quite an⯑other creature to what he was, and he does n't run away from us, nor hide himſelf, nor any thing: and he's as civil as can be, and he's always in the ſhop, and he ſaunters about the ſtairs, and he looks at every body who comes in."’
‘"Why you may ſee what's after plain enough, ſaid Mr. Branghton; he wants to ſee Miſs again."’
‘"Ha, ha, ha! Lord, how I ſhould laugh,"’ ſaid the ſon, ‘"if he ſhould have fell in Love with Miſs!"’
‘"I'm ſure,"’ ſaid Miſs Branghton, ‘"Miſs is welcome; but, for my part, I ſhould be quite aſhamed of ſuch a beggarly conqueſt."’
Such was the converſation till tea time, when the appearance of Mr. Smith gave a new turn to the diſcourſe.
Miſs Branghton deſired me to remark with what a ſmart air he entered the room, and aſked me if he had not very much a quality look?
[253] ‘"Come,"’ cried he, advancing to us, ‘"you ladies muſt not ſit together; wherever I go, I always make it a rule to part the ladies."’
And then, handing Miſs Branghton to the next chair, he ſeated himſelf between us.
‘"Well, now, ladies, I think we ſit very well. What ſay you? for my part, I think it was a very good motion."’
‘"If my Couſin likes it,"’ ſaid Miſs Branghton, ‘"I'm ſure I've no objection."’
‘"O,"’ cried he, ‘"I always ſtudy what the ladies like,—that's my firſt thought. And, indeed, it is but natural that you ſhould like beſt to ſit by the gentlemen, for what can you find to ſay to one another?"’
‘"Say!"’ cried young Branghton, ‘"O, never you think of that, they'll find enough to ſay, I'll be ſworn. You know the women are never tired of talking."’
‘"Come, come, Tom,"’ ſaid Mr. Smith, ‘"don't be ſevere upon the ladies; when I'm by; you know I always take their part."’
Soon after, when Miſs Branghton offered me ſome cake, this man of gallantry ſaid, ‘"Well, if I was that lady, I'd never take any thing from a woman."’
‘"Why not, Sir?"’
‘"Becauſe I ſhould be afraid of being poiſoned for being ſo handſome."’
‘"Who is ſevere upon the ladies now?"’ ſaid I.
‘"Why, really, Ma'am, it was a ſlip of the tongue; I did not intend to ſay ſuch a thing; but one can't always be on one's guard."’
Soon after, the converſation turning upon pub⯑lic places, young Branghton aſked if I had ever been to George's at Hampſtead?
[254] ‘"Indeed I never heard the place mentioned."’
‘"Did n't you, Miſs?"’ cried he, eagerly, ‘"why then you've a deal of fun to come, I'll promiſe you; and, I tell you what, I'll treat you there ſome Sunday ſoon. So now, Bid and Poll, be ſure you don't tell Miſs about the chairs, and all that, for I've a mind to ſurpriſe her; and if I pay, I think I've a right to have it my own way."’
‘"George's at Hampſtead!"’ repeated Mr. Smith, contemptuouſly, ‘"how came you to think the young Lady would like to go to ſuch a low place as that? But, pray, Ma'am, have you ever been to Don Saltero's at Chelſea?"’
‘"No, Sir"’
‘"No!—No!—nay, then, I muſt inſiſt on hav⯑ing the pleaſure of conducting you there before long. I aſſure you, Ma'am, many genteel people go, or elſe, I give you my word, I ſhould not re⯑commend it."’
‘"Pray, Couſin,"’ ſaid Mr. Branghton, ‘"have you been to Sadler's Wells, yet?"’
‘"No, Sir."’
‘"No! why then you've ſeen nothing!"’
‘"Pray, Miſs,"’ ſaid the Son, ‘"how do you like the Tower of London?"’
‘"I have never been to it, Sir."’
‘"Goodneſs!"’ exclaimed he, ‘"not ſeen the Tower!—why may be you ha'n't been o' top of the Monument, neither?"’
‘"No, indeed, I have not."’
‘"Why then you might as well not have come to London, for aught I ſee, for you've been no where."’
‘"Pray, Miſs,"’ ſaid Polly, ‘"have you been all over Paul's Church, yet?"’
‘"No, Ma'am."’
[255] ‘"Well, but, Ma'am,"’ ſaid Mr. Smith, ‘"how do you like Vauxhall and Marybone?"’
‘"I never ſaw either, Sir."’
‘"No!—God bleſs me!—you really ſurpriſe me,—why Vauxhall is the firſt pleaſure in life!—I know nothing like it.—Well, Ma'am, you muſt have been with ſtaange people, indeed, not to have taken you to Vauxhall. Why you have ſeen nothing of London yet.—However, we muſt try if we can't make you amends."’
In the courſe of this catechiſm, many other places were mentioned of which I have forgotten the names; but the looks of ſurpriſe and contempt that my repeated negatives incurred, were very di⯑verting.
‘"Come,"’ ſaid Mr. Smith, after tea, ‘"as this Lady has been with ſuch a queer ſet of people, let's ſhew her the difference; ſuppoſe we go ſomewhere to⯑night?—I love to do things with ſpirit!—Come, Ladies, where ſhall we go? For my part I ſhould like Foote's,—but the Ladies muſt chuſe; I never ſpeak myſelf."’
‘"Well, Mr. Smith is always in ſuch ſpirits!"’ ſaid Miſs Branghton.
‘"Why yes, Ma'am, yes, thank G—, pretty good ſpirits;—I have not yet the cares of the world upon me,—I am not married,—ha, ha, ha,—you'll excuſe me, Ladies,—but I can't help laughing!—"’
No objection being made, to my great relief, we all proceeded to the little theatre in the Hay⯑market, where I was extremely entertained by the performance of the Minor and the Commiſſary.
They all returned hither to ſupper.
LETTER XLV.
Evelina in continuation.
[256]YESTERDAY morning, Madame Duval again ſent me to Mr. Branghton's, attended by M. Du Bois, to make ſome party for the evening; be⯑cauſe ſhe had had the vapours the preceding day, from ſtaying at home.
