Lady Maffei came in. She seems dependent upon her niece. She is her aunt by marriage only: and Lady L—— speaks very favourably of her from the advice she gave, and her remonstrances to her kinswoman. Lady Maffei besought her to compose herself, and return to the company.

She could not bear, she said, to return to the company, the slighted, the contemned object, she must appear to be to every one in it. I am an intruder, said she, haughtily; a beggar, with a fortune that would purchase a sovereignty in some countries. Make my excuses to your sister, to the rest of the company—and to that fine young lady—whose eyes, by their officious withdrawing from his, and by the consciousness that glowed in her face whenever he addressed her, betrayed, at least to a jealous eye, more than she would wish to have seen—But tell her, that all lovely and blooming as she is, she must have no hope, while Clementina lives.

I hope, Lucy, it is only to a jealous eye that my heart is so discoverable!—I thank her for her caution. But I can say what she cannot; that from my heart, cost me what it may, I do subscribe to a preference in favour of a lady, who has acted, in the most arduous trials, in a greater manner than I fear either Olivia or I could have acted, in the same circumstances. We see that her reason, but not her piety, deserted her in the noble struggle between her love and her religion. In the most affecting absences of her reason, the soul of the man she loved was the object of her passion. However hard it is to prefer another to one's self, in such a case as this; yet if my judgment is convinced, my acknowledgment shall follow it. Heaven will enable me to be reconciled to the event, because I pursue the dictates of that judgment, against the biases of my more partial heart. Let that Heaven, which only can, restore Clementina, and dispose as it pleases of Olivia and Harriet. We cannot either of us, I humbly hope, be so unhappy as the lady has been whom I rank among the first of women; and whose whole family deserves almost equal compassion.

Lady Olivia asked Lady L——, if her brother had not a very tender regard for me? He had, Lady L—— answered; and told her, that he had rescued me from a very great distress; and that mine was the most grateful of human hearts.

She called me sweet young creature; (supposing me, I doubt not, younger than I am;) but said, that the graces of my person and mind alarmed her not, as they would have done, had not his attachment to Clementina been what now she saw, but never could have believed it was; having supposed, that compassion only was the tie that bound him to her.

But compassion, Lucy, from such a heart as his, the merit so great in the lady, must be love; a love of the nobler kind—And if it were not, it would be unworthy of Clementina's.

Lady Maffei called upon her dignity, her birth, to carry her above a passion that met not with a grateful return. She advised her to dispose herself to stay in England some months, now she was here. And as her friends in Italy would suppose what her view was in coming to England, their censures would be obviated by her continuing here for some time, while Sir Charles was abroad, and in Italy: and that she should divert herself with visiting the court, the public places, and in seeing the principal curiosities of this kingdom, as she had done those of others; in order to give credit to an excursion that might otherwise be freely spoken of, in her own country.

She seemed to listen to this advice. She bespoke, and was promised, the friendship of the two sisters; and included in her request, through their interests, mine; and Lady G—— was called in, by her sister, to join in the promise.

She desired that Sir Charles might be requested to walk in; but would not suffer the sisters to withdraw, as they would have done, when he returned. He could not but be polite; but, it seems, looked still disturbed. I beg you to excuse, sir, said she, my behaviour to you: it was passionate; it was unbecoming. But, in compliment to your own consequence, you ought to excuse it. I have only to request one favour of you: That you will suspend for one week, in regard to me, your proposed journey; but for one week; and I will, now I am in England, stay some months; perhaps till your return.

Excuse me, madam.

I will not excuse you—But one week, sir. Give me so much importance with myself, as for one week's suspension. You will. You must.

Indeed I cannot. My soul, I own to you, is in the distresses of the family of Porretta. Why should I repeat what I said to you before?

I have bespoken, sir, the civilities of your sisters, of your family: you forbid them not?

You expect not an answer, madam, to that question. My sisters will be glad, and so will their lords, to attend you wherever you please, with a hope to make England agreeable to you.

How long do you propose to stay in Italy, sir?

It is not possible for me to determine.

Are you not apprehensive of danger to your person?

I am not.

You ought to be.

No danger shall deter me from doing what I think to be right. If my motives justify me, I cannot fear.

Do you wish me, sir, to stay in England till your return?

A question so home put, disturbed him. Was it a prudent one in the lady? It must either subject her to a repulse; or him, by a polite answer, to give her hope, that her stay in England might not be fruitless, as to the view she had in coming. He reddened. It is fit, answered he, that your own pleasure should determine you. It did, pardon me, madam, in your journey hither.

She reddened to her very ears. Your brother, ladies, has the reputation of being a polite man: bear witness to this instance of it. I am ashamed of myself!

If I am unpolite, madam, my sincerity will be my excuse; at least to my own heart.

O, that inflexible heart! But, ladies, if the inhospitable Englishman refuse his protection in his own country, to a foreign woman, of no mean quality; do not you, his sisters, despise her.

They, madam, and their lords, will render you every cheerful service. Let me request you, my sisters, to make England as agreeable as possible to this lady. She is of the first consideration in her own country: she will be of such wherever she goes. My Lady Maffei deserves likewise your utmost respect. Then addressing himself to them; Ladies, said he, encourage my sisters: they will think themselves honoured by your commands.

The two sisters confirmed, in an obliging manner, what their brother had said; and both ladies acknowledged themselves indebted to them for their offered friendship: but Lady Olivia seemed not at all satisfied with their brother: and it was with some difficulty he prevailed on her to return to the company, and drink coffee.

I could not help reflecting, on occasion of this lady's conduct, that fathers and mothers are great blessings, to daughters, in particular, even when women grown. It is not every woman that will shine in a state of independency. Great fortunes are snares. If independent women escape the machinations of men, which they have often a difficulty to do, they will frequently be hurried by their own imaginations, which are said to be livelier than those of men, though their judgments are supposed less, into inconveniencies. Had Lady Olivia's parents or uncles lived, she hardly would have been permitted to make the tour of Europe: and not having so great a fortune to support vagaries, would have shone, as she is well qualified to do, in a dependent state, in Italy, and made some worthy man and herself happy.

Had she a mind great enough to induce her to pity Clementina, I should have been apt to pity her; for I saw her soul was disturbed. I saw that the man she loved was not able to return her love: a pitiable case!—I saw a starting tear now and then with difficulty dispersed. Once she rubbed her eye, and, being conscious of observation, said something had got into it: so it had. The something was a tear. Yet she looked with haughtiness, and her bosom swelled with indignation ill concealed.

Sir Charles repeated his recommendation of her to Lord L—— and Lord G——. They offered their best services: Lord W—— invited her and all of us to Windsor. Different parties of pleasure were talked of: but still the enlivener of every party was not to be in any one of them. She tried to look pleased; but did not always succeed in the trial: an eye of love and anger mingled was often cast upon the man whom everybody loved. Her bosom heaved, as it seemed sometimes, with indignation against herself: that was the construction which I made of some of her looks.

Lady Maffei, however, seemed pleased with the parties of pleasure talked of. She often directed herself to me in Italian. I answered her in it as well as I could. I do not talk it well: but as I am not an Italian, and little more than book-learned in it, (for it is a long time ago since I lost my grandpapa, who used to converse with me in it, and in French,) I was not scrupulous to answer in it. To have forborne, because I did not excel in what I had no opportunity to excel in, would have been false modesty, nearly bordering upon pride. Were any lady to laugh at me for not speaking well her native tongue, I would not return the smile, were she to be less perfect in mine, than I am in hers. But Lady Olivia made me a compliment on my faulty accent, when I acknowledged it to be so. Signora, said she, you shew us, that a pretty mouth can give beauty to a defect. A master teaching you, added she, would perhaps find some fault; but a friend conversing with you, must be in love with you for the very imperfection.

Sir Charles was generously pleased with the compliment, and made her a fine one on her observation.

He attended the two ladies to their lodgings in his coach. He owned to Dr. Bartlett, that Lady Olivia was in tears all the way, lamenting her disgrace in coming to England, just as he was quitting it; and wishing she had stayed at Florence. She would have engaged him to correspond with her: he excused himself. It was a very afflicting thing to him, he told the doctor, to deny any request that was made to him, especially by a lady: but he thought he ought in conscience and honour to forbear giving the shadow of an expectation that might be improved into hope, where none was intended to be given. Heaven, he said, had, for laudable ends, implanted such a regard in the sexes towards each other, that both man and woman who hoped to be innocent, could not be too circumspect in relation to the friendships they were so ready to contract with each other. He thought he had gone a great way, in recommending an intimacy between her and his sisters, considering her views, her spirit, her perseverance, and the free avowal of her regard for him, and her menaces on his supposed neglect of her. And yet, as she had come over, and he was obliged to leave England so soon after her arrival; he thought he could not do less: and he hoped his sisters, from whose example she might be benefited, would, while she behaved prudently, cultivate her acquaintance.

