genuine simplicity, thy singleness of heart, thy guileless sincerity! And may’st thou, stranger to ostentation, and superior to insolence, with true greatness of soul shine forth conspicuous only in beneficence!
ARTHUR VILLARS.
LETTER 74
LADY BELMONT TO SIR JOHN BELMONT
(Inclosed in the preceding Letter.)
In the firm hope that the moment of anguish which approaches will prove the period of my sufferings, once more I address myself to Sir John Belmont, in behalf of the child, who, if it survives its mother, will hereafter be the bearer of this letter.
Yet, in what terms — Oh, most cruel of men! — can the lost Caroline address you, and not address you in vain? Oh, deaf to the voice of compassion — deaf to the sting of truth — deaf to every tie of honour — say, in what terms may the lost Caroline address you, and not address you in vain!
Shall I call you by the loved, the respected title of husband? — No, you disclaim it! — the father of my infant? — No, you doom it to infamy! — the lover who rescued me from a forced marriage? — No, you have yourself betrayed me! — the friend from whom I hoped succour and protection? — No, you have consigned me to misery and destruction!
Oh, hardened against every plea of justice, remorse, or pity! how, and in what manner, may I hope to move thee? Is there one method I have left untried? remains there one resource unessayed? No! I have exhausted all the bitterness of reproach, and drained every sluice of compassion!
Hopeless, and almost desperate, twenty times have I flung away my pen; — but the feelings of a mother, a mother agonizing for the fate of her child, again animating my courage, as often I have resumed it.
Perhaps when I am no more, when the measure of my woes is completed, and the still, silent, unreproaching dust has received my sad remains — then, perhaps, when accusation is no longer to be feared, nor detection to be dreaded, the voice of equity and the cry of nature may be heard.
Listen, Oh Belmont, to their dictates! reprobate not your child, though you have reprobated its mother. The evils that are past, perhaps, when too late, you may wish to recal; the young creature you have persecuted, perhaps, when too late, you may regret that you have destroyed; — you may think with horror of the deceptions you have practised, and the pangs of remorse may follow me to the tomb:— Oh, Belmont, all my resentment softens into pity at the thought! what will become of thee, good Heaven, when, with the eye of penitence, thou reviewest thy past conduct!
Hear, then, the solemn, the last address, with which the unhappy Caoline will importune thee.
If when the time of thy contrition arrives — for arrive it must! — when the sense of thy treachery shall rob thee of almost every other, if then thy tortured heart shall sigh to expiate thy guilt — mark the conditions upon which I leave thee my forgiveness.
Thou knowest I am thy wife! — clear, then, to the world the reputation thou hast sullied, and receive, as thy lawful successor, the child who will present thee this, my dying request!
The worthiest, the most benevolent, the best of men, to whose consoling kindness I owe the little tranquillity I have been able to preserve, has plighted me his faith, that, upon no other conditions, he will part with his helpless charge.
Should’st thou, in the features of this deserted innocent, trace the resemblance of the wretched Caroline — should its face bear the marks of its birth, and revive in thy memory the image of its mother, wilt thou not, Belmont, wilt thou not therefore renounce it? — Oh, babe of my fondest affection! for whom already I experience all the tenderness of maternal pity! look not like thy unfortunate mother — lest the parent, whom the hand of death may spare, shall be snatched from thee by the more cruel means of unnatural antipathy!
I can write no more. The small share of serenity I have painfully acquired, will not bear the shock of the dreadful ideas that crowd upon me.
Adieu — for ever! —
Yet, Oh! — shall I not, in this last farewell, which thou wilt not read till every stormy passion is extinct, and the kind grave has embosomed all my sorrows — shall I not offer to the man, once so dear to me, a ray of consolation to those afflictions he has in reserve? Suffer me, then, to tell thee, that my pity far exceeds my indignation — that I will pray for thee in my last moments, and that the recollection of the love I once bore thee, shall swallow up every other!
Once more, adieu!
CAROLINE BELMONT.
LETTER 75
EVELINA TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS
Clifton, Oct. 3rd.
This morning I saw from my window, that Lord Orville was walking in the garden; but I would not go down stairs till breakfast was ready: and then, he paid me his compliments almost as coldly as Lady Louisa paid hers.
I took my usual place, and Mrs. Belmont, Lady Louisa, and Mrs. Selwyn, entered into their usual conversation. — Not so your Evelina: disregarded, silent, and melancholy, she sat like a cypher, whom, to nobody belonging, by nobody was noticed.
Ill brooking such a situation, and unable to suport the neglect of Lord Orville, the moment breakfast was over I left the room, and was going up stairs; when, very unpleasantly, I was stopped by Sir Clement Willoughby, who, flying into the hall, prevented my proceeding.
He enquired very particularly after my health, and entreated me to return into the parlour. Unwillingly, I consented, but thought any thing preferable to continuing alone with him; and he would neither leave me, nor suffer me to pass on. Yet, in returning, I felt not a little ashamed at appearing thus to take the visit of Sir Clement to myself. And, indeed, he endeavoured, by his manner of addressing me, to give it that air.
He stayed, I believe, an hour; nor would he, perhaps, even then have gone, had not Mrs. Beaumont broken up the party, by proposing an airing in her coach. Lady Louisa consented to accompany her; but Mrs. Selwyn, when applied to, said, “If my Lord, or Sir Clement, will join us, I shall be happy to make one; — but really a trio of females will be nervous to the last degree.”
Sir Clement readily agreed to attend them; indeed, he makes it his evident study to court the favour of Mrs. Beaumont. Lord Orville excused himself from going out; and I retired to my own room. What he did with himself I know not, for I would not go down stairs till dinner was ready: his coldness, though my own change of behaviour had occasioned it, so cruelly depresses my spirits, that I know not how to support myself in his presence.
At dinner, I found Sir Clement again of the party. Indeed, he manages every thing his own way; for Mrs. Beaumont, though by no means easy to please, seems quite at his disposal.
The dinner, the afternoon, and the evening, were to me the most irksome imaginable: I was tormented by the assiduity of Sir Clement, who not only took, but made opportunities of speaking to me — and I was hurt — Oh, how inexpressibly hurt! — that Lord Orville not only forebore, as hitherto, seeking, he even neglected all occasions of talking with me!
I
