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.
***
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.
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.
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.
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 heraunt went away at the same time. Whist was the game. Lord and LadyL——, Dr. Bartlett and Emily, were cast in. In the midst of their play,Lady G—— came hurrying down stairs to them, warbling an air. LordG—— followed her, much disturbed. Madam, I must tell you, said he—WhyMUST, 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——:
***
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
***
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.
***
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.
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—— ——"
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.
LADY G. I am a meek, humble, docile creature. She turned to me, and made me a rustic courtesy, her hands before her: I'll try for it: tell me, if I am right. Then stepping towards my lord, who was with his back to us looking out at the window—and he turning about to her bowing—My lord, said she, Miss Byron has been telling me more than I knew before of my duty. She proposes herself one day to make a won-der-ful obedient wife. It would have been well for you, perhaps, had I had her example to walk by. She seems to say, that, now I am married, I must be grave, sage, and passive: that smiles will hardly become me: that I must be prim and formal, and reverence my husband.—If you think this behaviour will become a married woman, and expect it from me, pray, my lord, put me right by your frowns, whenever I shall be wrong. For the future, if I ever find myself disposed to be very light-hearted, I will ask your leave before I give way to it. And now, what is next to be done? humorously courtesying, her hands before her.
He clasped her in his arms: dear provoking creature! This, this is next to be done—I ask you but to love me half as much as I love you, and I shall be the happiest man on earth.
My lord, said I, you ruin all by this condescension on a speech and air so ungracious. If this is all you get by it, never, never, my lord, fall out again. O Charlotte! If you are not generous, you come off much, much too easily.
Well now, my lord, said she, holding out her hand, as if threatening me, let you and me, man and wife like, join against the interposer in our quarrels.—Harriet, I will not forgive you, for this last part of your lecture.
And thus was this idle quarrel made up. All that vexes me on the occasion is, that it was not made up with dignity on my lord's part. His honest heart so overflowed with joy at his lips, that the naughty creature, by her arch leers, every now and then, shewed, that she was sensible of her consequence to his happiness. But, Lucy, don't let her sink too low in your esteem: she has many fine qualities.
They prevailed on me to stay supper. Emily rejoiced in the reconciliation: her heart was, as I may say, visible in her joy. Can I love her better than I do? If I could, she would, every time I see her, give me reason for it.
It would puzzle you to guess at a visitor I had this morning.—Honest Mr. Fowler. I was very glad to see him. He brought me a Letter from his worthy uncle. Good Sir Rowland! I had a joy that I thought I should not have had while I stayed in London, on its being put into my hand, though the contents gave me sensible pain. I enclose it. It is dated from Caermarthen. Be pleased to read it here.
***
How shall I, in fit manner, inscribe my letter to the loveliest of women! I don't mean because of your loveliness; but whether as daughter or not, as you did me the honour to call yourself. Really, and truly, I must say, that I had rather call you by another name, though a little more remote as to consanguinity. Lord have mercy upon me, how have I talked of you! How many of our fine Caermarthen girls have I filled with envy of your peerless perfections!
Here am I settled to my heart's content, could I but obtain—You know whom I mean.—A town of gentry: A fine country round us—A fine estate of our own. Esteemed, nay, for that matter, beloved, by all our neighbours and tenants. Who so happy as Rowland Meredith, if his poor boy could be happy!—Ah, madam!—And can't it be so? I am afraid of asking. Yet I understand, that, notwithstanding all the jack-a-dandies that have been fluttering about you, you are what you were when I lest town. Some whispers have gone out of a fine gentleman, indeed, who had a great kindness for you; but yet that something was in the way between you. The Lord bless and prosper my dear daughter, as I must then call you, and not niece, if you have any kindness for him. And if as how you have, it would be wonderfully gracious if you would but give half a hint of it to my nephew, or if so be you will not to him, to me, your father you know, under your own precious hand. The Lord be good unto me! But I shall never see the she that will strike my fancy, as you have done. But what a dreadful thing would it be, if you, who are so much courted and admired by many fine gallants, should at last be taken with a man who could not be yours! God forbid that such a disastrous thing should happen! I profess to you, madam, that a tear or two have strayed down my cheeks at the thoughts of it. For why? Because you played no tricks with any man: you never were a coquette, as they call them. You dealt plainly, sincerely, and tenderly too, to all men; of which my nephew and I can bear witness.
