In preparing this edition of The Woman of Colour, I have relied on a copy of the first edition held in the British Library in London. I silently corrected the very few typographical errors in the first edition. The author’s idiosyncratic punctuation (frequent use of the hyphen, exclamation and question marks within, rather than at the end, of sentences) has been retained. During the course of the tale, Olivia uses “key phrases” in quotation marks, the great majority of which I have been able to trace. I have indicated actual and possible sources for these ‘key phrases’ in the footnotes. While my footnotes and appendices are not meant to be exhaustive, they are designed to familiarize the reader with historical, religious, cultural, and literary sources from the period, some of which might have, and others that actually, informed and influenced the author. The fictional Editor also makes two interjections in packets two and five; following the original text, I have put these interjections in brackets within the body of the narrative. I have also followed the spelling and punctuation of the original documents in all of materials included in this book.
THE WOMAN OF COLOUR 49
*
%
THE
"'He finds his brother guilty of a skin not colour’d like his own,” COWPER . 1 *
BY THE AUTHOR OF “LIGHT AND SHADE." “THE AUNT AND THE NIECE," "EBERSFIELD ABBEY," &c. 2
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR BLACK, PARRY, AND KINGSBURY , 3
BOOKSELLERS TO THE HONOURABLE EAST INDIA COMPANY, LEADENHALL-STREET.
1808
2 The list of titles assumes E.M. Foster’s authorship; however, Peter Garside et al.’s work on the English novel refutes this claim as well as other writers mistakenly recorded as The Woman of Colour’s author. See The English Novel 1770-1829: A Bibliographical Survey of Prose Fiction Published in the British Isles. Vol. II1800-1829 ed. Peter Garside, James Raven, and Rainer Schowerling (Oxford: OUP, 2000) 69-70.
3 With some isolated exceptions, James Black, Henry Parry, and John Kingsbury operated under this business relationship most consistently between 1808 and 1812.
*
THE WOMAN OF COLOUR
PACKET 1 THE FIRST OLIVIA FAIRFIELD TO MRS. MILBANKE
At Sea, on board the **.**
180 —
LAUNCHED on a new world, what can have power to console me for leaving the scenes of my infancy, and the friend of my youth? Nothing but the consciousness of acting in obedience to the commands of my departed father. Oh, dearest Mrs. Milbanke! your poor girl is every minute wishing for your friendly guidance, your maternal counsel, your sober judgement!—Every day, as it takes me farther from Jamaica, as it brings me nearer to England, heightens my fears of the future, and makes my presaging heart sink within itself! You charged me to confide to you its every throb; and till it ceases to beat, it will turn with the warmest affection to my earliest and best friend; my governess, my instructress!—and I cannot help asking why am I sent from her? why was it necessary for Olivia Fairfield to tempt the untried deep, and untried friends?—But I check these useless interrogatories, these vain regrets, by recollecting that it was the will of him who always studied the happiness of his child.
My dear father, doatingly fond as he was of his Olivia, saw her situation in a point of view which distressed his feeling heart. The illegitimate offspring of his slave could never be considered in the light of equality by the English planters. Such is their prejudice, such is the wretched state of degradation to which my unhappy fellow-creatures are sunk in the western hemisphere. We are considered, my dear Mrs. Milbanke, as an inferior race, but little removed from the brutes, because the Almighty Maker of allcreated beings has tinged our skins with jet instead of ivory!—I say our , for though the jet has been faded to the olive in my own complexion, yet I am not ashamed to acknowledge my affinity with the swarthiest negro that was ever brought from Guinea’s coast!—All, all are brethren, children of one common Parent!
The soul of my mother, though shrouded in a sable covering, broke through the gloom of night, and shone celestial in her
sparkling eyes!—Sprung from a race of native kings and heroes, with folded hands, and tearful eyes, she saw herself torn from all the endearing ties of affinity, and relative intercourse! A gloomy, yet a proud sorrow, filled her indignant breast; and when exhibited on the shores of my native island, the symmetry and majesty of her form, the inflexible haughtiness of her manner, attracted the attention of Mr. Fairfield. He purchased the youthful Marcia; his kindness, his familiarity, his humanity, soon gained him an interest in her grateful heart! She loved her master! She had not learnt the art of concealing her sentiments, she knew not that she was doing wrong in indulging them, and she yielded herself to her passion, and fell the victim of gratitude! 1 —But as her understanding became enlightened, and her manners improved, she was eager for information; my father yielded it to her from the rich stores of his own capacious mind; and while he poured into her attentive and docile ear, those truths for which the soul of Marcia panted, he made her start with horror at the crime of which she had been innocently guilty: and the new Christian pointed her finger at him , who, educated under the influence of the Gospel, lived in direct opposition to its laws!
My father felt the justice of the reproof; for though his offence was considered as a venial error by all with whom he lived, yet his conscience was not so easily appeased. He knew that the difference of climate, or of colour, made no difference in the crime; and that if the seducer of innocence was always guilty, the case must be greatly aggravated where benefits and kindnesses were the weapons employed against untutored ignorance and native simplicity. Marcia was not “almost but altogether a Christian!” 2 —with the knowledge of her crime she abjured a continuance in it; with tears and sighs she confessed her love for her betrayer, at the same time that she deplored her fall from virtue! The scholar taught her master—The wild and uncivilized
African taught a lesson of noble self-denial and self-conquest to the enlightened and educated European.
Mr. Fairfield dared not combat a resolution which appeared to him to be almost a command of Heaven. He loved Marcia with fervour; but the pride of the man, the quick feeling of the European, the prejudices which he had imbibed in common with his countrymen, forbade his making this affectionate and heroic girl his wife. Marcia’s was a strong soul, but it inhabited a weak tenement of clay. In giving birth to me she paid the debt of nature and went down to that grave, where the captive is made free!