The doctor tells me, that now Lady Olivia is so unexpectedly come hither in person, he thinks it best to decline giving me, as he had once intended, her history at large; but will leave so much of it as may satisfy my curiosity, to be gathered from my own observation; and not only from the violence and haughtiness of her temper, but from the freedom of her declarations. He is sure, he said, that his patron will be best pleased, that a veil should be thrown over the weaker part of her conduct; which, were it known, would indeed be glorious to Sir Charles, but not so to the lady; who, however, never was suspected, even by her enemies, of giving any other man reason to tax her with a thought that was not strictly virtuous: and she had engaged his pity and esteem, for the sake of her other fine qualities, though she could not his love. Before she saw him (which, it seems, was at the opera at Florence for the first time, when he had an opportunity to pay her some slight civilities) she set all men at defiance.

To-morrow morning Sir Charles is to breakfast with me. My cousins and I are to dine at Lord L——'s. The Earl and Lady Gertrude are also to be there. Lord W—— has been prevailed upon to stay, and be there also, as it is his nephew's last day in England.—'Last day in England!' O, my Lucy! what words are those!—Lady L—— has invited Lady Olivia and her aunt, at her own motion, Sir Charles (his time being so short) not disapproving.

I thank my grandmamma and aunt for their kind summons. I will soon set my day: I will, my dear, soon set my day.



LETTER XXVI

MISS BYRON.—IN CONTINUATION FRIDAY NOON, APRIL 14.

Not five hours in bed; not one hour's rest for many uneasy nights before; I was stupid till Sir Charles came: I then was better. He inquired, with tender looks and voice, after my health; as if he thought I did not look well.

We had some talk about Lord and Lady G——. He was anxious for their happiness. He complimented me with hopes from my advice to her. Lord G——, he said, was a good-natured honest man. If he thought his sister would make him unhappy, he should himself be so.

I told him, that I dared to answer for her heart. My lord must bear with some innocent foibles, and all would be well.

We then talked of Lady Olivia. He began the subject, by asking me my opinion of her. I said she was a very fine woman in her person; and that she had an air of grandeur in her mien.

And she has good qualities, said he; but she is violent in her passions. I am frequently grieved for her. She is a fine creature in danger of being lost, by being made too soon her own mistress.

He said not one word of his departure to-morrow morning: I could not begin it; my heart would not let me; my spirits were not high: and I am afraid, if that key had been touched, I should have been too visibly affected. My cousins forbore, upon the same apprehension.

He was excessively tender and soothing to me, in his air, his voice, his manner. I thought of what Emily said; that his voice, when he spoke of me, was the voice of love. Dear flattering girl!—But why did she flatter me?

We talked of her next. He spoke of her with the tenderness of a father. He besought me to love her. He praised her heart.

Emily, said I, venerates her guardian. She never will do any thing contrary to his advice.

She is very young, replied he. She will be happy, madam, in yours. She both loves and reverences you.

I greatly love the dear Emily, sir. She and I shall be always sisters.

How happy am I, in your goodness to her! Permit me, madam, to enumerate to you my own felicities in that of my dearest friends.

Mr. Beauchamp is now in the agreeable situation I have long wished him to be in. His prudence and obliging behaviour to his mother-in-law, have won her. His father grants him every thing through her; and she, by this means, finds that power enlarged which she was afraid would be lessened, if the son were allowed to come over. How just is this reward of his filial duty!

Thus, Lucy, did he give up the merit to his Beauchamp, which was solely due to himself.

Lord W——, he hoped, would be soon one of the happiest men in England: and the whole Mansfield family had now fair prospects opening before them.

Emily [not he, you see] had made it the interest of her mother to be quiet.

Lord and Lady L—— gave him pleasure whenever he saw them, or thought of them.

Dr. Bartlett was in heaven, while on earth. He would retire to his beloved Grandison-hall, and employ himself in distributing, as objects offered, at least a thousand pounds of the three thousand bequeathed to charitable uses by his late friend Mr. Danby. His sister's fortune was paid. His estates in both kingdoms were improving.—See, madam, said he, how like the friend of my soul I claim your attention to affairs that are of consequence to myself; and in some of which your generosity of heart has interested you.

I bowed. Had I spoken, I had burst into tears. I had something arose in my throat, I know not what. Still, thought I, excellent man, you are not yourself happy!—O pity! pity! Yet, Lucy, he plainly had been enumerating all these things, to take off from my mind that impression which I am afraid he too well knows it is affected with, from his difficult situation.

And now, madam, resumed he, how are all my dear and good friends, whom you more particularly call yours?—I hope to have the honour of a personal knowledge of them. When heard you of our good Mr. Deane? He is well, I hope.

Very well, Sir.

Your grandmamma Shirley, that ornament of advanced years?

I bowed: I dared not to trust my voice.

Your excellent aunt, Selby?

I bowed again.

Your uncle, your Lucy, your Nancy: Happy family! All harmony! all love! —How do they?

I wiped my eyes.

Is there any service in my power to do them, or any of them? Command me, good Miss Byron, if there be: my Lord W—— and I are one. Our influence is not small.—Make me still more happy, in the power of serving any one favoured by you.

You oppress me, sir, by your goodness!—I cannot speak my grateful sensibilities.

Will you, my dear Mr. Reeves, will you, madam, (to my cousin,) employ me in any way that I can be of use to you, either abroad or at home? Your acquaintance has given me great pleasure. To what a family of worthies has this excellent young lady introduced me!

O, sir! said Mrs. Reeves, tears running down her cheeks, that you were not to leave people whom you have made so happy in the knowledge of the best of men!

Indispensable calls must be obeyed, my dear Mrs. Reeves. If we cannot be as happy as we wish, we will rejoice in the happiness we can have. We must not be our own carvers.—But I make you all serious. I was enumerating, as I told you, my present felicities: I was rejoicing in your friendships. I have joy; and, I presume to say, I will have joy. There is a bright side in every event; I will not lose sight of it: and there is a dark one; but I will endeavour to see it only with the eye of prudence, that I may not be involved by it at unawares. Who that is not reproached by his own heart, and is blessed with health, can grieve for inevitable evils; evils that can be only evils as we make them so? Forgive my seriousness: my dear friends, you make me grave. Favour me, I beseech you, my good Miss Byron, with one lesson: we shall be too much engaged, perhaps, by and by.

He led me (I thought it was with a cheerful air; but my cousins both say, his eyes glistened) to the harpsichord: He sung unasked, but with a low voice; and my mind was calmed. O, Lucy! How can I part with such a man? How can I take my leave of him?—But perhaps he has taken his leave of me already, as to the solemnity of it, in the manner I have recited.



LETTER XXVII

MISS BYRON.—IN CONTINUATION SATURDAY MORNING, APRIL 15.

O, Lucy, Sir Charles Grandison is gone! Gone indeed! He set out at three this morning; on purpose, no doubt, to spare his sisters, and friends, as well as himself, concern.

We broke not up till after two. Were I in the writing humour which I have never known to fail me till now, I could dwell upon a hundred things, some of which I can now only briefly mention.

Dinner-time yesterday passed with tolerable cheerfulness: every one tried to be cheerful. O what pain attends loving too well, and being too well beloved! He must have pain, as well as we.

Lady Olivia was the most thoughtful, at dinnertime; yet poor Emily! Ah, the poor Emily! she went out four or five times to weep; though only I perceived it.

Nobody was cheerful after dinner but Sir Charles. He seemed to exert himself to be so. He prevailed on me to give them a lesson on the harpsichord. Lady L—— played: Lady G—— played: we tried to play, I should rather say. He himself took the violin, and afterwards sat down to the harpsichord, for one short lesson. He was not known to be such a master: but he was long in Italy. Lady Olivia indeed knew him to be so. She was induced to play upon the harpsichord: she surpassed every body. Italy is the land of harmony.

About seven at night he singled me out, and surprised me greatly by what he said. He told me, that Lady D—— had made him a visit. I was before low: I was then ready to sink. She has asked me questions, madam.

Sir, sir! was all I could say.

He himself trembled as he spoke.—Alas! my dear, he surely loves me! Hear how solemnly he spoke—God Almighty be your director, my dear Miss Byron! I wish not more happiness to my own soul, than I do to you.—In discharge of a promise made, I mention this visit to you: I might otherwise have spared you, and myself—

He stopt there—Then resumed; for I was silent. I could not speak—Your friends will be entreated for a man that loves you; a very worthy young nobleman.—I give you emotion, madam.—Forgive me.—I have performed my promise. He turned from me with a seeming cheerful air. How could he appear to be cheerful!

We made parties at cards. I knew not what I played. Emily sighed, and tears stole down her cheeks, as she played. O how she loves her guardian! Emily, I say—I don't know what I write!

At supper we were all very melancholy. Mr. Beauchamp was urgent to go abroad with him. He changed the subject, and gave him an indirect denial, as I may call it, by recommending the two Italian ladies to his best services.

Sir Charles, kind, good, excellent! wished to Lord L—— to have seen Mr. Grandison!—unworthy as that man has made himself of his attention.