As I entered the ſhop, I perceived the unfortu⯑nate North Briton, ſeated in a corner, with a book in his hand. He caſt his melancholy eyes up, as we came in, and, I believe, immediately recol⯑lected my face, for he ſtarted and changed colour. I delivered Madame Duval's meſſage to Mr. Branghton; who told me I ſhould find Polly up ſtairs, but that the others were gone out.
Up ſtairs, therefore, I went; and, ſeated on a window, with Mr. Brown at her ſide, ſat Miſs Polly. I felt a little awkward at diſturbing them, and much more ſo, at their behaviour afterwards: for, as ſoon as the common enquiries were over, Mr. Brown grew ſo fond, and ſo fooliſh, that I was extremely diſguſted. Polly, all the time, on⯑ly rebuked him with ‘"La, now, Mr. Brown, do be quiet, can't you?—you ſhould not behave ſo before company.—Why now what will Miſs think of me?"—’while her looks plainly ſhewed not merely the pleaſure, but the pride which ſhe took in his careſſes.
I did not, by any means, think it neceſſary to puniſh myſelf by witneſſing their tenderneſs, and, [257] therefore, telling them I would ſee if Miſs Brangh⯑ton was returned home, I ſoon left them, and again deſcended into the ſhop.
‘"So, Miſs, you've come again,"’ ſaid Mr. Branghton, ‘"what, I ſuppoſe, you've a mind to ſit a little in the ſhop, and ſee how the world goes, hay, Miſs?"’
I made no anſwer; and M. Du Bois inſtantly brought me a chair.
The unhappy ſtranger, who had riſen at my en⯑trance, again ſeated himſelf; and, though his head leant towards his book, I could not help ob⯑ſerving, that his eyes were moſt intently and ear⯑neſtly turned towards me.
M. Du Bois, as well as his broken Engliſh would allow him, endeavoured to entertain us, till the return of Miſs Branghton and her brother.
‘"Lord, how tired I am!"’ cried the former, ‘"I have not a foot to ſtand upon."’ And then, without any ceremony, ſhe flung herſelf into the chair from which I had riſen to receive her.
‘"You tired!"’ ſaid the brother, ‘"why then what I muſt be, that have walked twice as far?"’ And with equal politeneſs, he paid the ſame com⯑pliment to M. Du Bois which his ſiſter had done to me.
Two chairs and three ſtools compleated the fur⯑niture of the ſhop, and Mr. Branghton, who choſe to keep his own ſeat himſelf, deſired M. Du Bois to take another; and then, ſeeing that I was with⯑out any, called out to the ſtranger, ‘"Come, Mr. Macartney, lend us your ſtool."’
Shocked at their rudeneſs, I declined the offer, and approaching Miſs Branghton, ſaid, ‘"If you will be ſo good as to make room for me on your [258] chair, there will be no occaſion to diſturb that gentleman."’
‘"Lord, what ſignifies that?"’ cried the brother, ‘"he has had his ſhare of ſitting, I'll be ſworn."’
‘"And if he has not,"’ ſaid the ſiſter, ‘he has a chair up ſtairs; and the ſhop is our own, I hope."’
This groſsneſs ſo much diſguſted me, that I took the ſtool, and carrying it back to Mr. Macartney myſelf, I returned him thanks, as civilly as I could, for his politeneſs, but ſaid that I had rather ſtand.
He looked at me as if unaccuſtomed to ſuch at⯑tention, bowed very reſpectfully, but neither ſpoke, nor yet made uſe of it.
I ſoon found that I was an object of deriſion to all preſent, except M. Du Bois, and, therefore, I begged Mr. Branghton would give me an anſwer for Madame Duval, as I was in haſte to return.
‘"Well, then, Tom,—Biddy,—where have you a mind to go to-night? your Aunt and Miſs want to be abroad and amongſt them."’
‘"Why then, Papa,"’ ſaid Miſs Branghton, ‘"we'll go to Don Saltero's. Mr. Smith likes that place, ſo may be he'll go along with us."’
‘"No, no,"’ ſaid the ſon, ‘"I'm for White-Conduit Houſe; ſo let's go there."’
‘"White-Conduit Houſe, indeed!"’ cried his ſiſter, ‘"no, Tom, that I won't."’
‘"Why then let it alone; nobody wants your company;—we ſhall do as well without you, I'll be ſworn, and better too."’
‘"I'll tell you what, Tom, if you don't hold your tongue, I'll make you repent it,—that I aſ⯑ſure you."’
Juſt then, Mr. Smith came into the ſhop, which he ſeemed to intend paſſing through; but when he ſaw me, he ſtopped and began a moſt courteous [259] enquiry after my health, proteſting that, had he known I was there, he ſhould have come down ſooner. ‘"But, bleſs me, Ma'am,"’ added he, ‘"what is the reaſon you ſtand?"’ and then he flew to bring me the ſeat from which I had juſt parted.
‘"Mr. Smith, you are come in very good time,"’ ſaid Mr. Branghton, ‘"to end a diſpute between my ſon and daughter, about where they ſhall all go to-night."’
‘"O fie, Tom,—diſpute with a lady!"’ cried Mr. Smith, ‘"Now, as for me, I'm for where you will, provided this young Lady is of the party,—one place is the ſame as another to me, ſo that it be but agreeable to the ladies,—I would go any where with you, Ma'am,"’ (to me) ‘"unleſs, indeed, it were to church;—ha, ha, ha,—you'll excuſe me, Ma'am, but, really, I never could conquer my fear of a parſon;—ha, ha, ha,—really, ladies, I beg your pardon, for being ſo rude, but I can't help laughing for my life!"’
‘"I was juſt ſaying, Mr. Smith,"’ ſaid Miſs Branghton, ‘"that I ſhould like to go to Don Sal⯑tero's;—now pray where ſhould you like to go?"’
‘"Why really, Miſs Biddy, you know I always let the ladies decide; I never fix any thing myſelf; but I ſhould ſuppoſe it would be rather hot at the coffee-houſe,—however, pray, Ladies, ſettle it among yourſelves,—I'm agreeable to whatever you chuſe."’
It was eaſy for me to diſcover, that this man, with all his parade of conformity, objects to every thing that is not propoſed by himſelf: but he is ſo much admired, by this family, for his gentility, that he thinks himſelf a complete fine gentleman!