You will ask me why I recapitulate these events? events which are so well known to you. It is that I love to dwell on the character of my mother; it is that here I see the distributions of Providence are equally bestowed, and that it is culture not capacity, which the negro wants! It was from my father that I adopted this opinion of my mother— I caught the enthusiasm of his manner and learned to venerate the memory of this sable heroine (for a heroine I must call her) from the time that my mind has been enabled to distinguish between vice and virtue!
My father saw the sensibility of my disposition; he saw that it was daily wounded, at witnessing the wrongs of my fellow-beings; his wishes, and his principles, would have led him to reform abuses, but his health was daily declining, and he could not give the tone of morals to an island; he could not adopt a line of conduct which would draw on him the odium of all his countrymen: he contented himself, therefore, with seeing that slaves on his estate were well kept and fed, and treated with humanity,— but their minds were suffered to remain in the dormant state in which he found them ! 1
I see the generous intention of my father’s will; I see that he meant at once to secure to his child a proper protector in a husband, and to place her far from scenes which were daily hurting her sensibility and the pride of human nature!—But, ah! respected Mrs. Milbanke! in guarding against these evils may he not have opened the way to those which are still more dangerous for your poor Olivia?
I sometimes think, that had my dear parent left me a decent
competence, I could have placed myself in some tranquil nook of my native island, and have been happily and usefully employed in meliorating the sorrows of the poor slaves who came within my reach, and in pouring into their bruised souls the sweet consolations of religious hope!— But my father willed it otherwise Lie still, then, rebellious and repining heart!
Mrs. Milbanke, I yet behold your tearful eye—I yet hear your fond adieu— I yet feel your fervent embrace! The recollection is almost insupportable; for the present, I lay down my pen!
IN CONTINUATION
WAS my mind in any other state, I could be much amused and entertained by the novel customs of a ship’s company, and the novel situation (to me) of a sea voyage. How wonderful is the construction of this vessel, which is now ploughing its way on the ocean! but how much more wonderful that Almighty Pilot, which steers it in safety through the horrors of the deep!
Mrs. Honeywood is all that your skill in physiognomy predicted. Separated from my beloved Mrs. Milbanke, I question if I could have met with a preferable Compagnon du Voyage. I fear that her native country will not restore her health; but I dare not hint an idea of the sort to her watchful and attentive son. Honeywood possesses all the enthusiasm of your Olivia; and when I hear his sanguine hopes of his mother’s recovery, and his visionary schemes of long years of happiness to be enjoyed in her highly-prized society, I sigh with prophetic sadness, and, looking on the colour of my robes, I remember such was the fallacy of my own wishes!
Mrs. Honeywood seems perfectly acquainted with the particulars of my father’s will, and frequently and studiously refers to my intended marriage with my cousin. If you will not accuse me of vanity, my dearest madam, I should be almost tempted to fancy, that she sometimes wished to remind her son of this; and yet there is nothing to fear for him. An unportioned girl of my colour, can never be a dangerous object; but in the habits of intimacy which our present situation naturally produces, confidence usurps the place of common-place politeness, and I insensibly talk to Honeywood as I should do to a brother. Had his familiarity any thing of boldness in it, was there any thing assuming in his manners, my sensitive heart would shrink, and I should then feel as reserved and constrained as I now do the reverse.
56 ANONYMOUS
IN CONTINUATION
YOU bid me tell you every thing that should occur; and, in the absence of events and incidents, I must give you conversations and reflections, even at the hazard of appearing in the character of an egotist. I am just returned to my own little cabin, after a pretty long tete-a-tete with Mrs. Honeywood; I call it a tete-a-tete for though my faithful Dido formed the third of the party, yet her half-broken language did not bear a principal share in the conversation; but, as you well know, she will be heard on all occasions when she deems it right to speak. Honeywood had retired to study; he usually passes a great portion of the morning amongst his books: and that he reads with advantage and improvement, a more superficial observer than your Olivia would soon discover. He possesses a discriminating judgement, and a fine taste; and, without attempting at wit or humour, he never fails to please when he wishes it.
But to return to my proposed detail:—I was seated with my drawing implements before me, finishing a little sketch which I had taken from the Fairfield Plantation a few days before I quitted it; Mrs. Honeywood sat opposite to me, knitting; while Dido, ever officiously happy and busy about her “Missee,” was standing behind the sofa (which she had drawn towards the table), and very assiduously watching for the colours I wanted, and rubbing them on the slab, pretending to be occupied, in order to retain her station; and at intervals I felt her removing and replacing the combs of my hair, and smoothing it gently down with her hands, then looking over my shoulder, marking the progress of my pencil, and exclaiming, “Ah, my goody Heaven! if my dear Missee be not making the own good Massee’s plantation, and all of dis little bit of brush, and dis bit of paper!”
Mrs. Honeywood lifted her head; looking at us through her spectacles, “I would give something to be able to take dat brush and dat bit of paper, Dido,” said she, laughingly imitating her, “and paint your lady and yourself, as you are now placed before my eyes.”
Dido grinned, while Mrs. Honeywood still looking at me, said,—
“I never view you on that seat, with Dido standing in her place of attendance, without figuring you in my imagination as some great princess going over to her betrothed lord.”
“Iss, iss , 1 my Missee be de queen of Indee, going over to marry • wid de prince in England,” said Dido, nodding very significantly.
“Such alliances do not very often turn out happily,” said I, sighing.
“And how should they?” asked Mrs. Honeywood; A total ignorance of persons can indeed be, in some measure, set aside by the painter, but the manners, the customs of different countries are so widely different, and there ought to be so many corresponding traits of character, to form any thing like comfort in the connubial state, that it is my wonder when any one of these matches turns out merely tolerable.”