He was a few moments in private with Lady Olivia. She returned to company with red eyes.

Poor Emily watched an opportunity to be spoken to by him alone—So diligently!—He led her to the window—About one o'clock it was—He held both her hands. He called her, she says, his Emily. He charged her to write to him.

She could not speak; she could only sob; yet thought she had a thousand things to say to him.

He contradicted not the hope his sisters and their lords had of his breakfasting with them. They invited me; they invited the Italian ladies: Lady L——, Lord L——, did go, in expectation: but Lady G——, when she found him gone, sent me and the Italian ladies word, that he was. It would have been cruel, if she had not. How could he steal away so! I find, that he intended that his morning visit to me (as indeed I half-suspected) should be a taking leave of my cousins, and your Harriet. How many things did he say then—How many questions ask—In tender woe— He wanted to do us all service—He seemed not to know what to say—Surely he hates not your poor Harriet—What struggles in his noble bosom!—But a man cannot complain: a man cannot ask for compassion, as a woman can. But surely his is the gentlest of manly minds!

When we broke up, he handed my cousin Reeves into her coach. He handed me. Mr. Reeves said, We see you again, Sir Charles, in the morning? He bowed. At handing me in, he sighed—He pressed my hand—I think he did— That was all—He saluted nobody. He will not meet his Clementina as he parted with us.

But, I doubt not, Dr. Bartlett was in the secret.

He was. He has just been here. He found my eyes swelled. I had had no rest; yet knew not, till seven o'clock, that he was gone.

It was very good of the doctor to come: his visit soothed me: yet he took no notice of my red eyes. Nay, for that matter, Mrs. Reeves's eyes were swelled, as well as mine. Angel of a man! how is he beloved!

The doctor says, that his sisters, their lords, Lord W——, are in as much grief as if he were departed for ever—And who knows—But I will not torment myself with supposing the worst: I will endeavour to bear in mind what he said yesterday morning to us, no doubt for an instruction, that he would have joy.

And did he then think that I should be so much grieved as to want such an instruction?—And, therefore, did he vouchsafe to give it?—But, vanity, be quiet—Lie down, hope—Hopelesness, take place! Clementina shall be his. He shall be hers.

Yet his emotion, Lucy, at mentioning Lady D——'s visit—O! but that was only owing to his humanity. He saw my emotion; and acknowledged the tenderest friendship for me! Ought I not to be satisfied with that? I am. I will be satisfied. Does he not love me with the love of mind? The poor Olivia has not this to comfort herself with. The poor Olivia! if I see her sad and afflicted, how I shall pity her! All her expectations frustrated; the expectations that engaged her to combat difficulties, to travel, to cross many waters, and to come to England—to come just time enough to take leave of him; he hastening on the wings of love and compassion to a dearer, a deservedly dearer object, in the country she had quitted, on purpose to visit him in his—Is not hers a more grievous situation than mine?—It is. Why, then, do I lament?

But here, Lucy, let me in confidence hint, what I have gathered from several intimations from Dr. Bartlett, though as tenderly made by him as possible, that had Sir Charles Grandison been a man capable of taking advantage of the violence of a lady's passion for him, the unhappy Olivia would not have scrupled, great, haughty, and noble, as she is, by birth and fortune, to have been his, without conditions, if she could not have been so with: The Italian world is of this opinion, at least. Had Sir Charles been a Rinaldo, Olivia had been an Armida.

O that I could hope, for the honour of the sex, and of the lady who is so fine a woman, that the Italian world is mistaken!—I will presume that it is.

My good Dr. Bartlett, will you allow me to accuse you of a virtue too rigorous? That is sometimes the fault of very good people. You own that Sir Charles has not, even to you, revealed a secret so disgraceful to her. You own, that he has only blamed her for having too little regard for her reputation, and for the violence of her temper: yet how patiently, for one of such a temper, has she taken his departure, almost on the day of her arrival! He could not have given her an opportunity to indicate to him a concession so criminal: she could not, if he had, have made the overture. Wicked, wicked world! I will not believe you! And the less credit shall you have with me, Italian world, as I have seen the lady. The innocent heart will be a charitable one. Lady Olivia is only too intrepid. Prosperity, as Sir Charles observed, has been a snare to her, and set her above a proper regard to her reputation.—Merciless world! I do not love you. Dear Dr. Bartlett, you are not yet absolutely perfect! These hints of yours against Olivia, gathered from the malevolence of the envious, are proofs (the first indeed that I have met with) of your imperfection!

Excuse me, Lucy: how have I run on! Disappointment has mortified me, and made me good-natured.—I will welcome adversity, if it enlarge my charity.

The doctor tells me, that Emily, with her half-broken heart, will be here presently. If I can be of comfort to her—But I want it myself, from the same cause. We shall only weep over each other.

As I told you, the doctor, and the doctor only, knew of his setting out so early. He took leave of him. Happy Dr. Bartlett!—Yet I see by his eyes, that this parting cost him some paternal tears.

Never father better loved a son than this good man loves Sir Charles Grandison.

Sir Charles, it seems, had settled all his affairs three days before. His servants were appointed.

The doctor tells me, that he had last week presented the elder Mr. Oldham with a pair of colours, which he had purchased for him. Nobody had heard of this.

Lord W——, he says, is preparing for Windsor; Mr. Beauchamp for Hampshire, for a few days; and then he returns to attend the commands of the noble Italians.

Lady Olivia will soon have her equipage ready.

She will make a great appearance.—But Sir Charles Grandison will not be with her. What is grandeur to a disturbed heart?

The Earl of G—— and Lady Gertrude are setting out for Hertfordshire. Lord and Lady L—— talk of retiring, for a few weeks, to Colnebrook: the Doctor is preparing for Grandison-hall; your poor Harriet for Northamptonshire—Bless me, my dear, what a dispersion!—But Lord W——'s nuptials will collect some of them together at Windsor.

***

Emily, the dear weeping girl! is just come. She is with my cousins. She expects my permission for coming up to me. Imagine us weeping over each other; praying for, blessing the guardian of us both. Your imagination cannot form a scene too tender.

Adieu, my Lucy.



LETTER XXVIII

MISS BYRON.—IN CONTINUATION SUNDAY, APRIL 16.

O, what a blank, my dear!—but I need not say what I was going to say. Poor Emily!—But, to mention her grief, is to paint my own.

Lord W—— went to Windsor yesterday.

A very odd behaviour of Lady Olivia. Mr. Beauchamp went yesterday, and offered to attend her to any of the public places, at her pleasure; in pursuance of Sir Charles's reference to him, to do all in his power to make England agreeable to her: and she thought fit to tell him before her aunt, that she thanked him for his civility; but she should not trouble him during her stay in England. She had gentlemen in her train; and one of them had been in England before—

He left her in disgust.

Lady L—— making her a visit in the evening, she told her of Mr. Beauchamp's offer, and of her answer. The gentleman, said she, is a polite and very agreeable man; and this made me treat his kind offer with abruptness: for I can hardly doubt your brother's view in it. I scorn his view: and if I were sure of it, perhaps I should find a way to make him repent of the indignity. Lady L—— was sure, she said, that neither her brother, nor Mr. Beauchamp, had any other views than to make England as agreeable to her as possible.

Be this as it may, madam, said she, I have no service for Mr. Beauchamp: but if your Ladyship, your sister, and your two lords, will allow me to cultivate your friendship, you will do me honour. Dr. Bartlett's company will be very agreeable to me likewise, as often as he will give it me. To Miss Jervois I lay some little claim. I would have had her for my companion in Italy; but your cruel brother—No more, however, of him. Your English beauty too, I admire her: but, poor young creature, I admire her the more, because I can pity her. I should think myself very happy to be better acquainted with her.

Lady L—— made her a very polite answer for herself and her sister, and their lords: but told her, that I was very soon to set out for my own abode in Northamptonshire; and that Dr. Bartlett had some commissions, which would oblige him, in a day or two, to go to Sir Charles's seat in the country. She herself offered to attend her to Windsor, and to every other place, at her command.

Lady L—— took notice of her wrist being bound round with a broad black ribband, and asked, If it were hurt? A kind of sprain, said she. But you little imagine how it came; and must not ask.

This made Lady L—— curious. And Olivia requesting that Emily might be allowed to breakfast with her as this morning; she has bid the dear girl endeavour to know how it came, if it fell in her way: for Olivia reddened, and looked up, with a kind of consciousness, to Lady L——, when she told her that she must not ask questions about it.

Lady G—— is very earnest with me to give into the town diversions for a month to come: but I have now no desire in my heart so strong, as to throw myself at the feet of my grandmamma and aunt; and to be embraced by my Lucy and Nancy, and all my Northamptonshire friends.

I am only afraid of my uncle. He will rally his Harriet; yet only, I know, in hopes to divert her, and us all: but my jesting days are over: my situation will not bear it. Yet if it will divert himself, let him rally.