‘"Come,"’ ſaid Mr. Branghton, ‘"the beſt way will be to put it to the vote, and then every body [260] will ſpeak their minds. Biddy, call Poll down ſtairs. We'll ſtart fair."’
‘"Lord, Papa,"’ ſaid Miſs Branghton, ‘"why can't you as well ſend Tom?—you're always ſend⯑ing me of the errands."’
A diſpute then enſued, but Miſs Branghton was obliged to yield.
When Mr. Brown and Miſs Polly made their appearance, the latter uttered many complaints of having been called, ſaying ſhe did not want to come, and was very well where ſhe was.
‘"Now, Ladies, your votes;"’ cried Mr. Smith, ‘"and ſo, Ma'am,"’ (to me) ‘"we'll begin with you. What place ſhall you like beſt?"’ and then, in a whiſper, he added, ‘"I aſſure you, I ſhall ſay the ſame as you do, whether I like it or not."’
I ſaid, that as I was ignorant what choice was in my power, I muſt beg to hear their deciſions firſt. This was reluctantly aſſented to; and then Miſs Branghton voted for Saltero's Coffee-houſe; her ſiſter, for a party to Mother Red Cap's; the bro⯑ther, for White-Conduit Houſe; Mr. Brown, for Bagnigge Wells; Mr. Branghton for Sadler's Wells; and Mr. Smith for Vauxhall.
‘"Well now, Ma'am,"’ ſaid Mr. Smith, ‘"we have all ſpoken, and ſo you muſt give the caſting vote. Come, what will you fix upon?"’
‘"Sir,"’ anſwered I, ‘"I was to ſpeak laſt."’
‘"Well, ſo you will,"’ ſaid Miſs Branghton, ‘"for we've all ſpoke firſt."’
‘"Pardon me,"’ returned I, ‘"the voting has not yet been quite general."’
And I looked towards Mr. Macartney, to whom I wiſhed extremely to ſhew that I was not of the ſame brutal nature with thoſe by whom he was treated ſo groſsly.
[261] ‘"Why pray,"’ ſaid Mr. Branghton, ‘"who have we left out? would you have the cats and dogs vote?"’
‘"No, Sir,"’ cried I, with ſome ſpirit, ‘"I would have that gentleman vote,—if, indeed, he is not ſu⯑perior to joining our party."’
They all looked at me, as if they doubted whe⯑ther or not they had heard me right: but, in a few moments, their ſurpriſe gave way to a rude burſt of laughter.
Very much diſpleaſed, I told M. Du Bois that if he was not ready to go, I would have a coach called for myſelf.
O yes, he ſaid, he was always ready to attend me.
Mr. Smith then advancing, attempted to take my hand, and begged me not to leave them till I had ſettled the evening's plan.
‘"I have nothing, Sir,"’ ſaid I, ‘"to do with it, as it is my intention to ſtay at home; and therefore Mr. Branghton will be ſo good as to ſend Madame Duval word what place is fixed upon, when it is convenient to him."’
And then, making a ſlight courteſie, I left them.
How much does my diſguſt for theſe people en⯑creaſe my pity for poor Mr. Macartney! I will not ſee them when I can avoid ſo doing; but I am de⯑termined to take every opportunity in my power, to ſhew civility to this unhappy man, whoſe mis⯑fortunes, with this family, only render him an object of ſcorn. I was, however, very well pleaſ⯑ed with M. Du Bois, who, far from joining in their mirth, expreſſed himſelf extremely ſhocked at their ill-breeding.
We had not walked ten yards, ere we were fol⯑lowed by Mr. Smith, who came to make excuſes, and to aſſure me they were only joking, and hoped [262] I took nothing ill, for, if I did, he would make a quarrel of it himſelf with the Branghtons, rather than I ſhould receive any offence.
I begged him not to take any trouble about ſo immaterial an affair, and aſſured him I ſhould not myſelf. He was ſo officious, that he would not be prevailed upon to return home, till he had walk⯑ed with us to Mr. Dawkin's.
Madame Duval was very much diſpleaſed that I brought her ſo little ſatisfaction. White-Conduit Houſe was, at laſt, fixed upon; and, notwith⯑ſtanding my great diſlike of ſuch parties and ſuch places, I was obliged to accompany them.
Very diſagreeable, and much according to my expectations, the evening proved. There were many people all ſmart and gaudy, and ſo pert and low-bred, that I could hardly endure being amongſt them; but the party to which, unfortunately, I belonged, ſeemed all at home.
LETTER XLVI.
Evelina in continuation.
YESTERDAY Mr. Smith carried his point, of making a party for Vauxhall, conſiſting of Ma⯑dame Duval, M. Du Bois, all the Branghtons, Mr. Brown, himſelf,—and me!—for I find all en⯑deavours vain to eſcape any thing which theſe peo⯑ple deſire I ſhould not.
There were twenty diſputes previous to our ſet⯑ting out; firſt, as to the time of our going: Mr. Branghton, his ſon, and young Brown, were for [263] ſix o'clock; and all the ladies and Mr. Smith were for eight;—the latter, however, con⯑quered.
Then, as to the way we ſhould go; ſome were for a boat, others for a coach, and Mr. Branghton himſelf was for walking: but the boat, at length, was decided upon. Indeed this was the only part of the expedition that was agreeable to me, for the Thames was delightfully pleaſant.
The Garden is very pretty, but too formal; I ſhould have been better pleaſed, had it conſiſted leſs of ſtrait walks, where
the trees, the numerous lights, and the company in the circle around the orcheſtra make a moſt bril⯑liant and gay appearance; and, had I been with a party leſs diſagreeable to me, I ſhould have thought it a place formed for animation and plea⯑ſure. There was a concert, in the courſe of which the hautbois concerto was ſo charmingly played, that I could have thought myſelf upon enchanted ground, had I had ſpirits more gentle to aſſociate with. The hautboy in the open air is heavenly.
Mr. Smith endeavoured to attach himſelf to me, with ſuch officious aſſiduity, and impertinent free⯑dom, that he quite ſickened me. Indeed, M. Du Bois was the only man of the party to whom, vo⯑luntarily, I ever addreſſed myſelf. He is civil and reſpectful, and I have found nobody elſe ſo ſince I left Howard Grove. His Engliſh is very bad, but I prefer it to ſpeaking French myſelf, which I dare not venture to do. I converſe with him frequently, both to diſengage myſelf from others, and to oblige [264] Madame Duval, who is always pleaſed when he is attended to.