“You are looking grave. Miss Fairfield.”
“Indeed, my dear madam, I am; and have I not cause? My manners, my pursuits, my whole deportment, may be strange and disagreeable to him whom I have pledged myself to receive as a husband! and further,—oh, madam!—my person may disgust him!”
“No, not so, Miss Fairfield: your sensitive mind, and delicate imagination, lead you to see things in too strong a light.”
“No light can be too strong to convey to me a knowledge of that wretchedness which would be my portion, were I to be beheld with disgust and abhorrence by the man whom I have sworn to receive as my husband!”
“Sworn, my dear girl?”
“Yes, madam, sworn!”
“You astonish me!—and could Mr. Fairfield, could your father extort such an oath, such a blind submission from you?—you, whose understanding he must have seen superior to the generality of your sex,—you, whose judgement could only have elected where it had approved!”
“My father acted from the best of motives. If he erred, madam; if the sequel should prove that he has erred, give him credit, I conjure you, for the best intentions; his whole soul recoiled at the idea of leaving me in Jamaica, or of uniting me to any of the planters there: for to them he knew that his money would be the only bait. In England, in his native country, he deemed, that a more liberal, a more distinguishing spirit had gone abroad;”—(dear Mrs. Milbanke, I thought a sceptical expression overspread the marked countenance of Mrs. Honeywood)—“a connexion with his own family, with the son oj' a dearly beloved sister, was what his most sanguine hopes rested'on for the security of his Olivia’s happiness!”
“Your father knew this nephew?”
“No, madam, only by report; and that that report was very liberal in praise of his accomplishments and virtues, I need not
58 ANONYMOUS
say, when my father resolved to hazard the happiness of his child to his care. Mr. Merton, the husband of my deceased aunt, is, as you may have heard, a wealthy merchant, and has maintained a character of strict honour and probity. Mrs. Merton died within the last two years; she always spoke highly of her husband, and expressed the most fervent fondness for her son, Augustus, whom she frequently styled, in her letters to Jamaica, the ‘image of her dear brother.’ It was easy to perceive that Augustus was the mother’s favourite; and I fancy, that my father surmised that the elder young man ranked highest in Mr. Merton’s esteem. Indeed, my dear madam, I must be tiring you with my details, and I frequently think, that I can talk as coolly, and with as little mauvaise home of this intended alliance as if I was a mere state machine !— conveyed over the water at the instigation of political contrivance; yet believe me, my dear madam, I have a sense of my sex’s more exclusive feeling delicacy. My heart revolts, it shrinks within me, as every day draws me nearer to the scene of my trial; and the anxiety with which I, at some moments await the period, is frequently changed into a desolating revulsion of every feeling, when I recollect that I must appear in so very humiliating a situation when I reach England!”
“No, not humiliating,” said Mrs. Honeywood, “for every generous mind will feel for the peculiarity of it, and exert every art to win you to self-confidence. You have great powers of exertion, Miss Fairfield; your father knew the strength of your mind; he knew that it could bear itself up in circumstances which would overwhelm half the female world!”
“You are good to embolden me, madam,” said I, “my trust is in Him who has promised to strengthen the weak-hearted. I hope the name of Fairfield shall never be disgraced by me.”
“I am sure it will not,” said Mrs. Honeywood, “but your ingenuousness invites my curiosity; on your side I perfectly understand the terms. You have promised to accept Mr. Augustus Merton as your husband. Has a similar promise been received on the gentleman’s part? not that I mean to infer, that there could be so undiscerning an Englishman found, as to refuse the offered hand of Miss Fairfield!”
“Do not say offered, dear Mrs. Honeywood; it sounds so—so very forward!” She smiled— “Ah, my dear madam, I know you pity me!”
“From the bottom of my heart!” said she with fervour.
“Pittee, no pittee,” said Dido; “beauty lady—great deal monies—going marry fine gentleman as soon as she be come to
THE WOMAN OF COLOUR 59
England town;—me don’t pittee dear Missee one bit—one bit!” But Dido covered my hand with tears, and kissed it a hundred times, while she said, she did not “pittee Missee one bit—one bit.” Her manner affected me; she saw it, and, letting her hands fall on each side of her, she stole out of the cabin. I tried to assume cheerfulness: “I bear with me a dower of nearly sixty thousand pounds,” said I, “which is to become the property of my cousin Augustus Merton on his becoming my husband, and taking the name of Fairfield, within one month after my arrival in England.”
Mrs. Honeywood seemed to look at me with the most painful and quickened attention; “but if,” said she, he should, that is, I mean”—
“I know what you mean,” said I, smiling; “if Augustus refuses to accept these terms, the whole fortune devolves to his brother, and my maintenance exclusively devolves on him also!”
“Strange and unheard of clause!” said Mrs. Honeywood, rising hastily from her seat, and turning to the window, her back towards me.
“You must see it, as I see it, dear Mrs. Honeywood!” said I, going to her, and taking her hand; “even though you do not see poor Olivia with her father’s eyes, he thought that no one could refuse his girl!”
“And no one could, who knew her!” said Mrs. Honeywood, straining me affectionately to her bosom. “Sweetest Miss Fairfield, may your happiness be equal to your virtues! may your cousin properly appreciate your worth!”
“Thank you,—thank you!” returned I, with a voice almost too full for utterance. I then quitted this warm-hearted woman, and hastened to relieve myself, in my usual method, writing to you.