I shall be so much importuned to stay longer than I ought, or will stay, that I may as well fix a peremptory day at once. Will you, my ever indulgent friends, allow me to set out for Selby-house on Friday next? Not on a Sunday, as Lady Betty Williams advises, for fear of the odious waggons. But I have been in a different school. Sir Charles Grandison, I find, makes it a tacit rule with him, Never to begin a journey on a Sunday; nor, except when in pursuit of works of mercy or necessity, to travel in time of divine service. And this rule he observed last Sunday, though he reached us here in the evening. O my grandmamma! How much is he, what you all are, and ever have been!—But he is now pursuing a work of mercy. God succeed to him the end of his pursuit!

But why tacit? you will ask. Is Sir Charles Grandison ashamed to make an open appearance in behalf of his Christian duties? He is not. For instance; I have never seen him sit down at his own table, in the absence of Dr. Bartlett, or some other clergyman, but he himself says grace; and that with such an easy dignity, as commands every one's reverence; and which is succeeded by a cheerfulness that looks as if he were the better pleased for having shewn a thankful heart.

Dr. Bartlett has also told me, that he begins and ends every day, either in his chamber, or in his study, in a manner worthy of one who is in earnest in his Christian profession. But he never frights gay company with grave maxims. I remember, one day, Mr. Grandison asked him, in his absurd way, Why he did not preach to his company now and then? Faith, Sir Charles, said he, if you did, you would reform many a poor ignorant sinner of us; since you could do it with more weight, and more certainty of attention, than any parson in Christendom.

It would be an affront, said Sir Charles, to the understanding, as well as education, of a man who took rank above a peasant, in such a country as this, to seem to question whether he knew his general duties, or not, and the necessity of practising what he knew of them. If he should be at a loss, he may once a week be reminded, and his heart kept warm. Let you and me, cousin Everard, shew our conviction by our practice; and not invade the clergyman's province.

I remember that Mr. Grandison shewed his conviction by his blushes; and by repeating the three little words, You and me! Sir Charles.

***

SUNDAY EVENING.

O my dear friends! I have a strange, a shocking piece of intelligence to give you! Emily has just been with me in tears: she begged to speak with me in private. When we were alone, she threw her arms about my neck: Ah, madam! said she, I am come to tell you, that there is a person in the world that I hate, and must and will hate, as long as I live. It is Lady Olivia.—Take me down with you into Northamptonshire, and never let me see her more.

I was surprised.

O madam! I have found out, that she would, on Thursday last, have killed my guardian.

I was astonished, Lucy.

They retired together, you know, madam: my guardian came from her, his face in a glow; and he sent in his sister to her, and went not in himself till afterwards. She would have had him put off his journey. She was enraged because he would not; and they were high together; and, at last, she pulled out of her stays, in fury, a poniard, and vowed to plunge it into his heart. He should never, she said, see his Clementina more. He went to her. Her heart failed her. Well it might, you know, madam. He seized her hand. He took it from her. She struggled, and in struggling her wrist was hurt; that's the meaning of the broad black ribband!— Wicked creature! to have such a thought in her heart!—He only said, when he had got it from her, Unhappy, violent woman! I return not this instrument of mischief! You will have no use for it in England—And would not let her have it again.

I shuddered. O my dear, said I, he has been a sufferer, we are told, by good women; but this is not a good woman. But can it be true? Who informed you of it?

Lady Maffei herself. She thought that Sir Charles must have spoken of it: and when she found he had not, she was sorry she had, and begged I would not tell any body: but I could not keep it from you. And she says, that Lady Olivia is grieved on the remembrance of it; and arraigns herself and her wicked passion; and the more, for his noble forgiveness of her on the spot, and recommending her afterwards to the civilities of his sisters, and their lords. But I hate her, for all that.

Poor unhappy Olivia! said I. But what, my Emily, are we women, who should be the meekest and tenderest of the whole animal creation, when we give way to passion! But if she is so penitent, let not the shocking attempt be known to his sisters, or their lords. I may take the liberty of mentioning it, in strict confidence, [observe that, Lucy,] to those from whom I keep not any secret: but let it not be divulged to any of the relations of Sir Charles. Their detestation of her, which must follow, would not be concealed; and the unhappy creature, made desperate, might— Who knows what she might do?

The dear girl ran on upon what might have been the consequence, and what a loss the world would have had, if the horrid fact had been perpetrated. Lady Maffei told her, however, that had not her heart relented, she might have done him mischief; for he was too rash in approaching her. She fell down on her knees to him, as soon as he had wrested the poniard from her. I forgive, and pity you, madam, said he, with an air that had, as Olivia and her aunt have recollected since, both majesty and compassion in it: but, against her entreaty, he would withdraw: yet, at her request, sent in Lady L—— to her; and, going into his study, told not even Dr. Bartlett of it, though he went to him there immediately.

From the consciousness of this violence, perhaps, the lady was more temperate afterwards, even to the very time of his departure.

***

Lord bless me, what shall I do? Lady D—— has sent a card to let me know, that she will wait upon Mrs. Reeves and me to-marrow to breakfast. She comes, no doubt, to tell me, that Sir Charles having no thoughts of Harriet Byron, Lord D—— may have hopes of succeeding with her: and, perhaps, her ladyship will plead Sir Charles's recommendation and interest in Lord D——'s favour. But should this plea be made, good Heaven give me patience! I am afraid I shall be uncivil to this excellent woman.



LETTER XXIX

MISS BYRON.—IN CONTINUATION MONDAY, APRIL 17.

The countess is just gone.

Mr. Reeves was engaged before to breakfast with Lady Betty Williams; and we were only Mrs. Reeves, Lady D——, and I.

My heart ached at her entrance; and every moment still more, as we were at breakfast. Her looks, I thought, had such particular kindness and meaning in them, as seemed to express, 'You have no hopes, Miss Byron, any where else; and I will have you to be mine.'

But my suspense was over the moment the tea-table was removed. I see your confusion, my dear, said the countess: [Mrs. Reeves, you must not leave us;] and I have sat in pain for you, as I saw it increase. By this I know that Sir Charles Grandison has been as good as his word. Indeed I doubted not but he would. I don't wonder, my dear, that you love him. He is the finest man in his manners, as well as person, that I ever saw. A woman of virtue and honour cannot but love him. But I need not praise him to you; nor to you, neither, Mrs. Reeves; I see that. Now you must know, proceeded she, that there is an alliance proposed for my son, of which I think very well; but still should have thought better, had I never seen you, my dear. I have talked to my lord about it: you know I am very desirous to have him married. His answer was; I never can think of any proposal of this nature, while I have any hope that I can make myself acceptable to Miss Byron.

What think you, my lord, said I, if I should directly apply to Sir Charles Grandison, to know his intentions; and whether he has any hopes of obtaining her favour? He is said to be the most unreserved of men. He knows our characters to be as unexceptionable as his own; and that our alliance cannot be thought a discredit to the first family in the kingdom. It is a free question, I own; as I am unacquainted with him by person: but he is such a man, that methinks I can take pleasure in addressing myself to him on any subject.

My lord smiled at the freedom of my motion; but, not disapproving it, I directly went to Sir Charles; and, after due compliments, told him my business.

The countess stopt. She is very penetrating. She looked at us both.

Well, madam, said my cousin, with an air of curiosity—Pray, your ladyship—

I could not speak for very impatience—

I never heard in my life, said the countess, such a fine character of any mortal, as he gave you. He told me of his engagements to go abroad as the very next day. He highly extolled the lady for whose sake, principally, he was obliged to go abroad; and he spoke as highly of a brother of hers, whom he loved as if he were his own brother; and mentioned very affectionately the young lady's whole family.

'God only knows,' said he, 'what may be my destiny!—As generosity, as justice, or rather as Providence, leads, I will follow.'

After he had generously opened his heart, proceeded the countess, I asked him, If he had any hope, should the foreign lady recover her health, of her being his?

'I can promise myself nothing,' said he. 'I go over without one selfish hope. If the lady recover her health, and her brother can be amended in his, by the assistance I shall carry over with me, I shall have joy inexpressible. To Providence I leave the rest. The result cannot be in my own power.'

Then, sir, proceeded the countess, you cannot in honour be under any engagements to Miss Byron?

I arose from my seat. Whither, my dear?—I have done, if I oppress you. I moved my chair behind hers, but so close to hers, that I leaned on the back of it, my face hid, and my eyes running over. She stood up. Sit down again, madam, said I, and proceed—Pray proceed. You have excited my curiosity. Only let me sit here, unheeded, behind you.

Pray, madam, said Mrs. Reeves, (burning also with curiosity, as she has since owned,) go on; and indulge my cousin in her present seat. What answer did Sir Charles return?

My dear love, said the countess, (sitting down, as I had requested,) let me first be answered one question. I would not do mischief.

You cannot do mischief, madam, replied I. What is your ladyship's question?

Has Sir Charles Grandison ever directly made his addresses to you, my dear?

