madam, what we are to walk in the garden for?
Why, Camilla, I had a horrid dream last night; and I cannot be easy till I go into the garden.
What, madam, was your dream?
In the orange grove, I thought I stumbled over the body of a dead man!
And who was it, madam?
Don't you know who was threatened? And was not somebody here to night?
And was not somebody to sup here? And is he here?
The general then went to her. My dearest Clementina; my beloved sister; set your heart at rest. Somebody is safe: shall be safe.
She took first one of his hands, then the other; and looking in the palms of them, They are not bloody, said she.—What have you done with him, then? Where is he?
Where is who?
You know whom I ask after; but you want something against me.
Then stepping quick up to me: My Jeronymo!—Did I see you before? and stroked my cheek.—Now tell me, Jeronymo—Don't come near me, Camilla. Pray, sir, to the general, do you sit down. She leaned her arm upon my shoulder: I don't hurt you, Jeronymo: do I?
No, my dearest Clementina!
That's my best brother.—Cruel assassins!—But the brave man came just in time to save you.—But do you know what is become of him?
He is safe, my dear. He could not stay.
Did any body affront him?
No, my love.
Are you sure nobody did?—Very sure? Father Marescotti, said she, turning to him, (who wept from the time she entered,) you don't love him: but you are a good man, and will tell me truth. Where is he? Did nobody affront him?
No, madam.
Because, said she, he never did any thing but good to any one.
Father Marescotti, said I, admires him as much as any body.
Admire him! Father Marescotti admire him!—But he does not love him.
And I never heard him say one word against Father Marescotti in my life.
–Well, but, Jeronymo, what made him go away, then? Was he not to stay supper?
He was desired to stay; but would not.
Jeronymo, let me whisper you—Did he tell you that I wrote him a letter?
I guessed you did, whispered I.
You are a strange guesser: but you can't guess how I sent it to him—But hush, Jeronymo—Well, but, Jeronymo, Did he say nothing of me, when he went away?
He left his compliments for you with the general.
With the general! The general won't tell me!
Yes, he will.—Brother, pray tell my sister what the chevalier said to you, at parting.
He repeated, exactly, what you had desired him to say to her.
Why would they not let me see him? said she. Am I never to see him more?
I hope you will, replied the bishop.
If, resumed she, we could have done any thing that might have looked like a return to his goodness to us (and to you, my Jeronymo, in particular) I believe I should have been easy.—And so you say he is gone?—And gone for ever! lifting up her hand from her wrist, as it lay over my shoulder: Poor chevalier!—But hush, hush, pray hush, Jeronymo.
She went from me to her aunt, and cousin Laurana. Love me again, madam, said she, to the former. You loved me once.
I never loved you better than now, my dear.
Did you, Laurana, see the Chevalier Grandison?
I did.
And did he go away safe, and unhurt?
Indeed he did.
A man who had preserved the life of our dear Jeronymo, said she, to have been hurt by us, would have been dreadful, you know. I wanted to say a few words to him. I was astonished to find him not here: and then my dream came into my head. It was a sad dream, indeed! But, cousin, be good to me: pray do. You did not use to be cruel. You used to say, you loved me. I am in calamity, my dear. I know I am miserable. At times I know I am; and then I am grieved at my heart, and think how happy every one is, but me: but then, again, I ail nothing, and am well. But do love me, Laurana: I am in calamity, my dear. I would love you, if you were in calamity: indeed I would.—Ah, Laurana! What is become of all your fine promises? But then every body loved me, and I was happy!—Yet you tell me, it is all for my good. Naughty Laurana, to wound my heart by your crossness, and then say, it is for my good!—Do you think I should have served you so?
Laurana blushed, and wept. Her aunt promised her, that every body would love her, and comfort her, and not be angry with her, if she would make her heart easy.
I am very particular, my dear Grandison. I know you love I should be so. From this minuteness, you will judge of the workings of her mind. They are resolved to take your advice, (it was very seasonable,) and treat her with indulgence. The count is earnest to have it so.
Camilla has just left me. She says, that her young lady had a tolerable night. She thinks it owing, in a great measure, to her being indulged in asking the servants, who saw you depart, how you looked; and being satisfied that you went away unhurt, and unaffronted.
Adieu, my dearest, my best friend. Let me hear from you, as often as you can.
I just now understand from Camilla, that the dear girl has made an earnest request to my father, mother, and aunt; and been refused. She came back from them deeply afflicted; and, as Camilla fears, is going into one of her gloomy fits again. I hope to write again, if you depart not from Bologna before to-morrow: but I must, for my own sake, write shorter letters. Yet how can I? Since, however melancholy the subject, when I am writing to you, I am conversing with you. My dear Grandison, once more adieu.
O Lucy, my dear! Whence come all the tears this melancholy story has cost me? I cannot dwell upon the scenes!—Begone, all those wishes that would interfere with the interest of that sweet distressed saint at Bologna!
How impolitic, Lucy, was it in them, not to gratify her impatience to see him! She would, most probably, have been quieted in her mind, if she had been obliged by one other interview.
What a delicacy, my dear, what a generosity, is there in her love!
Sir Charles, in Lord L–'s study, said to me, that his compassion was engaged, but his honour was free: and so it seems to be: but a generosity in return for her generosity, must bind such a mind as his.
LETTER III
MISS BYRON, TO MISS SELBY
In the doctor's next letter, enclosed, you will find mention made of Sir Charles's Literary Journal. I fancy, my dear, it must be a charming thing. I wish we could have before us every line he wrote while he was in Italy. Once the presumptuous Harriet had hopes, that she might