IN CONTINUATION
I HAVE frequently thought, my dearest friend, that few young men would have resolution to refuse sixty thousand pounds; for the wife would be a very trifling embargo to most of our gay West Indians,—I can speak of the world only as I have seen it.—Mrs. Milbanke, I do not wish to be uncharitable or harsh in my judgement; but did we not every day see matches made* in Jamaica, for which gold was the only inducement? And why <3o I encourage my overweening expectations—why do I expect my cousin to be different from the rest of his sex? Conscious of my own inferior powers of attraction, to what can I impute his acceptance of my hand? Hope will sometimes whisper, that grat
60 ANONYMOUS
itude will ensure kindness—but the cold feeling which alone springs from a grateful principle—could my warm heart be satisfied with that?—Vain, weak Olivia! go to thy mirror, and ask what is it thou canst expect more?
IN CONTINUATION
WEAK and impotent beings that we are, we know not what we wish, nor what we hope.—I retired last night to my cabin in a frame of mind which I should vainly seek to describe. The conversation which I had with Mrs. Honeywood, had made a forcible impression on my mind. I fancied that I was hastening to England, to be immolated at the shrine of avarice; all the bright prospects of my youth seemed blighted; I was friendless —fatherless—forlorn—journeying towards a land of strangers, who would despise and insult me. Bitter tears coursed each other down my cheeks; I wrung my hands in agony together—my heart sank within me—I had no resolution—no confidence left—I believed myself the most forlorn of human creatures, and I thought that a cessation of being, would be a cessation of misery. Ah! my dear friend, I am proving to you what you have long known, that your Olivia is no heroine! I was awakened from this agonizing trance to the tumultuous waves, which hove the ship with boisterous violence; the wind rattled in the shrouds, and increased in violence with each moment, while at intervals it was drowned by the long and reverberating peals of deep-toned thunder, and my cabin was as frequently illuminated by vivid lightning. There was a noise of bustle and alarm on the deck, and the voice of the sailors was distinguished amidst the horrors of the storm. Dido, shaking with affright and terror, burst into my cabin,—
“Oh, Missee, we be going down—we be going sink in the very, very deep sea!”
Alas! I thought so likewise; and in this hour of real danger I prayed for a deliverance from that death which I believed I could have fearlessly met, nay, had almost courted, the preceding hour. This taught me how very short a progress I had made in selfknowledge, and while Dido rolled herself up and made a sort of pillow at my feet, I tried to collect my thoughts, and to lift up my • soul to him who “walketh on the wings of the wind,” 1 and to beseech him to give me a patient and contented spirit. The
tempest still raged with redoubled violence; a soft tap at my door roused Dido:—“Me be here” was answered by the voice of Hon
eywood.
“I could not be easy,” said he, “without asking after your lady.”
“Oh it be very bad terrible storm, sir; me be much fear’d we must go down to the bottom.”
“Oh no, not so,” said Honeywood, in the most soothing voice; “assure Miss Fairfield, my good Dido, that there is nothing to fear. Tell her I am now come from the deck, where I have been the last two hours; the captain assures me, the storm is abating, and I am now returning to my hammock: pray don t distress Miss Fairfield: I beseech you do not heighten her alarm!”
I heard every word, you find, my dear madam; and so friendly were they, so truly benevolent, and the manner, too, in which they were spoken, that I felt the utmost gratitude for his attention. The interest which he had expressed for me was grateful to my self-love, whilst my fears were allayed by his assurances of our safety. The storm did abate, and your Olivia is snatched from the horrors of the deep. I trust I shall not be forgetful of the mercy of that Being who has been graciously pleased to preserve my life!
IN CONTINUATION
“THEY that go down to the sea in ships, and occupy their business in great waters, these men see the mercies of the Lord and his wonders in the deep!” 1
These words have been in my thoughts the whole of this day. The storm still rages in my mind’s eye. How fearful, how tremendous—Surely, if “by night an atheist half believes a God,” 2 he must hear him, he must see him, in the scene I have so recently witnessed, and a doubt could never more find entrance in his soul!
Honeywood eagerly advanced to me as I made my appearance at breakfast and renewed his inquiries. I felt confused: this confusion seemed infectious; for, as I tried to express my thanks to him for the friendly interest he had evinced for me, he suddenly let go the hand which he had taken, coloured, sighed, and let me take my place in silence. Mrs. Honeywood at this moment appeared, and broke a silence which had succeeded, as if by a mutual inclination, to our first civilities. The first topic was, of course, the recent storm, and the sickly countenance and dim- *
med eye of the poor invalid, proved that a wakeful night was much to be dreaded for her. She congratulated me on my safety, and said,—
“You were very courageous in not quitting your cabin. Fear, in general, renders us all sociable; and I expected every moment to have seen you come to me. I could not pacify Charles till he had gone to you; but I question whether you were much comforted by his assurances of your safety, as he is a fresh-water sailor.”
I answered that I was; and Mrs. Honeywood, pursuing the subject, said,—“For myself, I had not much to regret in leaving a world to which an attenuated thread alone holds me!” Her countenance had that patient serenity on it, which gave it an expression which nearly comes up to my idea of celestial, and, though apparently talking to me, I imagined that she meant more particularly to address her son.
“Youth, beauty, talent, virtue, and riches, to be consigned at once to the o’erwhelming wave, would, indeed, be a sad contemplation,” said she, “and even where death has long been anticipated, the thoughts of resigning life, by any other than the common lot of humanity, is appalling. If it please the Almighty to let me reach my native shores, I think I can summon fortitude to meet the stroke as a Christian!”
“My dearest mother, rive not my heart!” said Honeywood.
“Charles, you are not philosopher” said Mrs. Honeywood, attempting to smile, as she held out her hand to him; he took it,— never shall I forget with what an expression of love and reverence he held it to his lips in silence, then pressed it to his breast.