Never, madam.

It is not for want of love, I dare aver, that he has not. But thus he answered my question: 'I should have thought myself the unworthiest of men, knowing the difficulties of my own situation, how great soever were the temptation from Miss Byron's merit if I had sought to engage her affections.'

[O, Lucy! How nobly is his whole conduct towards me justified!]

'She has, madam,' (proceeded the countess, in his words,) 'a prudence that I never knew equalled in a woman so young. With a frankness of mind, to which hardly ever young lady before her had pretensions, she has such a command of her affections, that no man, I dare say, will ever have a share in them, till he has courted her favour by assiduities which shall convince her that he has no heart but for her.'

O my Lucy! What an honour to me would these sentiments be, if I deserved them! And can Sir Charles Grandison think I do?—I hope so. But if he does, how much am I indebted to his favourable, his generous opinion! Who knows but I have reason to rejoice, rather than to regret, as I used to do, his frequent absences from Colnebrook?

The countess proceeded.

Then, sir, you will not take it amiss, if my son, by his assiduities, can prevail upon Miss Byron to think that he has merit, and that his heart is wholly devoted to her.

'Amiss, madam!—No!—In justice, in honour, I cannot. May Miss Byron be, as she deserves to be, one of the happiest women on earth in her nuptials. I have heard a great character of Lord D——. He has a very large estate. He may boast of his mother—God forbid, that I, a man divided in myself, not knowing what I can do, hardly sometimes what I ought to do, should seek to involve in my own uncertainties the friend I revere; the woman I so greatly admire: her beauty so attracting; so proper therefore for her to engage a generous protector in the married state.'

Generous man! thought I. O how my tears ran down my cheeks, as I hid my face behind the countess's chair!

But will you allow me, sir, proceeded the countess, to ask you, were you freed from all your uncertainties—

'Permit me, madam,' interrupted he, 'to spare you the question you were going to put. As I know not what will be the result of my journey abroad, I should think myself a very selfish man, and a very dishonourable one to two ladies of equal delicacy and worthiness, if I sought to involve, as I hinted before, in my own uncertainties, a young lady whose prudence and great qualities must make herself and any man happy, whom she shall favour with her hand.

'To be still more explicit,' proceeded he, With what face could I look up to a woman of honour and delicacy, such a one as the lady before whom I now stand, if I could own a wish, that, while my honour has laid me under obligation to one lady, if she shall be permitted to accept of me, I should presume to hope, that another, no less worthy, would hold her favour for me suspended, till she saw what would be the issue of the first obligation? No, madam; I could sooner die, than offer such indignity to both! I am fettered, added he; but Miss Byron is free: and so is the lady abroad. My attendance on her at this time, is indispensable; but I make not any conditions for myself—My reward will be in the consciousness of having discharged the obligations that I think myself under, as a man of honour.'

The countess's voice changed in repeating this speech of his: and she stopt to praise him; and then went on.

You are THE man, indeed, sir!—But then give me leave to ask you, as I think it very likely that you will be married before your return to England, Whether, now that you have been so good as to speak favourably of my son, and that you call Miss Byron sister, you will oblige him with a recommendation to that sister?

'The Countess of D—— shews, by this request, her value for a young lady who deserves it; and the more, for its being, I think, (excuse me, madam) a pretty extraordinary one. But what a presumption would it be in me, to suppose that I had SUCH an interest with Miss Byron, when she has relations as worthy of her, as she is of them?'

You may guess, my dear, said the countess, that I should not have put this question, but as a trial of his heart. However, I asked his pardon; and told him, that I would not believe he gave it me, except he would promise to mention to Miss Byron, that I had made him a visit on this subject. [Methinks, Lucy, I should have been glad that he had not let me know that he was so forgiving!]

And now, my dear, said the lady, let me turn about. She did; and put one arm round my neck, and with my own handkerchief wiped my eyes, and kissed my cheek; and when she saw me a little recovered, she addressed me as follows:

Now, my good young creature, [O that you would let me call you daughter in my way! for I think I must always call you so, whether you do, or not] let me ask you, as if I were your real mother, 'Have you any expectation that Sir Charles Grandison will be yours?'

Dear madam, is not this as hard a question to be put to me, as that which you put to him?

Yes, my dear—full as hard. And I am as ready to ask your pardon, as I was his, if you are really displeased with me for putting it. Are you, Miss Byron? Excuse me, Mrs. Reeves, for thus urging your lovely cousin: I am at least entitled to the excuse Sir Charles Grandison made for me, that it is a demonstration of my value for her.

I have declared, madam, returned I, and it is from my heart, that I think he ought to be the husband of the lady abroad: and though I prefer him to all the men I ever saw, yet I have resolved, if possible, to conquer the particular regard I have for him. He has in a very noble manner offered me his friendship, so long as it may be accepted without interfering with any other attachments on my part: and I will be satisfied with that.

A friendship so pure, replied the countess, as that of such a man, is consistent with any other attachments. My Lord D—— will, with his whole soul, contribute all in his power to strengthen it: he admires Sir Charles Grandison: he would think it a double honour to be acquainted with him through you. Dearest Miss Byron, take another worthy young man into your friendship, but with a tenderer name: I shall then claim a fourth place in it for myself. O my dear! What a quadruple knot will you tie!

Your ladyship does me too much honour, was all I could just then reply.

I must have an answer, my dear: I will not take up with a compliment.

This, then, madam, is my answer—I hope I am an honest creature: I have not a heart to give.

Then you have expectations, my dear.—Well, I will call you mine, if I can. Never did I think that I could have made the proposal, that I am going to make you: but in my eyes, as well as in my lord's, you are an incomparable young woman.—This is it.—We will not think of the alliance proposed to us (it is yet but a proposal, and to which we have not returned any answer) till we see what turn the affair Sir Charles is gone upon, takes. You once said, you could prefer my son to any of the men that had hitherto applied to you for your favour. Your affections to Sir Charles were engaged before you knew us. Will you allow my son this preference, which will be the first preference, if Sir Charles engages himself abroad?

Your ladyship surprises me: shall I not improve by the example you have just now set before me? Who was it that said (and a man too) 'With what face could I look up to a woman of honour and delicacy, such a one as the lady before whom I now stand, if I could own a wish, that, while' my heart leaned to one person, I should think of keeping another in suspense till I saw whether I could or could not be the other's? 'No, madam, I would sooner die,' as Sir Charles said, 'than offer such an indignity to both.' But I know, madam, that you only made this proposal, as you did another to Sir Charles Grandison, as a trial of my heart.

Upon my word, my dear, I should, I think, be glad to be entitled to such an excuse: but I was really in earnest; and now take a little shame to myself.

What charming ingenuousness in this lady!

She clasped her arms about me, and kissed my cheek again. I have but one plea, said she, to make for myself; I could not have fallen into such an error, (the example so recently given to the contrary,) had I not wished you to be, before any woman in the world, Countess of D——. Noble creature! No title can give you dignity. May your own wishes be granted!

My cousin's eyes ran over with pleasure.

The countess asked, When I returned to Northamptonshire? I told her my intention. She charged me to see her first. But can tell you, said she, my lord shall not be present when you come: not once more will I trust him in your company; and if he should steal a visit, unknown to me, let not your cousin see him, Mrs. Reeves. He does indeed admire you, love.

I acknowledged, with a grateful heart, her goodness to me. She engaged me to correspond with her when I got home. Her commands were an honour done me, that I could not refuse myself. Her son, she smilingly told me, should no more see my letters, than my person.

At her going away—I will tell you one thing, said she: I never before, in a business which my heart was set upon, was so effectually silenced by a precedent produced by myself in the same conversation. I came with an assurance of success. When our hearts are engaged in a hope, we are apt to think every step we take for the promoting it, reasonable: Our passions, my dear, will evermore run away with our judgment. But, now I think of it, I must, when I say our, make two exceptions; one for you, and one for Sir Charles Grandison.

But, Lucy, tell me—May I, do you think, explain the meaning of the word SELFISH used by Sir Charles in the conclusion of the library conference at Colnebrook, (and which puzzled me then to make out,) by his disclaiming of selfishness in the conversation with the countess above recited? If I may, what an opening of his heart does that word give in my favour, were he at liberty? Does it not look, my dear, as if his honour checked him, when his love would have prompted him to wish me to preserve my heart disengaged till his return from abroad? Nor let it be said, that it was dishonourable in him to have such a thought, as it was checked and overcome; and as it was succeeded by such an emotion, that he was obliged to depart abruptly from me.—Let me repeat the words—You may not have my letter at hand which relates that affecting address to me; and it is impossible for me, while I have memory, to forget them. He had just concluded his brief history of Clementina—'And now, madam, what can I say?—Honour forbids me!—Yet honour bids me—Yet I cannot be unjust, ungenerous, selfish!'—If I may flatter myself, Lucy, that he did love me when he said this, and that he had a conflict in his noble heart between the love on one side so hopeless, (for I could not forgive him, if he did not love, as well as pity, Clementina,) and on the other not so hopeless, were there to have been no bar between—Shall we not pity him for the arduous struggle? Shall we not see that honour carried it, even in favour of the hopeless against the hopeful, and applaud him the more for being able to overcome? How shall we call virtue by its name, if it be not tried; and if it hath no contest with inclination?

