of the party?
“By no means, Madam; but, indeed, I had rather not walk myself.”
“My dear,” cried she, “I really do not know you this morning — you have certainly been taking a lesson of Lady Louisa.”
She then went down stairs; but presently returning, told me she had acquainted Lord Orville that I did not choose to go out in the phaeton, but preferred a walk, tete-a-tete with her, by way of variety.
I said nothing, but was really vexed. She bad me go down stairs, and said she would follow me immediately.
Lord Orville met me in the hall. “I fear,” said he, “Miss Anville is not yet quite well?” and he would have taken my hand, but I turned from him, and courtsying slightly, went into the parlour.
Mrs. Beaumont and Lady Louisa were at work: Lord Merton was talking with the latter; for he has now made his peace, and is again received into favour.
I seated myself, as usual, by the window. Lord Orville, in a few minutes, came to me, and said, “Why is Miss Anville so grave?”
“Not grave, my Lord,” said I, “only stupid;” and I took up a book.
“You will go,” said he, after a short pause, “to the assembly to-night?”
“No, my Lord, certainly not.”
“Neither then will I; for I should be sorry to sully the remembrance I have of the happiness I enjoyed at the last.”
Mrs. Selwyn then coming in, general enquiries were made to all but me, of who would go to the assembly? Lord Orville instantly declared he had letters to write at home; but every one else settled to go.
I then hastened Mrs. Selwyn away, though not before she had said to Lord Orville, “Pray, has your Lordship obtained Miss Anville’s leave to favour us with your company?”
“I have not, Madam,” answered he, “had the vanity to ask it.”
During our walk, Mrs. Selvyn tormented me unmercifully. She told me, that since I declined any addition to our party, I must, doubtless, be conscious of my own powers of entertainment; and begged me, therefore, to exert them freely. I repented a thousand times having consented to walk alone with her; for though I made the most painful efforts to appear in spirits, her raillery quite overpowered me.
We went first to the pump-room. It was full of company; and the moment we entered, I heard a murmuring of, “That’s she!” and, to my great confusion, I saw every eye turned towards me. I pulled my hat over my face, and, by the assistance of Mrs. Selwyn, endeavoured to screen myself from observation, nevertheless, I found I was so much the object of general attention, that I entreated her to hasten away. But unfortunately she had entered into conversation, very earnestly, with a gentleman of her acquaintance, and would not listen to me; but said, that if I was tired of waiting, I might walk on to the milliner’s with the Miss Watkins, two young ladies I had seen at Mrs. Beaumont’s, who were going thither.
I accepted the offer very readily, and away we went. But we had not gone three yards, before we were followed by a party of young men, who took every possible opportunity of looking at us, and, as they walked behind, talked aloud, in a manner at once unintelligible and absurd. “Yes,” cried one,” ’tis certainly she! — mark but her blushing cheek!”
“And then her eye — her downcast eye!” cried another.
“True, oh most true,” said a third, “every beauty is her own!”
“But then,” said the first, “her mind — now the difficulty is, to find out the truth of that, for she will not say a word.”
“She is timid,” answered another; “mark but her timid air.”
During this conversation, we walked on silent and quick; as we knew not to whom it was particularly addressed, we were all equally ashamed, and equally desirous to avoid such unaccountable observations.
Soon after we were caught in a shower of rain. We hurried on; and these gentlemen, following us, offered their services in the most pressing manner, begging us to make use of their arms; and, while I almost ran, in order to avoid their impertinence, I was suddenly met by Sir Clement Willoughby!
We both started; “Good God!” he exclaimed, “Miss Anville!” and then, regarding my tormentors with an air of displeasure, he earnestly enquired, if any thing had alarmed me?
“No, no;” cried I, for I found no difficulty now to disengage myself from these youths, who, probably, concluding from the commanding air of Sir Clement, that he had a right to protect me, quietly gave way to him, and entirely quitted us.
With his usual impetuosity, he then began a thousand enquiries, accompanied with as many compliments; and he told me, that he arrived at Bristol but this morning, which he had entirely devoted to endeavours to discover where I lodged.
“Did you know, then,” said I, “that I was at Bristol?”
“Would to Heaven,” cried he, “that I could remain in ignorance of your proceedings with the same contentment you do of mine! then should I not for ever journey upon the wings of Hope, to meet my own despair! You cannot even judge of the cruelty of my fate; for the ease and serenity of your mind incapacitates you from feeling for the agitation of mine!”
The ease and serenity of my mind! alas, how little do I merit those words!
“But,” added he, “had accident brought me hither, had I not known of your journey, the voice of fame would have proclaimed it to me instantly upon my arrival.”
“The voice of fame!” repeated I.
“Yes, for yours was the first name I heard at the pump-room. But had I not heard your name, such a description could have painted no one else.”
“Indeed,” said I, “I do not understand you.” But just then arriving at the milliner’s our conversation ended; for Miss Watkins called me to look at caps and ribbons.
Sir Clement, however, has the art of being always at home; he was very soon engaged, as busily as ourselves, in looking at lace ruffles; yet he took an opportunity of saying to me, in a low voice, “How charmed I am to see you look so well! I was told you were ill; — but I never saw you in better health — never more infinitely lovely!”
I turned away to examine the ribbons, and soon after Mrs. Selwyn made her appearance. I found that she was acquainted with Sir Clement; and her manner of speaking to him convinced me that he was a favourite with her.
When their mutual compliments were over, she turned to me, and said, “Pray, Miss Anville, how long can you live without nourishment?”
“Indeed, Ma’am,” said I, laughing, “I have never tried.”
“Because so long, and no longer,” answered she, “you may remain at Bristol.”
“Why, what is the matter, Ma’am?”
“The matter! — why, all the ladies are at open war with you — the whole pump-room is in confusion; and you, innocent as you