“If philosophy is to steel my heart against such feelings as these,” said he, wiping off the starting tear with the back of his hand, “my mother, who shall teach it me? But Heaven, in its mercy, will long preserve to me a parent for whom alone I would wish to live!”
“When I am laid in the peaceful tomb, my Charles, your heart shall seek another being, whose life shall be sweetened, as mine long has been, by your cares and attentions. Your mother will be changed for the closer—the yet more endearing tie of wife. With a companion of your own age, whose pursuits are similar to your own, whose mind has been cultivated, and whose principles are good, you are formed, my son, to partake with such a woman the * very acme of human happiness.”
The eyes of Honeywood sought mine, for a moment, with an expression which I cannot define; then hastily pressing his hand on his forehead, as if in pain, he rose from his seat, and said—
THE WOMAN OF COLOUR 63
“Never, never! my dearest madam; you unman me quite!” and left the cabin.
“’Tis always thus,” said Mrs. Honeywood; “nothing that I can say will open the dear boy’s eyes to my danger; and, with his impetuous, his ardent feelings, I dread for him the shock of an event for which he will not be prepared! Talk to him, for me, my good Miss Fairfield; you have great influence over him; he will listen to you: tell him that he must make up his mind to resign his parent!”
“Alas!” sighed I, “I am ill qualified for such an office,—I that continue to mourn the loss of the best of fathers !—My loss is certain, my dear madam; Mr. Honeywood’s is only in prospective —/ feel the sad reality —he shudders at the supposition—how then shall I teach him that fortitude which I cannot practise myself? The loss of a parent can never be supplied to a child!— My father was my guide, my counsellor, my friend; he was the impulse of my life; he was the guide of my every action; almost the director of my thoughts! When I lost my father, I lost every thing which could make life desirable; and when poor Honeywood shall lose you, he will then know the wretchedness of my situation!”
IN CONTINUATION
WHERE there is any thing to conciliate regard or esteem, how soon do we get attached! I already feel as if I had been known to Mrs. Honeywood all my life, and I regret that when I lose sight of her, and of her amiable son, on our landing, it must be among the chance events of the future, whether we may ever meet again.
I sat for two hours of the last evening on the deck watching the mildly radiant moon, and the thousand sparkling rays which were caused by her shadow on the tranquil ocean; no longer heaving with tumultuous waves as on the preceding night, but peaceful as the translucent lake. Honeywood attached himself to my side, his mother was apprehensive of the night air, and remained in the cabin—
“How still is the water!” said Honeywood; “how bright the lustre of that celestial orb! what a contrast is this scene to that which I last night witnessed in this place!” *
“And how doubly are we interested in the beauty of this night » from that very contrast which you have remarked!” said I.—“So it is in life, we recover from the dreadful shock of some fearful calamity, to those placid and calm sensations, which such a contemplation as this is calculated to produce: we remember what
64 ANONYMOUS
we have suffered, and we are doubly grateful to Him who has enabled us to endure afflictions, and caused the storm to pass over our heads!”
“You can extract good from every evil,” said Honeywood, “morality from every passing occurrence—you can find sermons in stones, and God in every thing!” 1 —He spoke this with enthusiasm. “Indeed, Miss Fairfield, I know of no one like you—you will shame our English ladies—or rather, you are going where your virtues will not be known or appreciated!”
“How am I to understand you?” asked I, willing to take the compliment that my moralizing disposition has extorted as applicable ; “how then shall I account for the latter part of your speech without accusing you of vanity? Does Mr. Honeywood imagine that he only has discernment to discover those great and extraordinary virtues which I possess?”
“By no means,” said he, answering gravely to my tone of raillery—“by no means; but the superficial characters of our modern females, their frivolous pursuits, their worse than childish conversation—oh! you will be soon sickened of them; and, if I do not mistake your disposition, the sensitive plant will then recoil, and never expand itself again, till drawn out by an assimilating look, or spark of sentiment!”
“Oh, what a fearful prospect!” said I, still affecting to trifle— “Am I then so very fastidious a being, Mr. Honeywood? Believe me, I look not for perfection in an imperfect state; my own faults are great and manifold and, I trust, I can behold those of my fellow-mortals with charity, and make allowances in proportion!”
“That you can do all , and more than this, I am well satisfied,” said Honeywood; “but if your heart is not interested, I mean if no kindred emotion—that is—I believe,” said he, “like many others who set out in discussing a subject, I have confused myself, and want somebody to explain my own meaning.”
He then reverted to his mother’s health, a topic which never fails to interest.
“When I consider,” said he, “that her illness may be in some measure traced to a three years’ residence in your warm climate
(for though the latent seeds of the disease might have been in her constitution, yet it was there that they first burst forth), and that she undertook the voyage merely on my account, in order to gather up the wreck of a shattered fortune for my use, I know not how to estimate the sacrifice; and that affection which I feel for her, tells me that the independence which she has secured to me, has been too dearly earned for me to enjoy it, if bought with the price of her health, perhaps her life!”—He paused a moment as if to recover the power of articulation—
“On the other hand,” said he, “I remember the anxiety with which this dear parent passed the lingering days previous to her setting out for the West Indies. I was brought up to the prospect of inheriting a large fortune, and was then too old to enter into either of the professions with advantage to myself.— She had seen enough of the world to know that a proud and a sensitive spirit struggling with adversity, was a most pitiable situation. My mother has had her share of sorrows—My father was not able to appreciate her worth or her uncomplaining fortitude—’tis a sad story, my dear Miss Fairfield, one day you may perhaps hear it— for I cannot, I will not think,” said he, taking my hand, “that our acquaintance shall cease with this voyage!”
“I hope not,” said I.
“Say it shall not,” said he, with earnestness.