If I am a vain self-flatterer, tell me, chide me, Lucy; but allow me, however, at the same time, this praise, if I can make good my claim to it, that my conquest of my passion is at least as glorious for me, as his is for him, were he to love me ever so well; since I can most sincerely, however painfully, subscribe to the preference which honour, love, compassion, unitedly, give to CLEMENTINA.



LETTER XXX

MISS BYRON.—IN CONTINUATION MONDAY NIGHT.

My cousins and I, by invitation, supped with Lady G—— this evening. Lord and Lady L—— were there; Lady Olivia also, and Lady Maffei.

I have set them all into a consternation, as they expressed themselves, by my declaration of leaving London on my return home early on Friday morning next. I knew, that were I to pass the whole summer here, I must be peremptory at last. The two sisters vow, that I shall not go so soon. They say, that I have seen so few of the town diversions—Town diversions, Lucy!—I have had diversion enough, of one sort!—But in your arms, my dear friends, I shall have consolation—And I want it.

I have great regrets, and shall have hourly more, as the day approaches, on the leaving of such dear and obliging friends: but I am determined.

My cousin's coach will convey me to Dunstable; and there, I know, I shall meet with my indulgent uncle, or your brother. I would not have it publicly known, because of the officious gentlemen in the neighbourhood.

Dr. Bartlett intended to set out for Grandison-hall to-morrow: but from the natural kindness of his heart he has suspended his journey to Thursday next. No consideration, therefore, shall detain me, if I am well.

My cousins are grieved: they did not expect that I would be a word and a blow, as they phrase it.

Lady Olivia expressed herself concerned, that she, in particular, was to lose me. She had proposed great pleasure, she said, in the parties she should make in my company. But, after what Emily told me, she appears to me as a Medusa; and were I to be thought by her a formidable rival, I might have as much reason to be afraid of the potion, as the man she loves of the poniard. Emily has kept the secret from every body but me. And I rely on the inviolable secrecy of all you, my friends.

Lord and Lady L—— had designed to go to Colnebrook to-morrow, or at my day, having hopes of getting me with them: but now, they say, they will stay in town till they can see whether I am to be prevailed upon, or will be obdurate.

Lady Olivia inquired after the distance of Northamptonshire. She will make the tour of England, she says, and visit me there. I was obliged to say I should take her visit as an honour.

Wicked politeness! Of how many falsehoods dost thou make the people, who are called polite, guilty!

But there is one man in the world, who is remarkable for his truth, yet is unquestionably polite. He censures not others for complying with fashions established by custom; but he gives not in to them. He never perverts the meaning of words. He never, for instance, suffers his servants to deny him, when he is at home. If he is busy, he just finds time to say he is, to unexpected visiters; and if they will stay, he turns them over to his sisters, to Dr. Bartlett, to Emily, till he can attend them. But then he has always done so. Every one knows that he lives to his own heart, and they expect it of him; and when they can have his company, they have double joy in the ease and cheerfulness that attend his leisure: they then have him wholly. And he can be the more polite, as the company then is all his business.

Sir Charles might the better do so, as he came over so few months ago, after so long an absence; and his reputation for politeness was so well established, that people rather looked for rules from him, than a conformity to theirs.

His denials of complimenting Lady Olivia (though she was but just arrived in his native country, where she never was before) with the suspending of his departure for one week, or but for one day—Who but he could have given them? But he was convinced, that it was right to hasten away, for the sake of Clementina and his Jeronymo; and that it would have been wrong to shew Olivia, even for her own sake, that in such a competition she had consequence with him; and all her entreaties, all her menaces, the detested poniard in her hand, could not shake his steady soul, and make him delay his well-settled purpose.



LETTER XXXI

MISS BYRON.—IN CONTINUATION TUESDAY MORNING, APRIL 18.

This naughty Lady G——! She is excessively to blame. Lord L—— is out of patience with her. So is Lady L——. Emily says, she loves her dearly; but she does not love her ways. Lord G——, as Emily tells me, talks of coming to me; the cause of quarrel supposed to be not great: but trifles, insisted upon, make frequently the widest breaches. Whatever it be, it is between themselves: and neither cares to tell: but Lord and Lady L—— are angry with her, for the ludicrous manner in which she treats him.

The misunderstanding happened after my cousin and I left them last night. I was not in spirits, and declined staying to cards. Lady Olivia and her aunt went away at the same time. Whist was the game. Lord and Lady L——, Dr. Bartlett and Emily, were cast in. In the midst of their play, Lady G—— came hurrying down stairs to them, warbling an air. Lord G—— followed her, much disturbed. Madam, I must tell you, said he—Why MUST, my lord? I don't bid you.

Sit still, child, said she to Emily; and took her seat behind her—Who wins? Who loses?

Lord G—— walked about the room—Lord and Lady L—— were unwilling to take notice, hoping it would go off; for there had been a few livelinesses on her side at dinner-time, though all was serene at supper.

Dr. Bartlett offered her his cards. She refused them—No, doctor, said she, I will play my own cards: I shall have enough to do to play them well.

As you manage it, so you will, madam, said Lord G——.

Don't expose yourself, my lord: we are before company. Lady L——, you have nothing but trumps in your hand.

Let me say a word or two to you, madam, said Lord G—— to her.

I am all obedience, my lord.

She arose. He would have taken her hand: she put it behind her.

Not your hand, madam?

I can't spare it.

He flung from her, and went out of the room.

Lord bless me, said she, returning to the card-table with a gay unconcern, what strange passionate creatures are these men!

Charlotte, said Lady L——, I wonder at you.

Then I give you joy—

What do you mean, sister?—

We women love wonder, and the wonderful!

Surely, Lady G——, said Lord L——, you are wrong.

I give your lordship joy, too.

On what?

That my sister is always right.

Indeed, madam, were I Lord G——, I should have no patience.

A good hint for you, Lady L——. I hope you will take this for a warning, and be good.

When I behave as you do, Charlotte—

I understand you, Lady L——, you need not speak out—Every one in their way.

You would not behave thus, were my brother—

Perhaps not.

Dear Charlotte, you are excessively wrong.

So I think, returned she.

Why then do you not—

Mend, Lady L——? All in good time.

Her woman came in with a message, expressing her lord's desire to see her.—The deuce is in these men! They will neither be satisfied with us, nor without us. But I am all obedience: no vow will I break—And out she went.

Lord G—— not returning presently, and Lord and Lady L——'s chariot being come, they both took this opportunity, in order to shew their displeasure, to go away without taking leave of their sister. Dr. Bartlett retired to his apartment. And when Lady G—— came down, she was surprised, and a little vexed, to find only Emily there. Lord G—— came in at another door—Upon my word, my Lord, this is strange behaviour in you: you fright away, with your husband-like airs, all one's company.

Good God!—I am astonished at you, madam.

What signifies your astonishment?—when you have scared every body out of the house.

I, madam!

You, sir! Yes, you!—Did you not lord it over me in my dressing-room?— To be easy and quiet, did I not fly to our company in the drawing-room? Did you not follow me there—with looks—very pretty looks for a new-married man, I assure you! Then did you not want to take me aside— Would not anybody have supposed it was to express your sorrow for your odd behaviour? Was I not all obedience?—Did you not, with very mannish airs, slight me for my compliance, and fly out of the room? All the company could witness the calmness with which I returned to them, that they might not be grieved for me; nor think our misunderstanding a deep one. Well, then, when your stomach came down, as I supposed, you sent for me out: no doubt, thought I, to express his concern now.—I was all obedience again.

And did I not beseech you, madam—

Beseech me, my lord!—Yes—But with such looks!—I married, sir, let me tell you, a man with another face—See, see, Emily—He is gone again.—

My lord flew out of the room in a rage.—O these men, my dear! said she to Emily.

I know, said Emily, what I could have answered, if I dared: but it is ill meddling, as I have heard say, between man and wife.

Emily says, the quarrel was not made up; but was carried higher still in the morning.

She had but just finished her tale, when the following billet was brought me, from Lady G——:

***

TUESDAY MORNING.

Harriet,

If you love me, if you pity me, come hither this instant: I have great need of your counsel. I am resolved to be unmarried; and therefore subscribe myself by the beloved name of

CHARLOTTE GRANDISON.

***

I instantly dispatched the following:

I Know no such person as Charlotte Grandison. I love Lady G——, but can pity only her lord. I will not come near you. I have no counsel to give you, but that you will not jest away your own happiness.

HARRIET BYRON.