As we were walking about the orcheſtra, I heard a bell ring, and, in a moment, Mr. Smyth, flying up to me, caught my hand, and, with a motion too quick to be reſiſted, ran away with me many yards before I had breath to aſk his meaning, tho' I ſtruggled as well as I could to get from him. At laſt, however, I inſiſted upon ſtopping; ‘"Stop⯑ping, Ma'am!"’ cried he, ‘"why, we muſt run on, or we ſhall loſe the caſcade!’
And then again, he hurried me away, mixing with a crowd of people, all running with ſo much ve⯑locity, that I could not imagine what had raiſed ſuch an alarm. We were ſoon followed by the reſt of the party; and my ſurpriſe and ignorance proved a ſource of diverſion to them all, that was not exhauſted the whole evening. Young Brangh⯑ton, in particular, laughed till he could hardly ſtand.
The ſcene of the caſcade I thought extremely pretty, and the general effect ſtriking and lively.
But this was not the only ſurpriſe which was to divert them at my expence; for they led me about the garden, purpoſely to enjoy my firſt ſight of va⯑rious other deceptions.
About ten o'clock, Mr. Smith having choſen a box in a very conſpicuous place, we all went to ſup⯑per. Much fault was found with every thing that was ordered, though not a morſel of any thing was left; and the dearneſs of the proviſions, with con⯑jectures upon what profit was made by them, ſup⯑plied diſcourſe during the whole meal.
When wine and cyder were brought, Mr. Smith ſaid, ‘"Now let's enjoy ourſelves; now is the [265] time, or never. Well, Ma'am, and how do you like Vauxhall?"’
‘"Like it!"’ cried young Branghton, ‘"why, how can ſhe help liking it? ſhe has never ſeen ſuch a place before, that I'll anſwer for."’
‘"For my part,"’ ſaid Miſs Branghton, ‘I like it, becauſe it is not vulgar."’
‘"This muſt have been a fine treat for you, Miſs,"’ ſaid Mr. Branghton; ‘"why, I ſuppoſe, you was never ſo happy in all your life before?"’
I endeavoured to expreſs my ſatisfaction with ſome pleaſure, yet I believe they were much ama⯑zed at my coldneſs.
‘"Miſs ought to ſtay in town till the laſt night,"’ ſaid young Branghton, ‘"and then, it's my belief, ſhe'd ſay ſomething to it! Why, Lord, it's the beſt night of any; there's always a riot,—and there the folks run about,—and then there's ſuch ſquealing and ſqualling!—and there all the lamps are broke,—and the women run ſkimper ſcamper;—I declare I would not take five guineas to miſs the laſt night!"’
I was very glad when they all grew tired of ſit⯑ting, and called for the waiter to pay the bill. The Miſs Branghtons ſaid they would walk on, while the gentlemen ſettled the account, and aſked me to accompany them; which, however, I de⯑clined.
‘"You girls may do as you pleaſe,"’ ſaid Madame Duval, ‘"but as to me, I promiſe you, I ſha'n't go no where without the gentlemen."’
‘"No more, I ſuppoſe, will my Couſin,"’ ſaid Miſs Branghton, looking reproachfully towards Mr. Smith.
This reflection, which, I feared, would ſlatter his vanity, made me, moſt unfortunately, requeſt [266] Madame Duval's permiſſion to attend them. She granted it, and away we went, having promiſed to meet in the room.
To the room, therefore, I would immediately have gone; but the ſiſters agreed that they would firſt have a little pleaſure, and they tittered, and talked ſo loud, that they attracted univerſal no⯑tice.
‘"Lord, Polly,"’ ſaid the eldeſt, ‘"ſuppoſe we were to take a turn in the dark walks!"’
‘"Ay, do,"’ anſwered ſhe, ‘"and then we'll hide ourſelves, and then Mr. Brown will think we are loſt."’
I remonſtrated very warmly againſt this plan, telling them, that it would endanger our miſſing the reſt of the party all the evening.
‘"O dear,"’ cried Miſs Branghton, ‘"I thought how uneaſy Miſs would be, without a beau!"’
This impertinence I did not think worth anſwer⯑ing; and, quite by compulſion, I followed them down a long alley, in which there was hardly any light.
By the time we came near the end, a large party of gentlemen, apparently very riotous, and who were hallowing, leaning on one another, and laugh⯑ing immoderately, ſeemed to ruſh ſuddenly from behind ſome trees, and, meeting us face to face, put their arms at their ſides, and formed a kind of circle, that firſt ſtopped our proceeding, and then our retreating, for we were preſently entirely in⯑cloſed. The Miſs Branghtons ſcreamed aloud, and I was frightened exceedingly: our ſcreams were anſwered with burſts of laughter, and, for ſome minutes, we were kept priſoners, till, at laſt, one of them, rudely, ſeizing hold of me, ſaid I was a pretty little creature.
[267] Terrified to death, I ſtruggled with ſuch vehe⯑mence to diſengage myſelf from him, that I ſuc⯑ceeded, in ſpite of his efforts to detain me; and immediately, and with a ſwiftneſs which fear only could have given me, I flew rather than ran up the walk, hoping to ſecure my ſafety by return⯑ing to the lights and company we had ſo fooliſhly left: but, before I could poſſibly accompliſh my purpoſe, I was met by another party of men, one of whom placed himſelf ſo directly in my way, calling out, ‘"Whither ſo faſt, my love?"—’that I could only have proceeded, by running into his arms.
In a moment both my hands, by different per⯑ſons, were caught hold of; and one of them, in a moſt familiar manner, deſired to accompany me in a race, when I ran next; while the reſt of the party ſtood ſtill and laughed.
I was almoſt diſtracted with terror, and ſo breathleſs with running, that I could not ſpeak, till another advancing, ſaid, I was as handſome as an angel, and deſired to be of the party. I then juſt articulated ‘"For Heaven's ſake, Gentlemen, let me paſs!"’
Another then, ruſhing ſuddenly forward, ex⯑claimed, ‘"Heaven and earth! what voice is that?—"’
‘"The voice of the prettieſt little actreſs I have ſeen this age,"’ anſwered one of my perſecutors.