“We can speak with certainty of nothing,” said I, “and you must remember, that from the moment when I set my foot on your land of liberty, I yield up my independence—my uncle’s family are then to be the disposers of my future fate; and, though they can never teach my heart to forego its nature, or my mind its principles, yet in all irrelevant points, and in all local opinions, I must resolve to yield myself to their guidance!”
“If such be your determination; if you thus at once resolve to give up the liberty of action—farewell for ever when we separate!” said Honeywood with some asperity: u we shall never be allowed to prosecute our acquaintance with our interesting companion!”
And why should you think so? why should you suppose that the family of Mr. Merton were illiberal or unjust?”
“I judge by myself—a fair standard you will allow,” said he: and I know that if I was in the place of these Mertons*(you observe, my dear friend, he was too delicate to refer to Augustus » only) I should be a monopolizer of the time, the conversation, even the looks of Miss Fairfield!” He reddened as he spoke these words; he probably thought he had said too much —l felt that he had, however—and sought Mrs. Honeywood.
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IN CONTINUATION
I AM not without my sex’s vanity, dearest Mrs. Milbanke, perhaps indeed I have a larger portion of it than the generality, from the knowledge that I owe nothing to the score of my personal attractions; yet I must be blind if I did not perceive that Honeywood beholds me with a more than common degree of partiality. Were I a romantic beauty , in the noble compassion of my nature I should say that it would give me pleasure, on his account, when our voyage was ended—but I am not so far gone as this. I know that the charms of mind divested of a prepossessing exterior, can only captivate the judgement, not mislead the heart; and that a preference originating in reason, will be referable to reason for its extinction.
Honeywood is certainly a very estimable young man; I like his Conversation extremely; and without feeling any thing more for him than I should for an amiable brother, I confess that I shall be much mortified if Augustus Merton is not a little like him in sentiment and principle. In this case, although you may laugh at me for such an idea, yet I really think the miniature of Augustus has been serviceable to me. When I have felt a more than common interest for Honeywood, I have retired to my cabin, and spent some moments in contemplating the inanimate resemblance of him to whom I am affianced. I never behold the picture without emotion—the likeness to my dear father is so very striking, although the countenance is much handsomer, and there is a speaking sensibility in the eye which rivets my attention; for there I fondly imagine I behold all that I seek for of mind and sentiment in my destined husband—and yet perhaps, my dear madam, I do but flatter myself, as the artist has flattered his employer.
IN CONTINUATION
IT is the sweet bard of Avon, I believe who so well expresses an idea which runs in my head, but which my treacherous memory cannot clothe in his happy words. It is the dreadful pause between the expectation and the accomplishment of an apprehended event. 1 Your better memory will recollect the lines from my remote reference, and you will know the inference I draw. A few days more, and we shall reach England.—Ah! the hopes and the fears of this beating heart.
• 1 The “bard of Avon” is, undoubtedly, William Shakespeare, but the reference is very oblique. It is, perhaps, Helena’s claim in All’s Well That Ends Well : “Oft expectation fails and most oft there / Where most it promises, and oft it hits / Where hope is coldest and despair most fits” (Il.i. 150-52).
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That period will surely fix the fiat of my destiny.—I shall have your prayers—I shall offer my own;—and shall I not be encompassed by the guardian spirit of my father? —Oh! if it be permitted from the realms of bliss, to look down on these terrestrial abodes, the thought of a father’s taking cognizance of the actions of his child, must infuse new courage into her soul!
IN CONTINUATION
WE are already in the Bristol Channel, 1 and in a few hours shall expect to anchor in Kingroad. As Mrs. Honeywood heard this intelligence from our captain, a bright beam of pleasure illuminated her faded countenance. Dido rubbed her hands, and skipped about the cabin in ecstasy; and, as if she expected to do instantaneous execution, she had, within five minutes, put her large gold rings into her ears, which had been carefully laid in cotton during the voyage. I felt the blood forsake my cheeks, my legs trembled, and, standing at the moment, I was obliged to catch the arm of Mrs. Honeywood’s chair, to keep me from falling. Honeywood saw my emotion, he rose hastily, and, placing me a chair, quitted the cabin.
IN CONTINUATION
WE are anchored, my beloved friend; already have the eyes of your Olivia rested on the shores of England! We are impatient of delay; and Honeywood has adjusted matters for us to row to shore this evening. The boat is already in view.
Adieu, my dearest Mrs. Milbanke.
IN CONTINUATION Bush Tavern, 2 Bristol.
I MOMENTARILY expect Mr. Merton; figure to yourself the nature of my present feeling. I write in order to divert my mind; for, to dwell on my own thotights during this period of suspense, is agony. We came to this place last evening. Mrs. Honeywood, her son, and servant, myself, and Dido. What an evening it was! Surely nothing was ever so serenely beautiful; surely, nothing was
ever more romantically picturesque, than the wooded cliffs, and the boldly gigantic rocks, on either side the river, as we swiftly glided along its surface! The moon shone with unclouded brightness; the air was soft and mellow; the nightingales warbled from amidst their leafy coverts; and, at intervals, a French horn and a clarionet breathed forth their shrill tones, softening as they issued from the tremendous heights above our heads; while the soft dashing of the oars, and the sparkling play of the waters in the moonbeam, made up this scene of enchantment. Spite of the conflicting emotions of my mind, I was wrapt in enthusiastic admiration. Mrs. Honeywood enjoyed the scene; while her son fixed his eyes alternately on me and on the water, with an expression of melancholy resignation in his countenance.
When we got nearer to the large and mercantile city of Bristol,—when I could distinguish the “busy hum of men,” 1 and could discern the traits of active life which even at the still hour of evening are to be seen on the quay’s of this place, my heart seemed to be thrown back upon itself, and I felt that I was entering into a world of strangers. All resolution—all self-confidence was banished with this idea. I leant back in the boat, and sobbed with apprehensive sorrow. Mrs. Honeywood did not observe my emotion, and if her son did, he knew that at such moments as these the voice of consolation cannot be heard.