***

In half an hour after, came a servant from Lady G—— with the following letter:

So, then, I have made a blessed hand of wedlock. My brother gone: my man excessive unruly: Lord and Lady L—— on his side, without inquiring into merits, or demerits: lectured by Dr. Bartlett's grave face: Emily standing aloof; her finger in her eye: and now my Harriet renouncing me: and all in one week!

What can I do?—War seems to be declared: and will you not turn mediatrix?—You won't, you say. Let it alone. Nevertheless, I will lay the whole matter before you.

It was last night, the week from the wedding-day not completed, that Lord G—— thought fit to break into my retirement without my leave—By the way, he was a little impertinent at dinner-time; but that I passed over—

What boldness is this? said I—Pray, Sir, begone—Why leave you your company below?

I come, my dearest life! to make a request to you.

The man began with civility enough, had he had a little less of his odious rapture; for he flung his arms about me, Jenny in presence. A husband's fondness is enough to ruin these girls. Don't you think, Harriet, that there is an immorality in it, before them?

I refuse your request, be it what it will. How dare you invade me in my retirement?—You may believe, that I intended not to stay long above, my sister below. Does the ceremony, so lately past, authorize want of breeding?

Want of breeding, madam!—And he did so stare!

Leave me, this instant!—I looked good-natured, I suppose, in my anger; for he declared he would not; and again throwing his arms about me as I sat, joined his sharp face to mine, and presumed to kiss me; Jenny still in the room.

Now, Harriet, you never will desert me in a point of delicacy, I am sure. You cannot defend these odious freedoms in a matrimony so young, unless you would be willing to be served so yourself.

You may suppose, that then I let loose my indignation upon him. And he stole out, daring to mutter, and be displeased. The word devil was in his mouth.

Did he call me devil, Jenny?

No, indeed, madam, said the wench—And, Harriet, see the ill example of such a free behaviour before her: she presumed to prate in favour of the man's fit of fondness; yet, at other times, is a prude of a girl.

Before my anger was gone down, in again [It is truth, Harriet,] came the bold wretch. I will not, said he, as you are not particularly employed, leave you—Upon my soul, madam, you don't use me well. But if you will oblige me with your company tomorrow morning—

No where, Sir—

Only to breakfast with Miss Byron, my dear—As a mark of your obligingness, I request it.

His dear!—Now I hate a hypocrite, of all things. I knew that he had a design to make a shew of his bride, as his property, at another place; and seeing me angry, thought he would name a visit agreeable to me, and which at the same time would give him a merit with you, and preserve to himself the consequence of being obliged by his obedient wife, at the word of authority.

From this foolish beginning arose our mighty quarrel. What vexed me was, the art of the man, and the evident design he had to get you of his side. He, in the course of it, threatened me with appealing to you.—To intend to ruin me in the love of my dearest friend! Who, that valued that friend, could forgive it? You may believe, that if he had not proposed it, and after such accumulated offences, it was the very visit that I should have been delighted with.

Indeed, Sir—Upon my word, my lord—I do assure you, sir,—with a moderate degree of haughtiness—was what the quarrel arose to, on my side—And, at last, to a declaration of rebellion—I won't.

On his side, Upon my soul, madam—Let me perish, if—and then hesitating —You use me ill, madam. I have not deserved—And give me leave to say— I insist upon being obliged, madam.

There was no bearing of this, Harriet.—It was a cool evening; but I took up my fan—Hey-day! said I, what language is this?—You insist upon it, my lord!—I think I am married; am I not?—And I took my watch, half an hour after ten on Monday night—the—what day of the month is this?— Please the lord, I will note down this beginning moment of your authoritative demeanour.

My dear Lady G——, [The wretch called me by his own name, perhaps farther to insult me,] if I could bear this treatment, it is impossible for me to love you as I do.

So it is in love to me, that you are to put on already all the husband!— Jenny! [Do you see, my lord, affecting a whisper, how you dash the poor wench? How like a fool she looks at our folly!] Remember, Jenny, that to-morrow morning you carry my wedding-suits to Mrs. Arnold; and tell her, she has forgot the hanging-sleeves to the gowns. Let her put them on out of hand.

I was proceeding—But he rudely, gravely, and even with an air of scorn, [There was no bearing that, you know,] admonished me. A little less wit, madam, and a little more discretion, would perhaps better become you.

This was too true to be forgiven. You'll say it, Harriet, if I don't. And to come from a man that was not overburdened with either—But I had too great a command of myself to say so. My dependence, my lord, [This I did say,] is upon your judgment: that will always be a balance to my wit; and, with the assistance of your reproving love, will in time teach me discretion.

Now, my dear, was not this a high compliment to him? Ought he not to have taken it as such? Especially as I looked grave, and dropt him a very fine courtesy. But either his conscience or his ill-nature, (perhaps you'll say both,) made him take it as a reflection, [True as you are alive, Harriet!] He bit his lip. Jenny, begone, said he—Jenny, don't go, said I—Jenny knew not which to obey. Upon my word, Harriet, I began to think the man would have cuffed me.—And while he was in his airs of mock-majesty, I stept to the door, and whipt down to my company.

As married people are not to expose themselves to their friends, (who I once heard you sagely remark, would remember disagreeable things, when the honest pair had forgotten them,) I was determined to be prudent. You would have been charmed with me, my dear, for my discretion. I will cheat by-standers, thought I; I will make my Lord and Lady L——, Dr. Bartlett, and Emily, whom I had before set in at cards, think we are egregiously happy—And down I sat, intending, with a lamb-like peaceableness, to make observations on the play. But soon after, in whipt my indiscreet lord, his colour heightened, his features working: and though I cautioned him not to expose himself, yet he assumed airs that were the occasion, as you shall hear, of frightening away my company. He withdrew, in consequence of those airs; and, after a little while, (repenting, as I hoped,) he sent for me out. Some wives would have played the queen Vashti on their tyrant, and refused to go: but I, all obedience, (my vow, so recently made, in my head,) obeyed, at the very first word: yet you must think that I (meek as I am naturally) could not help recriminating. He was too lordly to be expostulated with.— There was, 'I tell you, madam,' and 'I won't be told, sir;' and when I broke from the passionate creature, and hoped to find my company, behold! they were all gone! None but Emily left. And thus might poor Lady L—— be sent home, weeping, perhaps, for such an early marriage-tyranny exerted on her meek sister.

Well, and don't you think that we looked like a couple of fools at each other, when we saw ourselves left alone, as I may say, to fight it out? I did expostulate with him as mildly as I could: he would have made it up with me afterwards; but, no! there was no doing that, as a girl of your nice notions may believe, after he had, by his violent airs, exposed us both before so many witnesses. In decency, therefore, I was obliged to keep it up: and now our misunderstanding blazes, and is at such a comfortable height, that if we meet by accident, we run away from each other by design. We have already made two breakfast-tables: yet I am meek; he is sullen: I make courtesies; he returns not bows.—Sullen creature, and a rustic!—I go to my harpsichord; melody enrages him. He is worse than Saul; for Saul could be gloomily pleased with the music even of the man he hated.

I would have got you to come to us: that I thought was tending to a compliance; for it would have been condescending too much, as he is so very perverse, if I had accompanied him to you. He has a great mind to appeal to you; but I have half rallied him out of his purpose. I sent to you. What an answer did you return me!—Cruel Harriet! to deny your requested mediation in a difference that has arisen between man and wife. —But let the fire glow. If it spares the house, and only blazes in the chimney, I can bear it.

Cross creature, adieu! If you know not such a woman as Grandison, Heaven grant that I may; and that my wishes may be answered as to the person; and then I will not know a Byron.

See, Lucy, how high this dear flighty creature bribes! But I will not be influenced, by her bribery, to take her part.



LETTER XXXII

MISS BYRON.—IN CONTINUATION TUESDAY NIGHT.

I am just returned from St. James's-square.

But, first, I should tell you, that I had a visit from Lady Olivia and Lady Maffei. Our conversation was in Italian and French. Lady Olivia and I had a quarter of an hour's discourse in private: you may guess at our subject. She is not without that tenderness of heart which is the indispensable characteristic of a woman. She lamented the violence of her temper, in a manner so affecting, that I cannot help pitying her, though at the instant I had in my head a certain attempt, that makes me shudder whenever I think of it. She regrets my going to Northamptonshire so soon. I have promised to return her visit to-morrow in the afternoon.

She sets out on Friday next for Oxford. She wished I could accompany her. She resolves to see all that is worth seeing in the western circuit, as I may call it. She observes, she says, that Sir Charles Grandison's sisters, and their lords, are very particularly engaged at present; and are in expectation of a call to Windsor, to attend Lord W——'s nuptials: she will therefore, having attendants enough, and two men of consideration in her train, one of whom is not unacquainted with England, take cursory tours over the kingdom; having a taste for travelling, and finding it a great relief to her spirits: and when Lady L—— and Lady G—— are more disengaged, will review the seats and places which she shall think worthy of a second visit, in their company.

