a long and most unhappy story can alone explain them. However, if a short suspense will give your Lordship any uneasiness — ”
“My beloved Miss Anville,” cried he, eagerly, “pardon my impatience! — You shall tell me nothing you would wish to conceal — I will wait your own time for information, and trust to your goodness for its speed.”
“There is nothing, my Lord, I wish to conceal — to postpone an explanation is all I desire.”
He then requested, that, since I would not allow him to accompany me to town, I would permit him to write to me, and promise to answer his letters.
A sudden recollection of the two letters which had already passed between us occurring to me, I hastily answered, “No, indeed, my Lord! —”
“I am extremely sorry,” said he, gravely, “that you think me too presumptuous. I must own I had flattered myself, that, to soften the inquietude of an absence, which seems attended by so many inexplicable circumstances, would not have been to incur your displeasure.” This seriousness hurt me; and I could not forbear saying, “Can you indeed desire, my Lord, that I should, a second time, expose myself, by an unguarded readiness, to write to you?”
“A second time! unguarded readiness!” repeated he; “you amaze me!”
“Has your Lordship then quite forgot the foolish letter I was so imprudent as to send you when in town?”
“I have not the least idea,” cried he, “of what you mean.”
“Why then, my Lord,” said I, “we had better let the subject drop.”
“Impossible!” cried he, “I cannot rest without an explanation!”
And then, he obliged me to speak very openly of both the letters: but, my dear Sir, imagine my surprise, when he assured me, in the most solemn manner, that, far from having ever written me a single line, he had never received, seen, or heard of my letter!
This subject, which caused mutual astonishment and perplexity to us both, entirely engrossed us for the rest of the evening; and he made me promise to show him the letter I had received in his name tomorrow morning, that he might endeavour to discover the author.
After supper, the conversation became general.
And now, my dearest Sir, may I not call for your congratulations upon the events of this day? a day never to be recollected by me but with the most grateful joy! I know how much you are inclined to think well of Lord Orville; I cannot, therefore, apprehend that my frankness to him will displease you. Perhaps the time is not very distant, when your Evelina’s choice may receive the sanction of her best friend’s judgment and approbation — which seems now all she has to wish!
In regard to the change in my situation which must first take place, surely I cannot be blamed for what has passed! the partiality of Lord Orville must not only reflect honour upon me, but upon all to whom I do, or may belong.
Adieu, most dear Sir, I will write again when I arrive at London.
LETTER 77
EVELINA IN CONTINUATION
Clifton, Oct. 7th.
You will see, my dear Sir, that I was mistaken in supposing I should write no more from this place, where my residence now seems more uncertain than ever.
This morning, during breakfast, Lord Orville took an opportunity to beg me, in a low voice, to allow him a moment’s conversation before I left Clifton; “May I hope,” added he, “that you will stroll into the garden after breakfast?”
I made no answer, but I believe my looks gave no denial; for, indeed, I much wished to be satisfied concerning the letter. The moment, therefore, that I could quit the parlour, I ran up stairs for my calash; but, before I reached my room, Mrs. Selwyn called after me, “If you are going to walk, Miss Anville, be so good as to bid Jenny bring down my hat, and I’ll accompany you.”
Very much disconcerted, I turned into the drawing-room, without making any answer, and there I hoped to wait unseen, till she had otherwise disposed of herself. But, in a few minutes, the door opened, and Sir Clement Willoughby entered.
Starting at the sight of him, in rising hastily, I let drop the letter which I had brought for Lord Orville’s inspection, and, before I could recover it, Sir Clement, springing forward, had it in his hand. He was just presenting it to me, and, at the same time, enquiring after my health, when the signature caught his eye, and he read aloud, “Orville.”
I endeavoured, eagerly, to snatch it from him, but he would not permit me; and, holding it fast, in a passionate manner exclaimed, “Good God, Miss Anville, is it possible you can value such a letter as this?”
The question surprised and confounded me, and I was too much ashamed to answer him; but, finding he made an attempt to secure it, I prevented him, and vehemently demanded him to return it.
“Tell me first,” said he, holding it above my reach, “tell me if you have since received any more letters from the same person?”
“No, indeed,” cried I, “never!”
“And will you also, sweetest of women, promise that you never will receive any more? Say that, and you will make me the happiest of men.”
“Sir Clement,” cried I, greatly confused, “pray give me the letter.”
“And will you not first satisfy my doubts? — will you not relieve me from the torture of the most distracting suspense? — tell me but that the detested Orville has written to you no more!”
“Sir Clement,” cried I, angrily, “you have no right to make any conditions — so pray give me the letter directly.”
“Why such solicitude about this hateful letter? can it possibly deserve your eagerness? tell me, with truth, with sincerity tell me, does it really merit the least anxiety?”
“No matter, Sir,” cried I, in great perplexity, “the letter is mine, and therefore —”
“I must conclude, then,” said he, “that the letter deserves your utmost contempt — but that the name of Orville is sufficient to make you prize it.”
“Sir Clement,” cried I, colouring, “you are quite — you are very much — the letter is not —”
“O, Miss Anville,” cried he, “you blush! — you stammer! — Great Heaven! it is then all as I feared!”
“I know not,” cried I, half-frightened, “what you mean; but I beseech you to give me the letter, and to compose yourself.”
“The letter,” cried he, gnashing his teeth, “you shall never see more! You ought to have burnt it the moment you had read it!” And in an instant he tore it into a thousand pieces.
Alarmed at a fury so indecently outrageous, I would have run out of the room; but he caught hold of my gown, and cried, “Not yet, not yet must you go! I am but half-mad yet, and you must stay to finish your work. Tell