Honeywood carefully assisted us in landing; a hackney-coach was in waiting: for Mrs. Honeywood, long disused as she has been to any exercise, was incapable of walking the shortest distance. In less than ten minutes, we were set down at this bustling tavern, where the noise, the closeness, and the gloom of the apartments, exceed any thing that I could have imagined. We chilly beings, however, were soon seated around a cheerful fire. Dido walked off with Mrs. Honeywood’s maid, in great admiration and surprise at every thing which met her eye; and in the tone and voice of affection, which a fond parent would have used towards a favourite child, Mrs. Honeywood took my hand in hers, and congratulated me on my safe arrival in England.
How grateful is the expression of kindness to the human ear!—“Alas!” thought I, “how do I know if this is not the last time when I shall call forth the sympathetic regard of another?”
. As I made this reflection, I lifted her hand to my lips, and t while I held it there, I almost bathed it in my tears.
At this moment, the master of the inn entered the room, and, respectfully addressing himself to Honeywood, inquired if either lady’s name was Fairfield: on being directed towards me, he presented me a letter which he held in his hand.
“This, madam, was left with me by Mr. Merton himself, and he has made daily inquiries concerning the arrival of the ***
every day for the last fortnight.”
My hand trembled so, that I let the letter drop from between my fingers. Honeywood picked it up, but he was infected by my tremour as he returned it to me. The landlord retired, and I read the following words:
“TO MISS FAIRFIELD.”
“My dearest Miss Fairfield! We are waiting your arrival in England with the greatest anxiety; and that you may experience the least possible inconvenience at landing in a strange country, understanding that the ****, in which your passage was taken, is bound for the port of Bristol, Augustus and myself have taken a house at Clifton; and Mrs. George Morton, the wife of my eldest son, has kindly accompanied us from London, in order, if possible, to do away every feeling of embarrassment in your situation. On your landing be kind enough to send a messenger to me, No.—Gloucester-row, Clifton, and half an hour will bring to you, your affectionate relatives.
“I have the honour to be, dearest madam, your obliged friend, and uncle,
“GEORGE MERTON.”
A faint sickishness seemed to overcome me as I read this letter: I mechanically threw it into Mrs. Honeywood’s lap, and hid my face with both my hands. Mrs. Honeywood perused it, and returning it to me, said,—
“It is a very proper and considerate letter: and much as I must grieve that our separation is so near, yet I am pleased to observe the affectionate solicitude which Mr. Merton evinces towards you!”
“Our separation is near, certainly,” said Honeywood; “but surely, madam. Miss Fairfield need not instantaneously make her arrival known to the Mertons; they may be abridged oi* her company a few short hours, just while she recovers from the ' fatigue of the voyage. Consider, from henceforth she will be always with them, while we —”
He stopped.—“Miss Fairfield must judge for herself,” said Mrs. Honeywood with some gravity in her manner: “I will most
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readily be her chaperon, while she stays here, and shall be but too much gratified in her society. But—”
“But it would be extremely improper,” said I, hastily interrupting her, “to let my uncle remain in ignorance of my arrival after to-morrow morning. This night, my dear madam,” said I, “shall be passed here, and under your protection and vainly shall I endeavour to express my sense of your more than maternal care and attention.”
Ah, dearest Mrs. Milbanke! —an elegant chariot stops at the door. I am summoned,—how—how shall I support this trying interview!
IN CONTINUATION Gloucester-row, Clifton.
You used to like my description of persons and characters as they struck my eye; and I the more readily indulge my pen in being minute. Yes! I will write what I think, my dear madam, even at hazard of being thought severe; for you will not accuse your Olivia of ill-natured severity, and to no other will my remarks be open. You perceive that I have outlived yesterday, that I can even be a trifler to day, and from these facts your warm heart will augur all that is good. I will try to be methodical. I reached the diningroom we occupied before my visitors; Mrs. Honeywood and her son offered to withdraw. I could not speak, but I motioned to Honeywood, and grasped the arm of his mother to detain her. Dido officiously threw open the door, and as my fearful eyes met hers, I could perceive a triumphant and consequential toss, which always designates her manner when she is particularly pleased.
“How fleet is a glance of the mind!” says our own dear Cowper: 1 — immediately , there entered a very fashionable and showy looking young woman, leaning on the arm of a tall man, of a good though stiff figure. I was conscious that a third person followed them but I dared not look beyond. Mrs. Honeywood most kindly acted as mistress of ceremonies, and announced the trembling, agitated Olivia, as Miss Fairfield, while Mr. Merton said, as he advanced towards me,—“My dear niece, let me introduce you to Mrs. George Merton.”
I believe I held out my hand, and that lady was very near taking it in hers; but I fancy its colour disgusted her, for she recoiled a
few paces with a blended curtesy and shrug, and simpering, threw herself on a sofa. My uncle seemed to have no prejudices; he held me to his breast, and pressed his lips on my cheek; he then led his son to me, but again my eyes sought the carpet, though I was conscious of the trembling hand which held mine, he stammered out some words of pleasure and happiness. Honeywood was then introduced by his mother; the languid drawl of the fine lady, Mrs. Merton, detained him in conversation. Mr. Merton paid me the utmost attention, and, in part, relieved me from my embarrassment. I looked up, and for the first time saw Augustus Merton :—he seemed to have been examining me with scrutinizing attention.—Alas! I fear it was but a melancholy contemplation in a double sense; for I thought I distinguished a suppressed sigh, as he hastily addressed himself to Honeywood!