She professed to like the people here, and the face of the country; and talked favourably of the religion of it: but, poor woman! she likes all those the better, I doubt not, for the sake of one Englishman. Love, Lucy, gilds every object which bears a relation to the person beloved.

Lady Maffei was very free in blaming her niece for this excursion. She took her chiding patiently; but yet, like a person that thought it too much in her power to gratify the person blaming her, to pay much regard to what she said.

I took a chair to Lady G——'s. Emily ran to meet me in the hall. She threw her arms about me: I rejoice you are come, said she. Did you not meet the house in the square?—What means my Emily?—Why, it has been flung out of the windows, as the saying is. Ah madam! we are all to pieces. One so careless, the other so passionate!—But, hush! Here comes Lady G——.

Take, Lucy, in the dialogue-way, particulars.

LADY G. Then you are come, at last, Harriet. You wrote, that you would not come near me.

HAR. I did; but I could not stay away. Ah, Lady G——, you will destroy your own happiness!

LADY G. So you wrote. Not one word, on the subject you hint at, that you have ever said or written before. I hate repetitions, child.

HAR. Then I must be silent upon it.

LADY G. Not of necessity. You can say new things upon old subjects.— But hush! Here comes the man.—She ran to her harpsichord—Is this it, Harriet? and touched the keys—repeating

"Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, Soon she sooth'd—— ——"

ENTER LORD G.

LORD G. Miss Byron, I am your most obedient servant. The sight of you rejoices my soul.—Madam (to his lady), you have not been long enough together to begin a tune. I know what this is for—

LADY G. Harmony! harmony! is a charming thing! But I, poor I! know not any but what this simple instrument affords me.

LORD G. [Lifting up his hands.] Harmony, madam! God is my witness— But I will lay every thing before Miss Byron.

LADY G. You need not, my lord: she knows as much as she can know, already; except the fine colourings be added to the woeful tale, that your unbridled spirit can give it.—Have you my long letter about you, Harriet?

LORD G. And could you, madam, have the heart to write—

LADY G. Why, my lord, do you mince the matter? For heart, say courage. You may speak as plain in Miss Byron's presence, as you did before she came: I know what you mean.

LORD G. Let it be courage, then.

HAR. Fie, fie, Lord G——! Fie, fie, Lady G——! What lengths do you run! If I understand the matter right, you have both, like children, been at play, till you have fallen out.

LORD G. If, Miss Byron, you know the truth, and can blame me—

HAR. I blame you only, my lord, for being in a passion. You see, my lady is serene: she keeps her temper: she looks as if she wanted to be friends with you.

LORD G. O that cursed serenity!—When my soul is torn by a whirlwind—

LADY G. A good tragedy rant!—But, Harriet, you are mistaken: My Lord G—— is a very passionate man. So humble, so—what shall I call it? before marriage—Did not the man see what a creature I was?—To bear with me, when he had no obligation to me; and not now, when he has the highest—A miserable sinking!—O Harriet, Harriet! Never, never marry!

HAR. Dear Lady G——, you know in your own heart you are wrong—Indeed you are wrong—

LORD G. God for ever reward you, madam!—I will tell you how it began—

LADY G. 'Began!' She knows that already, I tell you, my lord. But what has passed within these four hours, she knows not: you may entertain her with that, if you please.—It was just about the time this day is a week, that we were altogether, mighty comfortably, at St. George's, Hanover-square—

LORD G. Every tittle of what you promised there, madam—

LADY G. And I, my lord, could be your echo in this, were I not resolved to keep my temper, as you cannot but say I have done, all along.

LORD G. You could not, madam, if you did not despise me.

LADY G. You are wrong, my lord, to think so: but you don't believe yourself: if you did, the pride of your heart ought not to permit you to own it.

LORD G. Miss Byron, give me leave—

LADY G. Lord bless me! that people are so fond of exposing themselves! Had you taken my advice, when you pursued me out of my dressing-room into company—My lord, said I, as mildly as I now speak, Don't expose yourself. But he was not at all the wiser for my advice.

LORD G. Miss Byron, you see—But I had not come down but to make my compliments to you. He bowed, and was about to withdraw.

I took him by the sleeve—My lord, you must not go. Lady G——, if your own heart justifies you for your part in this misunderstanding, say so; I challenge you to say so.—She was silent.

HAR. If otherwise, own your fault, promise amendment—ask pardon.

LADY G. Hey-day!

HAR. And my lord will ask yours, for mistaking you—For being too easily provoked—

LORD G. Too easily, madam—

HAR. What generous man would not smile at the foibles of a woman whose heart is only gay with prosperity and lively youth; but has not the least malice in it? Has not she made choice of your lordship in preference of any other man? She rallies every one; she can't help it: she is to blame.—Indeed, Lady G——, you are. Your brother felt your edge; he once smarted by it, and was angry with you.—But afterwards, observing that it was her way, my lord; that it was a kind of constitutional gaiety of heart, and exercised on those she loved best; he forgave, rallied her again, and turned her own weapons upon her; and every one in company was delighted with the spirit of both.—You love her, my lord.

LORD G. Never man more loved a woman. I am not an ill-natured man—

LADY G. But a captious, a passionate one, Lord G——. Who'd have thought it?

LORD G. Never was there, my dear Miss Byron, such a strangely-aggravating creature! She could not be so, if she did not despise me.

LADY G. Fiddle-faddle, silly man! And so you said before. If you thought so, you take the way, (don't you?) to mend the matter, by dancing and capering about, and putting yourself into all manner of disagreeable attitudes; and even sometimes being ready to foam at the mouth?—I told him, Miss Byron, There he stands, let him deny it, if he can; that I married a man with another face. Would not any other man have taken this for a compliment to his natural undistorted face, and instantly have pulled off the ugly mask of passion, and shewn his own?—

LORD G. You see, you see, the air, Miss Byron!—How ludicrously does she now, even now—

LADY G. See, Miss Byron!—How captious!—Lord G—— ought to have a termagant wife: one who could return rage for rage. Meekness is my crime.—I cannot be put out of temper.—Meekness was never before attributed to woman as a fault.

LORD G. Good God!—Meekness!—Good God!

LADY G. But, Harriet, do you judge on which side the grievance lies.— Lord G—— presents me with a face for his, that I never saw him wear before marriage: He has cheated me, therefore. I shew him the same face that I ever wore, and treat him pretty much in the same manner (or I am mistaken) that I ever did: and what reason can he give, that will not demonstrate him to be the most ungrateful of men, for the airs he gives himself? Airs that he would not have presumed to put on eight days ago. Who then, Harriet, has reason to complain of grievance; my lord, or I?

LORD G. You see, Miss Byron—Can there be any arguing with a woman who knows herself to be in jest, in all she says?

HAR. Why then, my lord, make a jest of it. What will not bear an argument, will not be worth one's anger.

LORD G. I leave it to Miss Byron, Lady G——, to decide between us, as she pleases.

LADY G. You'd better leave it to me, sir.

HAR. Do, my lord.

LORD G. Well, madam!—And what is your decree?

LADY G. You, Miss Byron, had best be Lady Chancellor, after all. I should not bear to have my decree disputed, after it is pronounced.

HAR. If I must, my decree is this:—You, Lady G—— shall own yourself in fault; and promise amendment. My lord shall forgive you; and promise that he will, for the future, endeavour to distinguish between your good and your ill-nature: that he will sit down to jest with your jest, and never be disturbed at what you say, when he sees it accompanied with that archness of eye and lip which you put on to your brother, and to every one whom you best love, when you are disposed to be teazingly facetious.

LADY G. Why, Harriet, you have given Lord G—— a clue to find me out, and spoil all my sport.

HAR. What say you, my lord?

LORD G. Will Lady G—— own herself in fault, as you propose?

LADY G. Odious recrimination!—I leave you together. I never was in fault in my life. Am I not a woman? If my lord will ask pardon for his froppishness, as we say of children—

She stopt, and pretended to be going—

HAR. That my lord shall not do, Charlotte. You have carried the jest too far already. My lord shall preserve his dignity for his wife's sake. My lord, you will not permit Lady G—— to leave us, however?

He took her hand, and pressed it with his lips: for God's sake, madam, let us be happy: it is in your power to make us both so: it ever shall be in your power. If I have been in fault, impute it to my love. I cannot bear your contempt; and I never will deserve it.

LADY G. Why could not this have been said some hours ago?—Why, slighting my early caution, would you expose yourself?

I took her aside. Be generous, Lady G——. Let not your husband be the only person to whom you are not so.

LADY G. [Whispering.] Our quarrel has not run half its length. If we make up here, we shall make up clumsily. One of the silliest things in the world is, a quarrel that ends not, as a coachman after a journey comes in, with a spirit. We shall certainly renew it.

HAR. Take the caution you gave to my lord: don't expose yourself. And another; that you cannot more effectually do so, than by exposing your husband. I am more than half-ashamed of you. You are not the Charlotte I once thought you were. Let me see, if you have any regard to my good opinion of you, that you can own an error with some grace.