all the particulars of my acquaintance with Mr. Macartney, in order to excuse my writing to him. She said it was a most romantic affair, and spoke her sentiments with great severity; declaring that she had no doubt but he was an adventurer and an impostor.
And now, my dear Sir, I am totally at a loss what I ought to do; the more I reflect, the more sensible I am of the utter impropriety, nay, treachery, of revealing the story, and publishing the misfortunes and poverty of Mr. Macartney; who has an undoubted right to my secrecy and discretion, and whose letter charges me to regard his communication as sacred. — And yet, the appearance of mystery — perhaps something worse, which this affair must have to Lord Orville — his seriousness — and the promise I have made him, are inducements scarce to be resisted for trusting him with the openness he has reason to expect from me.
I am equally distressed, too, whether or not I should see Mr. Macartney tomorrow morning.
Oh, Sir, could I now be enlightened by your counsel, from what anxiety and perplexity should I be relieved!
But now — I ought not to betray Mr. Macartney, and I will not forfeit a confidence which would never have been reposed in me, but from a reliance upon my honour, which I should blush to find myself unworthy of. Desirous as I am of the good opinion of Lord Orville, I will endeavour to act as if I was guided by your advice; and, making it my sole aim to deserve it, leave to time and to fate my success or disappointment.
Since I have formed this resolution, my mind is more at ease. But I will not finish my letter till the affair is decided.
Sept. 25th.
I rose very early this morning; and, after a thousand different plans, not being able to resolve upon giving poor Mr. Macartney leave to suppose I neglected him, I thought it incumbent upon me to keep my word, since he had not received my letter; I therefore determined to make my own apologies, not to stay with him two minutes, and to excuse myself from meeting him any more.
Yet, uncertain whether I was wrong or right, it was with fear and trembling that I opened the garden-gate; — judge then, of my feelings, when the first object I saw was Lord Orville! — he, too, looked extremely disconcerted, and said, in a hesitating manner, “Pardon me, Madam — I did not intend — I did not imagine you would have been here so soon — or — or I would not have come.”— And then, with a hasty bow, he passed me, and proceeded to the garden.
I was scarce able to stand, so greatly did I feel myself shocked; but, upon my saying, almost involuntarily, “Oh, my Lord!”— he turned back, and, after a short pause, said, “Did you speak to me, Madam?”
I could not immediately answer; I seemed choaked, and was even forced to support myself by the garden-gate.
Lord Orville, soon recovering his dignity, said, “I know not how to apologize for being, just now, at this place; — and I cannot, immediately — if ever — clear myself from the imputation of impertinent curiosity, to which I fear you will attribute it: however, at present, I will only intreat your pardon, without detaining you any longer.” Again he bowed, and left me.
For some moments I remained fixed to the same spot, and in the same position, immoveable, as if I had been transformed to a stone. My first impulse was to call him back, and instantly tell him the whole affair; but I checked this desire, though I would have given the world to have indulged it; something like pride aided what I thought due to Mr. Macartney, and I determined not only to keep his secret, but to delay any sort of explanation till Lord Orville should condescend to request it.
Slowly he walked; and, before he entered the house, he looked back, but hastily withdrew his eyes, upon finding I observed him.
Indeed, my dear Sir, you cannot easily imagine a situation more uncomfortable than mine was at that time; to be suspected by Lord Orville of any clandestine actions wounded my soul; I was too much discomposed to wait for Mr. Macartney, nor in truth, could I endure to have the design of my staying so well known. Yet I was so extremely agitated, that I could hardly move; and I have reason to believe Lord Orville, from the parlour-window, saw me tottering along; for, before I had taken five steps, he came out, and, hastening to meet me, said, “I fear you are not well; pray, allow me (offering his arm) to assist you.”
“No, my Lord,” said I, with all the resolution I could assume; yet I was affected by an attention, at that time so little expected, and forced to turn away my head to conceal my emotion.
“You must,” said he, with earnestness, “indeed you must — I am sure you are not well; — refuse me not the honour of assisting you;” and, almost forcibly, he took my hand, and, drawing it under his arm, obliged me to lean upon him. That I submitted was partly the effect of surprise, at an earnestness so uncommon in Lord Orville, and, partly, that I did not just then dare trust my voice to make any objection.
When we came to the house, he led me into the parlour, and to a chair, and begged to know if I would not have a glass of water.
“No, my Lord, I thank you,” said I, “I am perfectly recovered;” and, rising, I walked to the window, where, for some time, I pretended to be occupied in looking at the garden.
Determined as I was to act honourably by Mr. Macartney, I yet most anxiously wished to be restored to the good opinion of Lord Orville; but his silence, and the thoughtfulness of his air, discouraged me from speaking.
My situation soon grew disagreeable and embarrassing, and I resolved to return to my chamber till breakfast was ready. To remain longer I feared might seem asking for his enquiries; and I was sure it would ill become me to be more eager to speak, than he was to hear.
Just as I reached the door, turning to me hastily, he said, “Are you going, Miss Anville?”
“I am, my Lord,” answered I; yet I stopped.
“Perhaps to return to — but I beg your pardon!” He spoke with a degree of agitation that made me readily comprehend he meant to the garden; and I instantly said, “To my own room, my Lord.” And again I would have gone; but, convinced by my answer that I understood him, I believe he was sorry for the insinuation: he approached me with a very serious air, though at the same time he forced a smile, and said, “I know not what evil genius pursues me this morning, but I seem destined to do or to say something I ought not: I am so much ashamed of myself, that I can scarce solicit your forgiveness.”
“My forgiveness! my Lord?” cried I, abashed, rather than elated by his condescension; “surely you cannot — you are not serious?”
“Indeed, never more so! yet, if I may be my own interpreter, Miss Anville’s countenance pronounces my pardon.”
“I know not, my Lord, how any one can pardon, who never has been offended.”
“You are very good; yet I could expect no less from a sweetness of disposition which baffles all comparison: you will not think I am an encroacher, and that I take advantage of your goodness, should I once more remind you of the promise you vouchsafed me yesterday?”
“No, indeed; on the contrary I shall be very happy to acquit myself in your Lordship’s opinion.”
“Acquittal you need not,” said he, leading me again to the window; “yet I own my curiosity is strongly excited.”
When I was seated, I found myself much at a loss what to say; yet, after a short silence, assuming all the courage in my power, “Will you not, my Lord,” said I, “think me trifling and capricious, should I own I have repented the promise I made, and should I