No, my dear friend! the painter did not flatter! Were I to draw a model of manly beauty and grace, I would desire Augustus Merton to sit for the likeness. And yet, I do not know, that his face is so regularly handsome; but there is an expression in his eye of tender melancholy, which is irresistibly interesting; and his smile has more sweetness, if possible, than had my father’s! The likeness to him is very strong, and his voice has the very tones which used to bless my ear! Can I, then, fail to listen, when Augustus speaks? His manners are elegant, without being studied or coxcomical. As yet he has not talked much, but I suspect the singular situation in which we are placed has been the cause of this taciturnity; for I have now and then observed an arch turn of humour, not quite free from sarcasm, when he has addressed himself to Mrs. Merton, but more of this hereafter.
I am not likely to lose my senses and fall in love , as it is called; but I freely confess to you, my dear Mrs. Milbanke, that I think my cousin is a singularly prepossessing young man,—most probably his opinion of your Olivia is quite the reverse. But to proceed.—
After half an hour’s conversation, in which Mrs. Merton and my uncle were the chief speakers, the latter proposed our departure, expressing his sense of obligation to Mrs. Honeywood in high terms of politeness. I could only throw myself into the arms of this kind friend, whom, in all human probability, I shall n^ever see again. My heart was too full for utterance, but she felt'and , understood its beatings. I tore myself from her, and giving my hand to Honeywood, I indistinctly murmured farewel; he pressed it to his lips, his “God bless you!” was fervently audible, and it drew forth the affected smile of Mrs. Merton, as she preceded us
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down the stairs with a languid careless step, which could not have been exceeded by the most die-away lady in the whole island of Jamaica.
My uncle was leading me; but, as if fearful that there should be any failure of attention, he said, “Augustus, assist Mrs. Merton.” The son was obedient, and the lady’s—“I do very well, I thank you,” was said in a tone of restrained mortification.
Mrs. Merton would be thought pretty by any person who looks for feature only. She is very fair, and very fat; her eyes are the lightest blue, her cheeks exhibit a most beautiful (but I am apt to believe not a natural) carmine; her hair is flaxen; her teeth are dazzlingly white; her hand and arm would rival alabaster. Yet with all these concomitants to beauty, she fails to interest or to please your Olivia. And you must allow, my dear friend, that I am not usually difficult; and you remember that I have frequently told you, that I had not a greater pleasure, than in studying the countenance of a beautiful woman of your country. Whence, then, is this change of sentiment, you will say, in regard to Mrs. Merton?—Ah! whence is it, indeed! for I am but too well inclined to behold my uncle’s family with partiality.
I do not think this lady seems endowed with a more than common portion of feeling; this may be her misfortune, and not her fault: or rather, I should say, that too much feeling is to be considered as a misfortune to the possessor; therefore, on this score, I should be invidious and unchristian-like, to judge harshly of Mrs. Merton: but there is such a splenetic tendency in every word she utters, such a look of design , accompanied with so much self-importance, and so large a portion of conceit and affectation, with such frivolous conversation, that I seem hardly to consider her as a rational being; though she is a wholly inoffensive one to me, for I can never be hurt by the manners of a person whom I do not respect; and that she considers me as but one remove from the brute creation, is very evident.
So here, perhaps, we meet on equal terms. Mrs. Merton was a city-heiress, with a large fortune, which she thinks entitles her to a large portion of respect and attention;—and my good uncle administers it unceasingly. Perhaps he thinks it necessary to be doubly assiduous from seeing the carelessness of Augustus, who, without being rude (which I suspect is not in his nature), seems * perfectly indifferent to all the imposing claims of his fair sister-inlaw.
Mr. Merton appears about sixty years of age; he wears his own thin and grey hair, nicely dressed and powdered; his person is
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tall, but not graceful, for there is a stiffness in it which he cannot shake off, though he tries to divest himself of it by an invariable politeness and attention. His dress is plain, but remarkably neat; and his polished shoes, and silk stockings, are always in print. He treats me with the most studied regard,—“My dear niece,—my dearest Miss Fairfield,—and my beloved ward,” are the appellations which he distinguishes me by,—and could I suspect myself of so speedily inspiring regard, I should judge that he already felt for me a paternal affection; but while he addresses me in this style, to Mrs. Merton he is, on the other hand, as kind and as tender:—“My dear madam, my good daughter,” and such pleasing expressions', are dealt in equal, if not larger portions to her; as, perhaps, he guesses that this lady would not be very well pleased to have a rival even in his favour. My uncle’s conversation is formal and precise: he tries to be what is called a lady’s man, but does not quite know the way to set about it. Subjects on which he talks to them, are not, I can easily perceive, those on which he is most conversant. I suspect, that he devoted too many years to the compting-house, to make him an agreeable trifler. Yet his principles appear honest and upright, and I dare say he is a man who has passed through the world, maintaining a strict character for probity and integrity as a merchant. As I have said before, I have seen too little of Augustus, to judge of his talents, or his qualities. Ah! my dear friend, a prepossessing exterior has oft been known to veil a deformed mind! Yet, surely, this cannot be the case here;—and if it were—if I were to make the fatal discovery, what should I gain, when a month,—a short month, will probably unite me to him for life: probably, I say, for it is optional to Augustus. You know, my dear Mrs. Milbanke, he has the liberty of refusing me, and when, at times, I perceive an abstraction of manner, when I see the melancholy expressions w T hich overspreads his countenance, I am ready to spring from my seat, to fall on my knees before him, and to beseech him, not to make a sacrifice of his own and of my happiness; till called to order, by an address of his father, an application for his opinion, or a reference to his judgment, the smile plays round his mouth, and his whole countenance is illumined by an expression of sweetness and placidity which makes me a sceptic to my preconc«ived opinion. " »