Well, but what now is the end of my writing?—Lord love you, cannot, cannot you at last give comfort to two honest hearts? Honester you never knew! And yet, if you could, I dare say you would. Well, then, and if you can't, we must sit down as contented as we can; that's all we have for it.—But, poor young man! Look at him, if you read this before him. Strangely altered! Poor young man!—And if as how you cannot, why then, God bless my daughter; that's all. And I do assure you, that you have our prayers every Lord's day, from the bottom of our hearts.
And now, if you will keep a secret, I will tell it you; and yet, when I began, I did not intend it: the poor youth must not know it. It is done in the singleness of our hearts; and if you think we mean to gain your love for us by it, I do assure you, that you wrong us.—My nephew declares, that he never will marry, if it be not somebody: and he has made his will, and so have I his uncle; and, let me tell you, that if as how I cannot have a niece, my daughter shall be the better for having known, and treated as kindly, as power was lent her,
Her true friend, loving father, and obedient servant,ROWLAND MEREDITH.
Love and service to Mr. and Mrs. Reeves, and all friends who inquireafter me. Farewell. God bless you! Amen.
***
Have you, could you, Lucy, read this letter with dry eyes? Generous, worthy, honest men! I read but half way before Mr. Fowler—Glad I was, that I read no further. I should not have been able to have kept his uncle's secret, if I had; had it been but to disclaim the acceptance of the generous purpose. The carrying it into effect would exceedingly distress me, besides the pain the demise of the honest man would give me; and the more, as I bespoke the fatherly relation from him myself. If such a thing were to be, Sir Charles Grandison's generosity to the Danbys should be my example.
Do you know, Mr. Fowler, said I, the contents of the letter you have put into my hand?
No farther than that my uncle told me, it contained professions of fatherly love; and with wishes only—But without so much as expressing his hopes.
Sir Rowland is a good man, said I: I have not read above half his letter. There seems to be too much of the father in it, for me to read further, before my brother. God bless my brother Fowler, and reward the fatherly love of Sir Rowland to his daughter Byron! I must write to him.
Mr. Fowler, poor man! profoundly sighed; bowed; with such a look of respectful acquiescence—Bless me, my dear, how am I to be distressed on all sides! by good men too; as Sir Charles could say by good women.
Is there nothing less than giving myself to either, that I can do to shewMr. Orme and Mr. Fowler my true value for them?
Poor Mr. Fowler!—Indeed he looks to be, as Sir Rowland hints, not well. —Such a modest, such a humble, such a silent lover!—He cost me tears at parting: I could not hide them. He heaped praises and blessings upon me, and hurried away at last, to hide his emotion, with a sentence unfinished.—God preserve you, dear and worthy sir! was all I could try to say. The last words stuck in my throat, till he was out of hearing; and then I prayed for blessings upon him and his uncle: and repeated them, with fresh tears, on reading the rest of the affecting letter.
Mr. Fowler told Mr. Reeves, before I saw him, that he is to go to Caermarthen for the benefit of his native air, in a week. He let him know where he lodged in town. He had been riding for his health and diversion about the country, ever since his uncle went; and has not been yet at Caermarthen.
I wish Mr. Fowler had once, if but once, called me sister: it would have been such a kind acquiescence, as would have given me some little pleasure on recollection. Methinks I don't know how to have done writing of Sir Rowland and Mr. Fowler.
I sat down, however, while the uncle and nephew filled my thoughts, and wrote to the former. I have enclosed the copy of my letter.
Adieu, my Lucy.