‘"No,—no,—no,—"’ I panted out, ‘"I am no actreſs,—pray let me go,—pray let me paſs—."’
‘"By all that's ſacred,"’ cried the ſame voice, which I then knew for Sir Clement Willoughby's, ‘"'tis herſelf!"’
‘"Sir Clement Willoughby!"’ cried I. ‘"O Sir, aſſiſt—aſſiſt me—or I ſhall die with terror!—"’
[268] ‘"Gentlemen,"’ cried he, diſengaging them all from me in an inſtant, ‘"pray leave this lady to me."’
Loud laughs proceeded from every mouth, and two or three ſaid, ‘"Willoughby has all the luck!"’ But one of them, in a paſſionate manner, vowed he would not give me up, for that he had the firſt right to me, and would ſupport it.
‘"You are miſtaken,"’ ſaid Sir Clement, ‘"this lady is—I will explain myſelf to you another time; but, I aſſure you, you are all miſtaken."’
And then, taking my willing hand, he led me off, amidſt the loud acclamations, laughter, and groſs merriment of his impertinent companions.
As ſoon as we had eſcaped from them, Sir Cle⯑ment with a voice of ſurpriſe, exclaimed, ‘"My deareſt creature, what wonder, what ſtrange revo⯑lution, has brought you to ſuch a ſpot as this?"’
Aſhamed of my ſituation, and extremely morti⯑fied to be thus recognized by him, I was for ſome time ſilent, and when he repeated his queſtion, only ſtammered out, ‘"I have,—I hardly know how,—loſt myſelf from my party.—"’
He caught my hand, and eagerly preſſing it, in a paſſionate voice, ſaid, ‘"O that I had ſooner met with thee!"’
Surpriſed at a freedom ſo unexpected, I angrily broke from him, ſaying, ‘"Is this the protection you give me, Sir Clement?"’
And then I ſaw what the perturbation of my mind had prevented my ſooner noticing, that he had led me, though I know not how, into an⯑other of the dark alleys, inſtead of the place whi⯑ther I meant to go.
‘"Good God!"’ I cried, ‘"where am I?—what way are you going?"’
[269] ‘"Where,"’ anſwered he, ‘"we ſhall be leaſt obſerved."’
Aſtoniſhed at this ſpeech, I ſtopped ſhort, and declared I would go no further.
‘"And why not, my angel?"’ again endeavour⯑ing to take my hand.
My heart beat with reſentment; I puſhed him away from me with all my ſtrength, and demanded how he dared treat me with ſuch inſolence?
‘"Inſolence!"’ repeated he.
‘"Yes, Sir Clement, inſolence; from you, who know me, I had a claim for protection,—not to ſuch treatment as this."’
‘"By Heaven,"’ cried he with warmth, ‘"you diſtract me,—why, tell me,—why do I ſee you here?—Is this a place for Miſs Anville?—theſe dark walks!—no party!—no companion!—by all that's good, I can ſcarce believe my ſenſes!"’
Extremely offended at this ſpeech, I turned an⯑grily from him, and, not deigning to make any an⯑ſwer, walked on towards that part of the garden whence I perceived the lights and company.
He followed me; but we were both ſome time ſilent.
‘"So you will not explain to me your ſituation?"’ ſaid he, at length.
‘"No, Sir,"’ anſwered I, diſdainfully.
‘"Nor yet—ſuffer me to make my own inter⯑pretation—?"’
I could not bear this ſtrange manner of ſpeak⯑ing; it made my very ſoul ſhudder,—and I burſt into tears.
He flew to me, and actually flung himſelf at my feet, as if regardleſs who might ſee him, ſaying, ‘"O Miſs Anville—lovelieſt of women—forgive my—my—I beſeech you forgive me;—if I have [270] offended,—if I have hurt you I could kill myſelf at the thought!—"’
‘"No matter, Sir, no matter,"’ cried I, ‘"if I can but find my friends,—I will never ſpeak to—never ſee you again!"’
‘"Good God!—good Heaven!—my deareſt life, what is it I have done?—What is it I have ſaid?"’
‘"You beſt know, Sir, what and why;—but don't hold me here,—let me be gone, and do you!"’
‘"Not till you forgive me!—I cannot part with you in anger."’
‘"For ſhame, for ſhame, Sir!"’ cried I indig⯑nantly, ‘"do you ſuppoſe I am to be thus com⯑pelled?—do you take advantage of the abſence of my friends, to affront me?"’
‘"No, Madam,"’ cried he, riſing, ‘"I would ſooner forfeit my life than act ſo mean a part. But you have flung me into amazement unſpeakable, and you will not condeſcend to liſten to my requeſt of giving me ſome explanation."’
‘"The manner, Sir,"’ ſaid I, ‘"in which you ſpoke that requeſt, made and will make me ſcorn to anſwer it."’
‘"Scorn!—I will own to you, I expected not ſuch diſpleaſure from Miſs Anville."’
‘"Perhaps, Sir, if you had, you would leſs vo⯑luntarily have merited it."’
‘"My deareſt life, ſurely it muſt be known to you, that the man does not breathe, who adores you ſo paſſionately, ſo fervently, ſo tenderly as I do!—why then will you delight in perplexing me?—in keeping me in ſuſpence—in torturing me with doubt?"—’
‘"I, Sir, delight in perplexing you!—You are much miſtaken.—Your ſuſpence, your doubts, your perplexities,—are of your own creating; and, [271] believe me, Sir, they may offend but they can never delight me:—but, as you have yourſelf raiſed, you muſt yourſelf ſatisfy them."’
‘"Good God!—that ſuch haughtineſs and ſuch ſweetneſs can inhabit the ſame manſion!"’
I made no anſwer, but quickening my pace, I walked on ſilently and ſullenly; till this moſt im⯑petuous of men, ſnatching my hand, which he graſped with violence, beſought me to forgive him, with ſuch earneſtneſs of ſupplication, that merely to eſcape his importunities, I was forced to ſpeak, and, in ſome meaſure to grant the pardon he re⯑queſted: though it was accorded with a very ill grace; but, indeed, I knew not how to reſiſt the humility of his entreaties: yet never ſhall I recol⯑lect the occaſion he gave me of diſpleaſure, with⯑out feeling it renewed.
