but for punishing his folly in thinking of such a child, she would not have consented to my being again buried in the country.
All the Branghtons called to take leave of me; but I will not write a word more about them: indeed I cannot, with any patience, think of that family, to whose forwardness and impertinence is owing all the uneasiness I at this moment suffer!
So great was the depression of my spirits upon the road, that it was with great difficulty I could persuade the worthy Mrs. Clinton I was not ill; but, alas! the situation of my mind was such as would have rendered any mere bodily pain, by comparison, even enviable!
And yet, when we arrived at Berry Hill — when the chaise stopped at this place — how did my heart throb with joy! — and when, through the window, I beheld the dearest, the most venerable of men, with uplifted hands, returning, as I doubt not, thanks for my safe arrival — good God! I thought it would have burst my bosom! — I opened the chaise-door myself; I flew — for my feet did not seem to touch the ground — into the parlour: he had risen to meet me; but the moment I appeared he sunk into his chair, uttering, with a deep sigh, though his face beamed with delight, “My God, I thank thee!”
I sprung forward; and, with a pleasure that bordered upon agony, I embraced his knees, I kissed his hands, I wept over them, but could not speak: while he, now raising his eyes in thankfulness towards heaven, now bowing down his reverend head, and folding me in his arms, could scarce articulate the blessings with which his kind and benevolent heart overflowed.
O, Miss Mirvan, to be so beloved by the best of men — should I not be happy? — Should I have one wish save that of meriting his goodness? — Yet think me not ungrateful; indeed I am not, although the internal sadness of my mind unfits me, at present, for enjoying as I ought the bounties of Providence.
I cannot journalize, cannot arrange my ideas into order.
How little has situation to do with happiness! I had flattered myself, that, when restored to Berry Hill, I should be restored to tranquillity: far otherwise have I found it, for never yet had tranquillity and Evelina so little intercourse.
I blush for what I have written. Can you, Maria, forgive my gravity? but I restrain it so much, and so painfully, in the presence of Mr. Villars, that I know not how to deny myself the consolation of indulging it to you.
Adieu, my dear Miss Mirvan.
Yet one thing I must add: do not let the seriousness of this letter deceive you; do not impute to a wrong cause the melancholy I confess, by supposing that the heart of your friend mourns a too great susceptibility: no, indeed! believe me it never was, never can be, more assuredly her own than at this moment. So witness in all truth,
Your affectionate,
EVELINA.
You will make my excuses to the honoured Lady Howard, and to your dear mother.
LETTER 58
EVELINA TO MISS MIRVAN
Berry Hill, July 21st.
You accuse me of mystery, and charge me with reserve: I cannot doubt but I must have merited the accusation; yet, to clear myself — you know not how painful will be the task. But I cannot resist your kind entreaties; — indeed I do not wish to resist them; for your friendship and affection will soothe my chagrin. Had it arisen from any other cause, not a moment would I have deferred the communication you ask; — but as it is, I would, were it possible, not only conceal it from all the world, but endeavour to disbelieve it myself. Yet since I must tell you, why trifle with your impatience?
I know not how to come to the point; twenty times have I attempted it in vain; — but I will force myself to proceed.
Oh, Miss Mirvan, could you ever have believed, that one who seemed formed as a pattern for his fellow-creatures, as a model of perfection — one whose elegance surpassed all description — whose sweetness of manners disgraced all comparison; — oh, Miss Mirvan, could you ever have believed that Lord Orville, would have treated me with indignity?
Never, never again will I trust to appearances; — never confide in my own weak judgment; — never believe that person to be good who seems to be amiable! What cruel maxims are we taught by a knowledge of the world! — But while my own reflections absorb me, I forget you are still in suspense.
I had just finished the last letter which I wrote to you from London, when the maid of the house brought me a note. It was given to her, she said, by a footman, who told her he would call the next day for an answer.
This note — but let it speak for itself.
“To Miss Anville.
“With transport, most charming of thy sex, did I read the letter with which you yesterday morning favoured me. I am sorry the affair of the carriage should have given you any concern, but I am highly flattered by the anxiety you express so kindly. Believe me, my lovely girl, I am truly sensible to the honour of your good opinion, and feel myself deeply penetrated with love and gratitude. The correspondence you have so sweetly commenced, I shall be proud of continuing; and I hope the strong sense I have of the favour you do me will prevent your withdrawing it. Assure yourself, that I desire nothing more ardently than to pour forth my thanks at your feet, and to offer those vows which are so justly the tribute of your charms and accomplishments. In your next I intreat you to acquaint me how long you shall remain in town. The servant, whom I shall commission to call for an answer, has orders to ride post with it to me. My impatience for his arrival will be very great, though inferior to that with which I burn to tell you, in person, how much I am, my sweet girl, your grateful admirer,
“ORVILLE.”
What a letter! how has my proud heart swelled every line I have copied! What I wrote to him you know; tell me, then, my dear friend, do you think it merited such an answer? — and that I have deservedly incurred the liberty he has taken? I meant nothing but a simple apology, which I thought as much due to my own character as to his; yet by the construction he seems to have put upon it, should you not have imagined it contained the avowal of sentiments which might indeed have provoked his contempt?
The moment the letter was delivered to me, I retired to my own room to read it; and so eager was my first perusal, that — I am ashamed to own — it gave me no sensation but of delight. Unsuspicious of any impropriety from Lord Orville, I perceived not immediately the impertinence it implied — I only marked the expressions of his own regard; and I was so much surprised, that I was unable for some time to compose myself, or read it again:— I could only walk up and down the room, repeating to myself, “Good God, is it possible? — am I then loved by Lord Orville?”
But this dream was soon over, and I awoke to far different feelings. Upon a second reading I thought every word changed — it did not seem the same letter — I could not find one sentence that I could look at without blushing: my astonishment was extreme, and it was succeeded by the utmost indignation.
If, as I am very ready to acknowledge, I erred in writing to Lord Orville, was it for him to punish the error? If he was offended, could he not have been silent? If he thought my letter ill-judged, should he not have pitied my ignorance? have considered my youth, and allowed for my inexperience?
Oh,