We now ſoon arrived in the midſt of the general crowd, and my own ſafety being then inſured, I grew extremely uneaſy for the Miſs Branghtons, whoſe danger, however imprudently incurred by their own folly, I too well knew how to tremble for. To this conſideration all my pride of heart yielded, and I determined to ſeek my party with the utmoſt ſpeed; though not without a ſigh did I recollect the fruitleſs attempt I had made, after the opera, of concealing from this man my unfortunate connections, which I was now obliged to make known.
I haſtened therefore, to the room, with a view of ſending young Branghton to the aid of his ſiſters. In a very ſhort time, I perceived Madame Duval, and the reſt, looking at one of the paintings. I muſt own to you honeſtly, my dear Sir, that an involun⯑tary repugnance ſeized me, at preſenting ſuch a ſet to Sir Clement,—he, who had been uſed to ſee [272] me in parties ſo different!—My pace ſlackened as I approached them,—but they preſently perceived me.
‘"Ah, Mademoiſelle!"’ cried M. Du Bois, ‘"Que je ſuis charme de vous voir!"’
‘"Pray, Miſs,"’ cried Mr. Brown, ‘"where's Miſs Polly?"’
‘"Why, Miſs, you've been a long while gone,"’ ſaid Mr. Branghton; ‘"we thought you'd been loſt. But what have you done with your couſins?"’
I heſitated,—for Sir Clement regarded me with a look of wonder.
‘"Pardie,"’ cried Madame Duval, ‘"I ſha'n't let you leave me again in a hurry. Why, here we've been in ſuch a fright!—and all the while, I ſuppoſe you've been thinking nothing about the matter."’
‘"Well,"’ ſaid young Branghton, ‘"as long as Miſs is come back, I don't mind, for as to Bid and Poll, they can take care of themſelves. But the beſt joke is, Mr. Smith is gone all about a looking for you."’
Theſe ſpeeches were made almoſt all in a breath: but when, at laſt, they waited for an anſwer, I told them, that in walking up one of the long al⯑leys, we had been frightened and ſeparated.
‘"The long alleys!"’ repeated Mr. Brangh⯑ton, ‘"and, pray, what had you to do in the long alleys? why, to be ſure, you muſt all of you have had a mind to be affronted!"’
This ſpeech was not more impertinent to me, than ſurpriſing to Sir Clement, who regarded all the party with evident aſtoniſhment. However, I told young Branghton that no time ought to be loſt, for that his ſiſters might require his immediate protection.
‘"But how will they get it?"’ cried this brutal brother; ‘"if they've a mind to behave in ſuch a [273] manner as that, they ought to protect themſelves; and ſo they may for me."’
‘"Well,"’ ſaid the ſimple Mr. Brown, ‘"whe⯑ther you go or no, I think I may as well ſee after Miſs Polly."’
The father then, interfering, inſiſted that his ſon ſhould accompany him; and away they went.
It was now that Madame Duval firſt perceived Sir Clement; to whom turning with a look of great diſpleaſure, ſhe angrily ſaid, ‘"Ma foi, ſo you are comed here, of all the people in the world!—I wonder, child, you would let ſuch a—ſuch a perſon as that keep company with you."’
‘"I am very ſorry, Madam,"’ ſaid Sir Clement, in a tone of ſurpriſe, ‘"if I have been ſo unfor⯑tunate as to offend you; but I believe you will not regret the honour I now have of attending Miſs Anville, when you hear that I have been ſo happy as to do her ſome ſervice."’
Juſt as Madame Duval, with her uſual Ma foi, was beginning to reply, the attention of Sir Cle⯑ment was wholly drawn from her, by the appear⯑ance of Mr. Smith, who ſuddenly coming behind me, and freely putting his hands on my ſhoulders, cried, ‘"O ho, my little runaway, have I found you at laſt? I have been ſcampering all over the gardens for you; for I was determined to find you, if you were above ground.—But how could you be ſo cruel as to leave us?"’
I turned round to him, and looked with a degree of contempt that I hoped would have quieted him; but he had not the ſenſe to underſtand me; and, attempting to take my hand, he added, ‘"Such a demure looking lady as you are, who'd have thought of your leading one ſuch a dance?—Come, now, [274] don't be ſo coy,—only think what a trouble I have had in running after you!"’
‘"The trouble, Sir,"’ ſaid I, ‘"was of your own choice—not mine."’ And I walked round to the other ſide of Madame Duval.
Perhaps I was too proud,—but I could not en⯑dure that Sir Clement, whoſe eyes followed him with looks of the moſt ſurprized curioſity, ſhould witneſs his unwelcome familiarity.
Upon my removal, he came up to me, and, in a low voice, ſaid, ‘"You are not, then, with the Mirvans?"’
‘"No, Sir."’
‘"And pray—may I aſk,—have you left them long?’
‘"No, Sir,"’
‘"How unfortunate I am!—but yeſterday I ſent to acquaint the Captain I ſhould reach the Grove by to-morrow noon! However I ſhall get away as faſt as poſſible. Shall you be long in town?"’
‘"I believe not, Sir."’
‘And then, when you leave it,—which way—will you allow me to aſk, which way you ſhall travel?"’
‘"Indeed,—I don't know."’
‘"Not know!—But do you return to the Mir⯑vans any more?"’
‘"I—I can't tell, Sir."’
And then, I addreſſed myſelf to Madame Duval, with ſuch a pretended earneſtneſs, that he was ob⯑liged to be ſilent.
As he cannot but obſerve the great change in my ſituation, which he knows not how to account for, there is ſomething in all theſe queſtions, and this unreſtrained curioſity, that I did not expect from a man, who when he pleaſes can be ſo well⯑bred, as Sir Clement Willoughby. He ſeems diſ⯑poſed [275] to think that the alteration in my compa⯑nions authorizes an alteration in his manners. It is true, he has always treated me with uncom⯑mon freedom, but never before with ſo diſreſpect⯑ful an abruptneſs. This obſervation, which he has given me cauſe to make, of his changing with the tide, has ſunk him more in my opinion, than any other part of his conduct.
Yet I could almoſt have laughed, when I looked at Mr. Smith, who no ſooner ſaw me addreſſed by Sir Clement, than, retreating aloof from the company, he ſeemed to loſe at once all his happy ſelf-ſufficiency and conceit; looking now at the baronet, now at himſelf, ſurveying, with ſorrow⯑ful eyes, his dreſs, ſtruck with his air, his geſ⯑tures, his eaſy gaiety; he gazed at him with en⯑vious admiration, and ſeemed himſelf, with con⯑ſcious inferiority, to ſhrink into nothing.
Soon after, Mr. Brown, running up to us, called out, ‘"La, what, i'n't Miſs Polly come yet?"’
‘"Come!"’ ſaid Mr. Branghton, ‘"why, I thought you went to fetch her yourſelf did n't you?"’
‘"Yes, but I could n't find her;—yet I dare ſay I've been over half the garden."’
‘"Half! but why did not you go over it all?"’
‘"Why, ſo I will: but only I thought I'd juſt come and ſee if ſhe was here firſt?"’
‘"But where's Tom?"’
‘"Why, I don't know; for he would not ſtay with me, all as ever I could ſay; for we met ſome young gentlemen of his acquaintance, and ſo he bid me go and look by myſelf, for he ſaid, ſays he, I can divert myſelf better another way, ſays he."’
This account being given, away again went this ſilly young man; and Mr. Branghton, extremely [276] incenſed, ſaid he would go and ſee after them him⯑ſelf.
‘"So now,"’ cried Madame Duval, ‘"he's gone too! why, at this rate we ſhall have to wait for one or other of them all night!"’
Obſerving that Sir Clement ſeemed diſpoſed to renew his enquiries, I turned towards one of the paintings, and, pretending to be very much occu⯑pied in looking after it, aſked M. Du Bois ſome queſtions concerning the figures.
‘"O, Mon Dieu!"’ cried Madame Duval, ‘"don't aſk him; your beſt way is to aſk Mr. Smith, for he's been here the ofteneſt. Come, Mr. Smith, I dare ſay you can tell us all about them."’
‘"Why, yes, Ma'am,"’ ſaid Mr. Smith, who, brightening up at this application, advanced to⯑wards us, with an air of aſſumed importance (which, however, ſat very uneaſily upon him) and begged to know what he ſhould explain firſt; ‘"For I have attended,"’ ſaid he, ‘"to all theſe paintings, and know every thing in them perfectly well; for I am rather fond of pictures, Ma'am; and, really, I muſt ſay, I think a picture is a—a very—is real⯑ly a very—is ſomething very pretty—"’
‘"So do I too,"’ ſaid Madame Duval, ‘"but pray now, Sir, tell us who that is meant for,"’ pointing to a figure of Neptune.
‘"That!—why that, Ma'am, is,—Lord bleſs me, I can't think how I come to be ſo ſtupid, but really I have forgot his name,—and yet, I know it as well as my own, too,—however, he's a general, Ma'am, they are all generals."’
I ſaw Sir Clement bite his lips; and, indeed, ſo did I mine.
‘"Well,"’ ſaid Madame Duval, ‘"it's the oddeſt dreſs for a general ever I ſee!"’
[277] ‘"He ſeems ſo capital a figure,"’ ſaid Sir Cle⯑ment to Mr. Smith, ‘"that I imagine he muſt be generaliſſimo of the whole army."’
‘"Yes, Sir, yes,"’ anſwered Mr. Smith, reſpect⯑fully bowing, and highly delighted at being thus referred to, ‘"you are perfectly right,—but I can⯑not for my life think of his name;—perhaps, Sir, you may remember it?"’
‘"No really,"’ replied Sir Clement, ‘"my ac⯑quaintance among the generals is not ſo exten⯑ſive."’
The ironical tone of voice in which Sir Cle⯑ment ſpoke, entirely diſconcerted Mr. Smith; who, again retiring to an humble diſtance, ſeemed ſen⯑ſibly mortified at the failure of his attempt to reco⯑ver his conſequence.
Soon after, Mr. Branghton returned with his youngeſt daughter, whom he had reſcued from a party of inſolent young men; but he had not yet been able to find the eldeſt. Miſs Polly was really frightened, and declared ſhe would never go into the dark walks again. Her father, leaving her with us, went in queſt of her ſiſter.
While ſhe was relating her adventures, to which nobody liſtened more attentively than Sir Clement, we ſaw Mr. Brown enter the room. ‘"O la!"’ cried Miſs Polly, ‘"let me hide myſelf, and don't tell him I'm come."’
She then placed herſelf behind Madame Duval, in ſuch a manner that ſhe could not be ſeen.
‘"So Miſs Polly is not come yet!"’ ſaid the ſim⯑ple ſwain; ‘"well, I can't think where ſhe can be! I've been a looking, and looking, and looking all about, and I can't find her, all I can do."’
‘"Well but, Mr. Brown,"’ ſaid Mr. Smith, ‘"ſha'n't you go and look for the lady again?"’
[278] ‘"Yes, Sir,"’ ſaid he, ſitting down, ‘"but I muſt reſt me a little bit firſt. You can't think how tired I am."’
‘"O fie, Mr. Brown, fie,"’ cried Mr. Smith, winking at us, ‘"tired of looking for a lady! Go, go, for ſhame!"’
‘"So I will, Sir, preſently; but you'd be tired too, if you'd walked ſo far: beſides, I think ſhe's gone out of the garden, or elſe I muſt have ſeen ſomething or other of her."’
A he, he, he! of the tittering Polly, now be⯑trayed her, and ſo ended this ingenious little arti⯑fice.
At laſt appeared Mr. Branghton and Miſs Biddy, who, with a face of mixed anger and confuſion, addreſſing herſelf to me, ſaid, ‘"So Miſs, ſo you ran away from me! Well, ſee if I don't do as much by you, ſome day or other! But I thought how it would be, you'd no mind to leave the gen⯑tlemen, though you'd run away from me."’
I was ſo much ſurpriſed at this attack, that I could not anſwer her for very amazement; and ſhe proceeded to tell us how ill ſhe had been uſed, and that two young men had been making her walk up and down the dark walks by abſolute force, and as faſt as ever they could tear her along; and many other particulars, which I will not tire you with relating. In concluſion, looking at Mr. Smith, ſhe ſaid, ‘"But, to be ſure, thought I, at leaſt all the company will be looking for me; ſo I little expected to find you all here, talking as comfortably as ever you can. However, I know I may thank my couſin for it!"’
‘"If you mean me, Madam,"’ ſaid I, very much ſhocked, ‘"I am quite ignorant in what manner I can have been acceſſary to your diſtreſs."’
[279] ‘"Why, by running away ſo. If you'd ſtayed with us, I'll anſwer for it, Mr. Smith and M. Du Bois would have come to look for us; but I ſuppoſe they could not leave your ladyſhip."’
The folly and unreaſonableneſs of this ſpeech would admit of no anſwer. But what a ſcene was this for Sir Clement! his ſurpriſe was evi⯑dent; and, I muſt acknowledge, my confuſion was equally great.
We had now to wait for young Branghton, who did not appear for ſome time; and, during this in⯑terval, it was with difficulty that I avoided Sir Clement, who was on the rack of curioſity, and dying to ſpeak to me.
When, at laſt, the hopeful youth returned, a long and frightful quarrel enſued between him and his father, in which his ſiſters occaſionally joined, concerning his neglect; and he defended himſelf only by a brutal mirth, which he indulged at their expence.
Every one, now, ſeemed inclined to depart,—when, as uſual, a diſpute aroſe, upon the way of our going, whether in a coach or a boat. After much debating, it was determined that we ſhould make two parties, one by the water and the other by land; for Madame Duval declared ſhe would not, upon any account, go into a boat at night.
Sir Clement then ſaid, that if ſhe had no car⯑riage in waiting, he ſhould be happy to ſee her and me ſafe home, as his was in readineſs.
Fury ſtarted into her eyes, and paſſion inflamed every feature, as ſhe anſwered, ‘"Pardie, no,—you may take care of yourſelf, if you pleaſe; but as to me, I promiſe you I ſha'n't truſt myſelf with no ſuch perſon."’
[280] He pretended not to comprehend her meaning, yet, to wave a diſcuſſion, acquieſced in her refu⯑ſal. The coach party fixed upon conſiſted of Ma⯑dame Duval, M. Du Bois, Miſs Branghton, and myſelf.
I now began to rejoice, in private, that, at leaſt, our lodgings would be neither ſeen, nor known, by Sir Clement. We ſoon met with an hackney-coach, into which he handed me, and then took leave.
Madame Duval, having already given the coach⯑man her direction, he mounted the box, and we were juſt driving off, when Sir Clement exclaim⯑ed, ‘"By Heaven, this is the very coach I had in waiting for myſelf!"’
‘"This coach, your honour!"’ ſaid the man, ‘"no, that it i'nt."’
Sir Clement, however, ſwore that it was, and, preſently, the man, begging his pardon, ſaid he had really forgotten that he was engaged.
I have no doubt but that this ſcheme occurred to him at the moment, and that he made ſome ſign to the coachman, which induced him to ſupport it: for there is not the leaſt probability that the acci⯑dent really happened, as it is moſt likely his own chariot was in waiting.
The man then opened the coach-door, and Sir Clement advancing to it, ſaid, ‘"I don't believe there is another carriage to be had, or I would not incommode you: but, as it may be diſagreeable to you to wait here any longer, I beg you will not get out, for you ſhall be ſet down before I am car⯑ried home, if you will be ſo good as to make a lit⯑tle room."’
And ſo ſaying, in he jumpt, and ſeated himſelf between M. Du Bois and me, while our aſtoniſh⯑ment [281] at the whole tranſaction was too great for ſpeech. He then ordered the coachman to drive on, according to the directions he had already re⯑ceived.
For the firſt ten minutes, no one uttered a word; and then, Madame Duval, no longer able to con⯑tain herſelf, exclaimed, ‘"Ma foi, if this is n't one of the impudenteſt things ever I ſee!"’
Sir Clement, regardleſs of this rebuke, attended only to me; however, I anſwered nothing he ſaid, when I could poſſibly avoid ſo doing. Miſs Brangh⯑ton made ſeveral attempts to attract his notice, but in vain, for he would not take the trouble of pay⯑ing her any regard.
Madame Duval, during the reſt of the ride, ad⯑dreſſed herſelf to M. Du Bois in French, and in that language exclaimed with great vehemence againſt boldneſs and aſſurance.
I was extremely glad when I thought our jour⯑ney muſt be nearly at an end, for my ſituation was very uneaſy to me, as Sir Clement perpetually en⯑deavoured to take my hand. I looked out of the coach-window, to ſee if we were near home; Sir Clement, ſtooping over me did the ſame, and then, in a voice of infinite wonder, called out, ‘"Where the d—l is the man driving to?—why we are in Broad St. Giles's!"’
‘"O, he's very right,"’ cried Madame Duval, ‘"ſo never trouble your head about that, for I ſhan't go by no directions of yours, I promiſe you."’
When, at laſt, we ſtopped, at an Hoſier's in High Holborn,—Sir Clement ſaid nothing, but his eyes, I ſaw, were very buſily employed in view⯑ing the place, and the ſituation of the houſe. The coach he inſiſted upon ſettling himſelf, as he ſaid it belonged to him; and then he took leave. M. Du [282] Bois walked home with Miſs Branghton, and Ma⯑dame Duval and I retired to our apartments.
How diſagreeable an evening's adventure! not one of the party ſeemed ſatisfied, except Sir Cle⯑ment, who was in high ſpirits: but Madame Du⯑val was enraged at meeting with him; Mr. Brangh⯑ton, angry with his children; the frolick of the Miſs Branghtons had exceeded their plan, and end⯑ed in their own diſtreſs; their brother was provo⯑ked that there had been no riot; Mr. Brown was tired; and Mr. Smith mortified. As to myſelf, I muſt acknowledge, nothing could be more diſagree⯑able to me, than being ſeen by Sir Clement Wil⯑loughby with a party at once ſo vulgar in them⯑ſelves, and ſo familiar to me.
And you, too, my dear Sir, will, I know, be ſorry that I have met him; however, there is no apprehenſion of his viſiting here, as Madame Du⯑val is far too angry to admit him.
- Zitationsvorschlag für dieses Objekt
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 5473 Evelina or a young lady s entrance into the world pt 1. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-616A-0